Page 65 of Dallas Rivals

That word’s so far out of reach it almost feels imaginary, like a kid saying he wants to be an astronaut. Something fleeting, unrealistic.

Last night after dinner, I stayed in the kitchen helping Eliza. Normally, she talks my ear off, so much that sometimes I stop responding just to see if she’ll notice. She never does. She just keeps going.

But last night, she was quiet. Still. And when I handed her the last plate to put in the dishwasher, she said just one thing:

“Go find her.”

She looked at me with that sweet, knowing smile only older women have and handed me the keys to the Rover.

I didn’t argue.

Didn’t bother explaining that she’d completely misread the situation. I just drove straight to the arts district and waited outside the restaurant for her like some kind of obsessive fool, a man ready to claim something that doesn’t even belong to him.

When I saw her come out, I could tell right away she was either uncomfortable, bored, or both. Her face said it loud and clear. And I’ll admit it—God help me, I was glad.

Glad to see her irritated with that… that kid. Because that’s what he was, a kid. Barely old enough to grow a beard, for crying out loud.

The jealousy hit when I noticed the look in his eyes. I knew that look, hungry, possessive. And I couldn’t stand the idea of his hands anywhere near her. Near that body. The one I barely got to touch in the barn. The one I can’t stop thinking about exploring inch by damn inch.

So, yeah. My hand went straight to the horn, and I laid on it like a four-year-old banging a drum set.

The headlights flashing? Part of the show.

I wanted that date over. Didn’t care how insane it looked, that was the only thing keeping me up all night afterward.

Now, as I walk through the house, I’ve got one goal: the gym. I need to work off this tension, get it out of my system, because if I don’t start sleeping again soon, I’ll lose my damn mind—and maybe my company along with it.

The problem is, to get to the gym, I’ve got to walk through the kitchen… where Eliza and Cala are sitting, coffee cups in hand, mid-conversation.

They both go quiet the second they see me.

“Morning…” I say carefully, eyeing the two of them like they might spook if I breathe too loud.

They answer in unison.

Cala’s wearing jeans, a blue jacket, and a long braid that falls all the way down her back. She’s clearly ready to face the cold. But then she glances over her shoulder, and her eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate, from head to toe.

Damn it, don’t look at me like that, Cala…

I keep walking before either of them notices the very real problem forming in my gray sweatpants.

Yeah. This living arrangement’s gonna be really hard.

I answer Killian’s call while jogging on the treadmill. In the mirror, I catch sight of myself—sweat dripping down after a heavy lift.

Exercise is non-negotiable for people like me. The kind who lives with PTSD. That’s why the ranch works, it drains the excess energy, keeps my mind from wandering to the dark places it likes to visit.

“Hello?”

Instead of his voice, the Lone Ranger theme blares through the phone. Killian loves that kind of crap. I roll my eyes, already irritated by his childish sense of humor.

“You done?” I ask, slowing the treadmill to catch my breath.

Killian’s laugh bursts through the speakers—loud, open, completely genuine. It’s one of my favorite sounds, though I’d never admit it out loud.

I’ve always envied him, if I’m honest. My little brother’s got that energy, that charm that wins everyone over. He makes people laugh without trying. Sometimes I think that’s who I could’ve been, if life hadn’t… well, if things hadn’t gone the way they did.

But that’s a thought I’ll never get to test.