Page 35 of Dallas Rivals

Why was she even walking around my house that late at night?

Questions I shouldn’t ask out loud. Because if I did, it’d sound like I care.

And I don’t.

…Do I?

The pen in my hand taps compulsively against the desk, my nerves needing somewhere to go. The sound fills the silence, steady and sharp, until I notice the office is empty. Everyone’s gone home—to spouses, to kids, to lives that make sense.

That’s not me. Never has been.

So instead of going home to a house that feels too quiet, I head somewhere that doesn’t ask for explanations.

The bar at The Ritz Dallas is one of the finest in the city—dark wood panels, brown leather booths, and a long polished bar where the lighting makes everything look a little more forgiving. It’s where people like me go when they want to forget, or when they want company without consequence.

And that’s exactly what I’m looking for tonight.

Someone to distract me.

Someone temporary.

I slide onto a barstool and lean my elbows on the counter.

“Whiskey. No ice,” I tell the bartender.

The TV above the shelves is showing some political debate—boring as hell, but at least it gives me something to look at besides my own reflection.

A few minutes later, a woman sits down beside me. Her drink’s red and glossy, with a slice of lemon hanging off the rim. She’s got dark hair, cut just at her shoulders, wearing a fitted suit and heels sharp enough to kill a man.

I don’t bother hiding the way I look at her.

If she’s offended, she walked into the wrong kind of bar.

“Hi,” I say carefully, voice low but clear.

She looks up from her phone, lips curling into a slow smile.

“Well, hello, handsome.”

I give a polite grin and signal to the bartender to put her drink on my tab. He nods and leaves us alone.

“Long day?” I ask.

“Endless,” she sighs, taking a sip of her red cocktail. “Yours?”

Depressing.

Tense.

Restless.

But none of that’s something I plan on saying.

“A little long,” I answer instead, finishing my whiskey and setting the glass down, motioning for another round—for both of us.

She tilts her head, studying me. “You staying at this hotel?”

“No,” I say, letting a hint of a smile pull at my mouth. “But I could book a room.”