Page 11 of Dallas Rivals

Ah, hell.

Now I feel bad.

I sigh and glance away, my voice low.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got extra beds at the house.”

She climbs down from the van to inspect the damage.

“I think I can fix it,” she says. “Nothing a YouTube tutorial can’t handle.”

And just like that, the guilt’s gone—replaced by some weird, sparkly kind of optimism that doesn’t belong anywhere near this place.

What the hell? Who flips moods that fast?

A damn bipolar person, that’s who.

“Well, if it doesn’t work out, talk to Eliza. She’ll get you a new one.”

She nods with a smile, wiping her palms on her jeans—right across her thighs.

“Can I help you with something, Mr. Walker?”

No, I came here to help you, sweetheart.

I motion toward the bed with my chin.

“Looks like you’re the one who could use a hand.”

“Ah, Texas hospitality,” she teases, like it’s something we’re all born with. I fight the urge to roll my eyes and just climb into the van instead.

It’s a mess. Boxes everywhere, half of them open, clothes spilling out, old appliances stacked on top of each other.

“Uh-huh… you sure you didn’t grab the wrong van? Looks like you’re donating to the Salvation Army.”

She laughs—a bright, easy sound that fills the cramped space.

Wasn’t trying’ to be funny.

“They’re my things,” she says, lifting a box. “Didn’t have much time to pack properly.”

I take another and follow her lead, both of us hauling box after box to the cabin door.

When we’re finally done, I take a step back, ready to get the hell out of here—until she says,

“Would you like to see my father? I’m sure he’d love to talk for a bit.”

Damn it.

I’ve been avoiding Lucien like the plague. One look at him, and it feels like a damn brick sitting on my chest.

I nod once, shoulders stiff, and follow her inside.

The cabin’s built for one person.

Now there are three.

The air smells like something cooking—vegetable stew, maybe. Simple, warm, domestic. The kind of scent that makes my stomach twist for reasons I’d rather not name.