Page 99 of Dallas Rivals

I squeeze his hand back, smiling up at him.

“Oh! Cala! They found you!” Killian shouts from behind the island. “We were worried! No one wants to live under the same roof as Grumpy Oliver.”

“I wasn’t grumpy,” Oliver protests, tugging me into the heart of the chaos. “I was… concerned.”

Silas and Luca both look up from their tasks and raise an eyebrow in perfect sync—identical, unimpressed expressions that say yeah, right.

“What can I do to help?” I ask, glancing around.

“Can you keep Killian busy?” Eliza pleads. “I’ll never finish checking the turkey if I have to babysit him.”

“Hey!” Killian protests, feigning offense. “I thought you liked me.”

“I do,” she says, exasperated, “but I’d also like to eat before midnight.”

Killian finally throws his hands up in mock surrender and strolls toward me. He bumps into Oliver on purpose, breaking our handhold, and casually drapes an arm around my shoulders.

‘How about you give me a tour of the ranch?’ he says, grinning like a troublemaker.

Oliver’s expression darkens immediately. “Killian…”

“You can come too, if you want,” Killian says, turning to him with faux innocence. “But fair warning—I plan on asking her about my Instagram. It’s not every day I get to talk to a fan. I could use some feedback.”

Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing like a man who’s been through this a thousand times.

“Fine. But don’t do anything inappropriate.”

Killian grins wider, pure mischief lighting up his face. “Inappropriate is my middle name, brother.”

Killian climbs into the golf cart, and even so, the whole thing dips like we just loaded a longhorn cow onto it.

Same thing that happens every time Oliver gets in—and from what I’ve seen, all the Walker brothers are built like human tractors anyway.

He drapes one arm along the backrest and inhales deeply.

“You don’t get this quality of oxygen in San Francisco,” he remarks as I turn the key in the ignition and guide us out into the wide, open field. The engine hums beneath us, and I can’t help but notice the way his eyes scan the horizon, as if he’s breathing in more than just air—taking in the freedom of so much space. “It’s different out here,” he adds quietly, almost as if he’s surprised by the realization himself.

“I know. I used to live in Waco and even there the air wasn’t like this.”

My hands grip the wheel a little tighter, tension knotting my knuckles. There’s a nervous flutter in my chest, and I can’t quite pin down why. It’s not because he’s some celebrity, and it’s not the whole “Adonis of San Francisco” thing the internet loves to call him, either. No, the unease comes from something else entirely—he saw us holding hands. Now, with Killian’s scrutinizing presence in the car, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to be peppered with questions, Walker-style, and I’m not ready for the interrogation that’s sure to follow.

“Do you miss the city?” he asks.

I can feel his eyes on me, even behind the round Ray-Bans he’s just slipped on.

“No. Honestly, I thought I’d hate it here, but the ranch grew on me. I don’t think I could go back to city life now—not after this.”

“Interesting…” he hums, and my stomach twists.

I can feel a drop of sweat slide down my spine. And it’s fall.

“So,” I blurt, desperate to change the subject, “what kind of questions did you have about your Instagram?”

He laughs, the sound easy and reckless. “Oh, none. I just said that to scare Oliver off. He hates my Instagram.”

“Perfect,” I mutter, staring straight ahead. “Where do you want to go, then?”

“Nowhere in particular. Just drive.”