Page 78 of Dallas Rivals

My heart aches for this man—wealthy, powerful, leading one of the biggest companies in Texas, and beautiful in a way that almost feels unfair. Yet, all his success and outward perfection offer no protection from the turmoil he carries within. Despite everything that sets him apart, none of it shields him from what’s eating him alive on the inside.

Oliver Walker is fighting demons—too many for any man to carry alone. It’s impossible to ignore the silent battle raging beneath his composed exterior; I can see every single struggle flickering behind those ocean-green eyes.

The truth is, the remnants of our past rarely disappear completely. Instead, they linger, shifting and adapting, finding new ways to embed themselves in our lives. The memories, regrets, and unresolved feelings morph over time, becoming part of the present in ways we may not always recognize. They never truly leave us; rather, they take on different forms, influencing our actions and emotions long after the original events have faded.

I remember my grandma’s words: every soul is fighting a battle you can’t see. Her advice echoes in my mind—she always said that if you come across someone who is still trying, no matter how small their effort, you owe them kindness. It’s a gentle reminder that the struggles people face are often hidden beneath the surface, and sometimes, simply recognizing their effort is the most compassionate thing you can do.

That’s what Oliver’s doing now, trying.

His gaze stays locked on mine, and I wonder if he knows I’m studying him, trying to piece him together like a constellation.

I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I bury them between my thighs.

“I don’t want to,” he says finally, eyes dropping to the floor, “but we should talk about what happened today, I don’t want you to think that⁠—”

“I’m not thinking anything,” I cut in softly. “I’m not exactly the best person to judge anyone, so you don’t owe me an explanation.”

“That’s the strange part,” he murmurs, scratching his jaw. “I think I want to explain, but I can’t find the words.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him. “Take your time.”

Oliver tries to smile, and I try to meet him halfway, but something shifts in his expression—a flicker of emotion, heavy and restless.

“I’m sorry I was an ass today,” he says, shaking his head like he’s scolding himself. “I’ve got things going on, personal things, and sometimes I take it out on people who don’t deserve it.”

I stand from the bed and walk toward him.

I’m barefoot, still in my pajamas. Oliver’s wearing a gray T-shirt and dark sweatpants, casual but impossibly magnetic.

When I reach him, I take his hands in mine.

“You can always talk to me, Oliver,” I whisper.

He studies our joined hands for a long time. I suddenly feel self-conscious about the roughness of my palms, the new calluses from the ranch work, the chipped nails painted in fading shades of pink and burgundy.

Then he looks up, eyes dark, conflicted.

“I want something from you, Cala,” he murmurs. “And I hate myself for wanting it this much.”

“Tell me,” I whisper back, my voice trembling between longing and fear.

He leans closer, his breath grazing my cheek. His next words are so soft I almost think I imagined them.

“Touch me,” he breathes. “I need your hands on me. I need to know how far I can go.”

My heart twists at the sight of him like this—tormented, avoiding my eyes, begging for a touch like a stray dog starved for affection.

“Where do you want my hands?” I ask softly.

Oliver shakes his head again, fighting something deep inside himself. His eyes stay fixed on our joined hands, his breathing rough and uneven.

“Everywhere,” he finally says.

Then his gaze lifts to mine, and before I can breathe, his mouth crashes into me.

I meet him with the same urgency, my hands sliding up to his neck, his finding my waist. He guides my touch over his shoulders, and under my fingertips I feel the strength coiled there—solid muscle, tension, heat.

A low sound rumbles from his chest, raw and human. It isn’t lust, not really—it’s need, stripped bare. The kind that comes from years of holding yourself together for too long.