Page 74 of Dallas Rivals

I step closer, crossing my arms.

“I need to hear you say it.”

Lucien exhales, jaw tight.

“I’ll do my best to make things right.”

“Good,” I say, resting a hand on the new chair. “Then let’s get you into this Ferrari.”

By the next morning, I’d already made the reservation at the rehab center.

Lucien needs to get out of here, to talk to someone who isn’t his wife or his daughter, to breathe air that doesn’t remind him every damn second of what he’s lost.

I have to admit, though, I’m not doing this entirely out of kindness. Deep down, I know the truth: the less time Lucien spends at home, the more time I get alone with Cala.

And I hate that thought. I hate knowing she’s got me this way.

Kill was right. I’ve never been like this over a woman before and hell, even Lucien can tell.

I don’t know where I plan to go with her or how far I’m willing to take this. All I know is that I need her close.

I crave a moment alone with her more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

It feels dangerous—hell, probably toxic for my sanity—but damn it, I need her.

Luckily, today was a productive day.

In the morning, I toured three of our construction sites out in Denton County. The foreman walked me through every inch of progress and the plans for what’s next; it’s one hell of a project, and I’m proud of how smoothly it’s running.

By noon, I had a meeting with investors. We’ve got a new housing development in Flower Mound that’s about to open, almost every lot already sold. It’s one of the most anticipated neighborhoods of the year.

By five p.m., I’m dead on my feet.

I usually make it back to the ranch much earlier, but days like this happen, more often than I’d like to admit.

My hands are slick on the steering wheel, restless. Going home feels less like a choice and more like a physical need. And whether I want to admit it or not, Cala’s in my head, popping up like one of those damn website ads that won’t go away until you hit close.

Get out of my head, intruder.

I pull into the garage and stride toward the kitchen door, eager to tell Lucien about the new phase of his life, to catch a glimpse of Cala—even from afar—and to have my dog greet me like he does every damn day.

But he’s nowhere to be seen.

In fact, no one is.

“Anyone home?” I glance left, then right. The kitchen is spotless—too spotless—and without Eliza bustling around, the place feels huge and hollow.

I make my way through the living room, the silence echoing off the walls and past the dining table—a massive piece built to seat twelve, yet it’s never seen so much as a family meal or a gathering of friends. The emptiness of the house presses in as I climb the stairs, each step amplifying the hollowness. When I reach my bedroom, I find it just as deserted. Even Astro, who usually claims the bed as his own, is nowhere to be found. The familiar sight of his fur sprawled across the comforter is missing, and the space feels colder and strangely unfamiliar in his absence.

“Where the hell is everybody?” I mutter, peeling off my suit jacket and laying it neatly over the sofa by the fireplace.

Then I glance out the window and there she is.

Cala.

Talking to some man I don’t recognize.

I grab my binoculars from the shelf and focus on the barn. Everyone’s out there—Eliza, Cala’s mother, Lis, and Lucien sitting in his new wheelchair—all watching Cala and this stranger crouched by one of the goats. Joan, of course. Even Astro’s sitting nearby, tail wagging like it’s the best show in town.