Page 36 of Dallas Rivals

Her grin widens. She’s attractive—confident, polished—but not… magnetic. Not in the way that scrambles my thoughts.

I tell myself that’s good. Predictable is safe.

“I’ve already got a room,” she says, leaning in just a little. “Why don’t we finish these and go?”

Straightforward. No games.

Exactly what I thought I wanted.

So why the hell do I hesitate?

For a split second, all I can see is dark eyes that don’t look away fast enough, copper skin lit by sunset, and the sound of a voice saying, If you ever want to talk about your nightmares…

I swallow hard and force myself to focus on the woman in front of me.

Simple. Temporary. Forgettable.

That’s what I came here for.

So why does it feel like I’m already lying to myself?

Half an hour later, we’re in her hotel room. Looks like it’s her first night in Dallas—her clothes are still packed, no perfume lingering in the air, no sign that anyone’s claimed the space yet.

I don’t need her name.

She didn’t ask for mine either.

So, it doesn’t surprise me when her hands slide up my shoulders the second the door clicks shut, eager, confident, already playing the part.

I catch her wrists gently, a grin pulling at my mouth.

“I’m the one who does the touching here, sweetheart.”

Her laugh is soft, indulgent. She lets me lead—most people do.

There’s a rhythm to these things, a pattern that never changes. The heat, the noise, the momentary distraction that passes for connection.

But even as I move closer, even as her perfume fills the room, my mind drifts somewhere else—to copper skin under sunlight, to dark eyes that see too much, to a woman I should’ve stopped thinking about the moment she stepped onto my land.

Everything after that is movement and noise—soft, quick, familiar.

Mechanical.

When it’s over, she lies back, flushed and content, but I already feel miles away. There’s a moment when she might speak, ask something simple, maybe my name—but I’m already fixing my clothes, putting myself back together piece by piece.

By the time I glance in the mirror, I’m buttoned up, expression calm, everything where it belongs again.

She smiles faintly, not realizing that my mind’s somewhere else entirely—on a woman who shouldn’t be taking up space in my thoughts.

Cala Saint-Clair.

The one thing I can’t seem to control.

“Have a better week,” I tell her, adjusting my cufflinks.

“You too,” she says, holding the sheets against her chest.

That’s it.