Page 81 of Dallas Rivals

Things I can’t admit out loud, not even to myself.

I should probably call Kill, tell him what’s happening before this turns into something I can’t undo.

Because as good as this feels, I know how these stories end.

But for now, I shut that thought down and breathe her in again, her scent, her warmth, the soft sound of her breathing and I bury my face against her neck, feeding on the quiet and on her, like she’s the only thing keeping me alive.

“What are your plans for the weekend?” I ask. It’s Friday night, her last day working here.

“Probably reading and eating,” she says with a small, adorable laugh.

I like her honesty.

There’s a book on her nightstand—the only one we managed to save. It’s worn out, clearly well-loved, probably read a dozen times. Thick, with a yellow cover. I can’t read the title from here, and honestly, getting farther away from her is the last thing I want to do.

“I was thinking about using my outdoor kitchen,” I say after a beat. “Maybe having a barbecue with your parents.”

Cala glances at me from the corner of her eye, one brow lifted.

“Wow. We’re already there, huh?”

I prop myself up on one elbow to look at her better. My cheeks feel hot as hell, and I instantly regret opening my mouth. I don’t want to scare her off, but I also don’t want her to know how much of an idiot I feel right now.

“No, I just meant… I wanted to use it and⁠—”

“Hey,” she cuts in softly, smiling, “you don’t have to explain. If there’s food, I’m there.”

I grin, satisfied.

“Great. I’ve never actually used it before.”

Then I lie back beside her, trying like hell to slow down the pounding in my chest.

I like that we’re both almost half-naked.

Almost, because her breasts are still tucked away behind that bra, but honestly, the real discovery of the day it’s the tattoo.

A delicate line of stars and moons winding along her arm, and I can’t look away.

“How did I not see this in the barn?” I murmur, tracing the air just above her skin.

“There wasn’t much time, I think.”

The mischievous look in her eyes makes me smile and sends a strange twist straight to my stomach.

“Fair point,” I admit, remembering how I’d taken control of our bodies that night, driven by fear and adrenaline and something that still burns in me.

“Do you have any tattoos?” she asks.

“No. Too permanent for me,” I say. “My brother Killian does, though. Lost count of how many.”

Now she props herself up on one elbow, studying me in that curious way she has like she’s trying to read between the lines of everything I say.

“You should invite your brothers,” she says softly. “Use that barbecue with them. Show them the place you call home.”

“But it’s you I want to share it with,” I tell her, my eyes tracing the curve of her lips as my fingers move gently through her hair.

I can’t keep my hands off her.