Page 58 of Dallas Rivals

“Just a bad streak,” my grandma would’ve called it.

The guest bedroom—one of the many I could’ve picked in this mansion—is something else. It still has that luxury ranch feel, but with a touch of sweetness. The bed is covered by a soft tulle canopy, the kind that makes you feel like you’re sleeping inside a fairytale. The wallpaper behind me is dark green with soft pink flowers scattered all over it, feminine and proper.

It feels like this room was made for someone specific, not just a random guest passing through.

The mattress is ridiculously comfortable. I have four pillows all to myself, and a big window that opens up to Oliver’s endless land. From here, I can see the entire field—though none of my animal friends are out there, for one simple reason: I’m the one supposed to take them out, and I’m still in bed.

When I finally make it down to the kitchen, Eliza’s already cooking breakfast. My mom’s helping her, and my dad’s at the table.

“Morning,” I say, glancing around at the new morning routine.

You can feel it’s early—too early. The air’s still heavy, quiet, like everyone’s running on half a tank.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Mom says. “Sit down, breakfast’s ready.”

I look at Dad. His eyes are distant again, and it worries me that his mind’s slipping a little more every day.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, taking the seat next to him. “How’s the new bed?”

“Fine,” he mutters, clipped and cold.

Great.

Then Oliver walks in. Straight-backed, calm, controlled—like he’s got a meeting with God himself.

He stops short when he sees us all sitting there. Probably forgot we were still staying in his house.

Dad’s the first to move.

“Well, we’ll leave you to your breakfast, Oliver,” he says, rolling his chair back.

But Oliver plants his boot behind the wheel and raises a brow.

“Where do you think you’re going, old timer?”

Dad sighs. “Don’t wanna be in the way, son.”

“You’re not. Nobody is.” His voice softens, and then his eyes land on me. “And I need Miss Saint-Clair to eat a proper breakfast. She’s got a long day ahead of her.”

Dad gives him a long, suspicious look.

I grab a piece of toast and shove it in my mouth before the grin gives me away.

Looks like Oliver’s skipping the office today. He’s traded his usual suit for ripped jeans and a worn button-up.

When he sits beside me, his leg brushes mine, and heat shoots through me like lightning.

That same warmth from the night in the hay.

Peaceful. Disarming.

I’ve slept next to men before—I’m twenty-eight, not a nun—but none of them ever made me feel that.

And definitely not Roger.

“Cala,” Eliza calls from the stove. “Is Roger coming over tonight? I need to plan dinner.”

Instantly, Oliver moves his leg away and pretends to be very interested in whatever’s on his tablet.