Page 56 of Dallas Rivals

“Yes—no—I don’t know!” She sounds flustered, like a storm building under her skin. “Roger’s timing couldn’t be worse. Showing up now, of all times…”

“Why’s that?”

Because of me? Because of the night we spent together?

She gestures toward the mess, irritation flashing across her face—and even though I should be disappointed, I can’t help but laugh.

I sit beside her, a little closer than I should, and glance over my shoulder, scanning for any curious eyes—especially Lucien’s. When I see the coast is clear, I let myself relax a little.

“I know this year’s been hell for you all,” I say, tearing up bits of grass the way I used to when I was a kid. “But I promise I’ll do everything I can to make it better. We can go shopping, get you the basics to start over.”

“It’s not your responsibility. We’re not your responsibility.”

She puts extra weight on that we, and I can hear the pride buried under her exhaustion.

“We always get through things—just… this time, everything hit at once and⁠—”

She exhales, drowning in her own thoughts.

“It’s not yours, either,” I say quietly.

Her hair’s fallen loose from the bun on top of her head, a few strands brushing her cheek.

Before I can stop myself, I reach over and tuck them gently behind her ear.

“Lucien’s a stubborn man,” I say, trying to sound calm but failing. “What he should do is accept the changes, take whatever help he can get from the government, let me do my part, reorganize everything—not make his daughter carry the weight for him.”

Cala frowns—really frowns—for the first time since I’ve known her, and damn, she looks angry.

“I don’t mind helping them.”

“I know… I know; that’s not what I meant.” I inhale, trying again. “What I mean is none of you let people help. It’s like it runs in the family.”

“Oh, and you do?” she fires back. “I offered you help—a shoulder, an ear—and you brushed me off like I was some annoying fly.”

She’s right.

“Mine’s… complicated,” I admit.

“Everyone’s life is complicated, Oliver. The difference is how we choose to live through it.”

She stands and starts walking away, but I’m not ready to let this moment—this strange, fragile thing between us—end yet.

“I had a traumatic childhood!” I blurt, jumping to my feet. “Talking about it just brings it all back. I’m not pushing you away, I just… I can’t talk about it. Not yet.”

She stops. Turns. We’re about fifteen feet apart, wind cutting between us, but her eyes never waver.

“Sometimes,” she says softly, “what we fight the hardest is what we need the most.”

“Then let me help you.”

Cala bites her lip, searching for a clever comeback, some escape route. But she’s cornered—by me, and by her own heart that doesn’t know how to back off.

“Only if you let me help you too.”

I stretch out my hand, leaving it there in the air between us. When she reaches me, her fingers clasp mine, firm, certain.

“Deal.”