Page 48 of Dallas Rivals

Easy for him to say.

Farm animals aren’t exactly known for survival skills. Their greatest instinct is waking up hungry.

He reaches out, his hand landing gently on my leg.

I realize I’ve been shaking it without noticing. His touch stills me instantly.

“Trust me,” he says.

I let out a long breath through my nose and nod.

“I need a distraction,” I whisper. “Talk to me.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. The air between us feels thick again, like the storm never left.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits finally—cool, clipped, and controlled, just like always.

This man is a damn paradox: either he’s scolding me or he’s kissing me like the world’s ending.

There’s no middle ground.

“Then tell me,” I say softly, “the best memory you’ve got.”

His green eyes drop to the floor, searching as if the answer might be hiding in some far corner of his mind.

After a long silence, he starts speaking, words slow and uncertain.

“I think it was a Christmas… We were kids—my brothers and me—and my parents got us a Nintendo.”

I smile, watching him walk down that memory lane, a small curve forming at the corner of his mouth.

“All my classmates used to beg for one,” I say. “I get it—that’s a solid memory.”

“Oh, no. That’s not the good part.”

He looks up at me then, eyes soft and faraway.

“It was the first Christmas we all spent together. My parents usually traveled for the holidays.”

“For work?”

“No,” he says quietly. “For pleasure.”

Oh, hell.

Is this that movie moment where you realize the rich kid was actually the loneliest one all along?

I reach out and rest my hand on his shoulder, and he goes tense—instantly.

I pull back like I’ve touched fire.

“Sorry,” I murmur, unsure what line I just crossed. I just know I made him uncomfortable—and I hate that feeling.

Oliver takes a deep breath and shakes his head slowly. His eyes sharpen again, focused but vulnerable.

“I usually don’t like being touched,” he admits.

“I understand. I’m sorry⁠—”