Page 29 of Dallas Rivals

And I’m the man who sells them that dream.

Simple. Profitable. Efficient.

That’s the kind of world I understand. Not… whatever the hell Miss Saint-Clair is.

I park in the four-car garage and step inside through the door that opens straight into the kitchen.

The first thing I smell is Eliza’s stew. Thank God for that woman—she cooks like heaven itself owes her royalties.

The first thing I see, however… is an ass.

Wait—what?

I blink, tilt my head—and yeah. There it is.

Miss Cala Saint-Clair, leaning over the kitchen island, gossiping with Eliza like she’s lived here her whole damn life.

She’s wearing high-waisted jeans that do nothing to hide how perfectly curved she is.

Round. Balanced. Dangerous.

Jesus, Oliver, stop staring at her ass.

Both women freeze the moment I clear my throat, but the one who looks truly terrified is Miss Saint-Clair herself.

“Afternoon,” I say carefully, like I’ve just walked into a ritual mid-incantation.

“Oliver! Welcome home,” Eliza chirps, all bright and cheery, like this is perfectly normal. “Would you like some coffee?”

Miss Saint-Clair, on the other hand, has gone statue-still—like if she doesn’t move, maybe I won’t see her.

There’s nothing invisible about her. Not to me.

“What are you doing here, Miss Saint-Clair?” My tone’s sharper than I intend. “Do you need something?”

“No, I was just leaving,” she blurts, all flustered. “Thanks for the advice, Eliza.”

And just like that, she glides out of the room—hips swaying in slow motion until the door closes behind her.

Eliza’s smile turns sly, like she can read every damn thought I’m trying not to have.

“Advice?” I ask, dropping onto one of the stools.

“Apparently her ex-boyfriend wants to visit her,” Eliza says, ever the fountain of information. “And she doesn’t know how to tell him no.”

I glance toward the door again, as if I might still catch a trace of her.

An ex.

A boyfriend.

Suddenly my mind’s full of things it has no business picturing—Cala walking beside some guy in the city, his arm around her waist; the way she might look smiling up at him in bed.

“Ex-boyfriend?” I repeat, feeling something I don’t have a name for crawl under my skin.

“Yes. The boy she dated in Waco. Poor thing’s still heartbroken, apparently,” Eliza says, drying dishes like she’s narrating a soap opera.

I find myself asking, “And why’d she end it?” The question slips out before I can even stop myself, and I’m left wondering why I’m so invested in the answer.