Page 85 of Dallas Rivals

“How many people should I plan for, Oliver?” Eliza asks, turning back to her task. She stops the mixer, lifts a spoonful of cream, watching to see if gravity wins. Satisfied, she taps the spoon three times against the bowl.

“I mean, Thanksgiving’s still three weeks away,” I grumble, staring out the window toward the fields, looking for her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, still talking, still planning.

But I’m not listening anymore. I’ve spotted her, out by the horses. She’s talking to them, waving her arms as if they can understand.

A smile creeps across my face.

She looks so alive here. So free in a place she’s made her own.

Eliza clears her throat. When I turn back, she’s got her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

“It’s not what it looks like,” I say quickly. “Just… making sure she’s doing her job right.”

Before she can respond, I whistle for Astro and head toward my room.

Alot has happened this past week.

The construction of our new home finally began. Oliver redesigned my father’s old house into something that fits his new needs—a single-story home, larger, open, easy for him to move around without obstacles. He showed me the blueprints and asked for my opinion while meeting with the architect. We stood together over the plans, pointing things out, adding ideas, like a real team. And for the first time, I felt part of his world.

The second thing—maybe the most important—is that Oliver has knocked on my door every night. Well, almost every night. There was one when he worked until midnight; I heard him come in, pause outside my room, then walk away. And when he did, something inside me ached. So, I went to his room instead, and we talked until morning.

Every night, he asks me to touch him, to trace my hands over his skin, to remind him he’s human. Sometimes it turns into something heated, other times it’s just gentle, almost innocent.

But never sex.

We haven’t had sex again, and every day it gets harder not to beg him on my knees to have him take me the way he did that night, with that same fire, that same hunger.

But at the same time, our conversations have grown deeper, dangerously close to the parts of him no one gets to see. And I can’t complain.

Oliver is a puzzle, one with pieces hidden inside his mind, some broken, others locked away. Figuring him out has become my favorite pastime. And every evening, I find myself counting the hours until nightfall, until it’s just the two of us again.

I’m on my break, sitting on the grass with my butt sinking into the earth. Astro’s lying beside me, and my hands are running gently between his ears. The sky’s starting to fill with clouds, rain’s coming in the next few days, which means work’s about to get harder. So, for now, I’m soaking up the sun while it lasts.

On the bright side, my dad started rehabilitation. He spends almost the whole day there, three times a week, talking with other men and women going through the same thing. The first day he looked miserable, but by the second, his mood had already lifted a little.

My mom, on the other hand, found her peace here on the ranch. She helps me with small chores, getting used to the animals and the way I work, always careful not to let her condition get in the way. I can tell that the time we spend alone fills her back up, gives her strength to face the evenings with Dad when he comes home.

Everything feels like it’s finally settling. Flowing naturally—just like things with Oliver.

Astro lifts his head, ears perked, eyes locked on something in the distance. I follow his gaze and spot Oliver walking toward us. He’s wearing a cowboy hat this time, his plaid shirt unbuttoned halfway down, and his jeans torn and dusted with dirt around the knees.

I swallow hard, trying to hide the warmth blooming in my cheeks. He’s strikingly beautiful.

“I’m on my break,” I say defensively, squinting against the sunlight, one eye open, one shut.

Oliver kneels beside Astro, scratching him right where I was. The dog wiggles between his legs, tail thumping the ground.

“Mind if I join you?”

I motion to the grass beside me with a little smile.

Ever since Oliver’s brothers confirmed they were coming for Thanksgiving, the man hasn’t stopped working on the ranch. Fixing, cleaning, rearranging, making sure everything’s perfect. I love seeing him this way, full of energy, and I can’t help feeling a little proud for pushing him to do it. The results are beautiful.

He drops down beside me, covers his face with his black cowboy hat to block the sun, and props his left arm under his head.

I don’t want to sell his pictures anymore. I want to keep them all to myself.