Page 33 of Dallas Rivals

“That expression,” he says, walking toward me. His hands slide into his pockets, voice low and curious. “It’s quick, then you hide it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I cross my arms—because what else do you do when someone’s dissecting your face?

“It’s like you don’t allow yourself to feel something negative. You cover it up with a smile.”

He tilts his head slightly. “What were you thinking just now?”

That you only said that because you felt sorry for me.

“Nothing. I swear.”

He presses his lips together, shaking his head like I just disappointed him. “Alright. You don’t have to tell me. I’m your boss, not your therapist.”

It sounds sharp, but the way he says it… feels more like he’s talking to himself.

Before I can reply, he turns on his heel and storms out of the barn.

I inhale sharply, hands on my hips, the air thick with all the things I didn’t say.

And then—against all logic and common sense—I make the worst decision possible.

I run after him.

I’m an idiot.

A damn fool.

“I was just thinking that what you said earlier… it might’ve been what my dad meant the other day. I think he said it out of pity, Mr. Walker.”

I stop in my tracks.

Cala Saint-Clair has followed me outside, standing there on the grass, slightly breathless, her hands planted on her hips. The last bit of sun hits her skin—warm, copper-toned—and her hair catches the light like it’s spun from something alive.

Hell.

She’s beautiful.

How did I not see it before?

Well, I did. I just didn’t let myself see it like this.

“So, we’re back to being formal now?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but my voice comes out rougher than I expect.

That smile again—soft, nervous. She looks down at the grass instead of at me.

She does that a lot. Avoids my eyes.

People usually say my eyes are easy to look at—calm, steady.

Apparently not for her.

“Habit,” she says quietly.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket, fidgeting with my phone, pretending I’m not two seconds from saying something stupid.

Human interaction has never been my strong suit. My brothers love to remind me that I answer like a machine—half logic, zero empathy.