Page 82 of Dallas Rivals

“We shouldn’t replace your family, Oliver,” she says, her voice a whisper that lands right where it hurts. “Call them. You’ve got enough rooms for everyone, even with us here. Who knows, maybe a noisy house is exactly what you need.”

I’ve got my phone in my hands, sitting alone in the office, staring at the damn thing like it’s a drink I can’t swallow.

Thanksgiving’s coming up, and I thought it might be a good idea to invite my brothers.

Well—I didn’t really think that.

Cala did.

But something’s stopping me.

A kind of paralysis I didn’t think I still had.

It’s like when addicts say they can quit anytime they want, but when the moment comes, they lose their minds.

Yeah. That’s me right now.

I thought I had a dozen reasons not to call them, but now that I actually should… I’m frozen.

“They’re my brothers, for God’s sake. I shouldn’t feel like this,” I mutter, opening our group chat.

The cursor blinks at me, waiting for me to type something. Anything.

But my fingers won’t move.

That old rush of adrenaline kicks in—the one I know too damn well—and I do the only thing I know how to do when panic creeps up on me.

“Vascular plants. Lycopods, horsetails, ferns. Seed plants. Gymnosperms: cycads, ginkgo, conifers. Flowering plants or angiosperms: monocots and dicots…”

A message pops up on the screen.

Cala Saint-Clair: Do it.

“How the hell does she know?” I mutter, typing a reply.

Last night, when I left her bed, I came up with some lame excuse to ask for her number, something work-related, of course.

We both knew it was bullshit.

Still, I wonder if she wanted my number for the same reason I wanted hers, so she could reach me even when I’m not home.

Oliver: I was just about to, and you interrupted me.

Cala Saint-Clair: Prove it, or I won’t believe you.

Damn it.

I close Cala’s chat and switch back to the group with my brothers.

Oliver: Hi. Good morning.

No. Too formal.

Hey, do you guys have plans for Thanksgiving?

Silas: No.

Luca: No idea.