9. Oliver
I’m an idiot.
A damn fool.
“I was just thinking that what you said earlier… it might’ve been what my dad meant the other day. I think he said it out of pity, Mr. Walker.”
I stop in my tracks.
Cala Saint-Clair has followed me outside, standing there on the grass, slightly breathless, her hands planted on her hips. The last bit of sun hits her skin—warm, copper-toned—and her hair catches the light like it’s spun from something alive.
Hell.
She’s beautiful.
How did I not see it before?
Well, I did. I just didn’t let myself see it like this.
“So, we’re back to being formal now?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but my voice comes out rougher than I expect.
That smile again—soft, nervous. She looks down at the grass instead of at me.
She does that a lot. Avoids my eyes.
People usually say my eyes are easy to look at—calm, steady.
Apparently not for her.
“Habit,” she says quietly.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket, fidgeting with my phone, pretending I’m not two seconds from saying something stupid.
Human interaction has never been my strong suit. My brothers love to remind me that I answer like a machine—half logic, zero empathy.
“It’s true, though,” I finally say. “I might not like how you do things, but as long as my animals and my plants stay alive, I’m satisfied.”
Her head lifts at that, and those dark eyes of hers glimmer like wet soil under sunlight. A smile curves on her lips—small, but real.
“Thank you, Mr. Walker—uh, Oliver.”
And I swear, hearing my name in her voice does something strange to my chest.
Something I’m not ready to name.
I nod once, satisfied with her answer.
It’s the first time something I’ve said has made her smile—and the feeling isn’t unpleasant.
Actually, it stirs something low in my stomach.
“Good night, Cala,” I say. It comes out formal, but I don’t feel formal at all.
I feel… lighter.
Freer.
Until I hear her voice again.
“If you ever want to talk about your nightmares, I’m here.”
I freeze.
Then turn fast.
“What?”
Her smile falters. That nervous energy she gets when she knows she’s stepped on a landmine flickers across her face.
“The other night,” she says softly. “I saw you on the balcony… you were having a panic attack. I just wanted you to know that—”
“I don’t have panic attacks,” I cut in, sharper than I intend. “I don’t know where you got that idea.”
How the hell did she see me?
Her expression softens into something almost pitying.
“It’s all right, Mr. Walker.” She presses her lips together, offers a faint, closed-lipped smile. “Have a good night.”
She’s back to calling me Mr. Walker.
I notice that.
But I’m too angry—no, unsettled—to do anything about it.
I turn on my heel and storm off across the grass toward my house, needing walls, distance, control.
Because the thought of her seeing me like that—of her knowing that I’m not made of stone—feels far too dangerous.
I call it a day.
My eyes drift to the window of my office, the Dallas skyline glowing in the dark, and my thoughts—damn them—drift straight to her.
Why did she see me?
Why was she even walking around my house that late at night?
Questions I shouldn’t ask out loud. Because if I did, it’d sound like I care.
And I don’t.
…Do I?
The pen in my hand taps compulsively against the desk, my nerves needing somewhere to go. The sound fills the silence, steady and sharp, until I notice the office is empty. Everyone’s gone home—to spouses, to kids, to lives that make sense.
That’s not me. Never has been.
So instead of going home to a house that feels too quiet, I head somewhere that doesn’t ask for explanations.
The bar at The Ritz Dallas is one of the finest in the city—dark wood panels, brown leather booths, and a long polished bar where the lighting makes everything look a little more forgiving. It’s where people like me go when they want to forget, or when they want company without consequence.
And that’s exactly what I’m looking for tonight.
Someone to distract me.
Someone temporary.
I slide onto a barstool and lean my elbows on the counter.
“Whiskey. No ice,” I tell the bartender.
The TV above the shelves is showing some political debate—boring as hell, but at least it gives me something to look at besides my own reflection.
A few minutes later, a woman sits down beside me. Her drink’s red and glossy, with a slice of lemon hanging off the rim. She’s got dark hair, cut just at her shoulders, wearing a fitted suit and heels sharp enough to kill a man.
I don’t bother hiding the way I look at her.
If she’s offended, she walked into the wrong kind of bar.
“Hi,” I say carefully, voice low but clear.
She looks up from her phone, lips curling into a slow smile.
“Well, hello, handsome.”
I give a polite grin and signal to the bartender to put her drink on my tab. He nods and leaves us alone.
“Long day?” I ask.
“Endless,” she sighs, taking a sip of her red cocktail. “Yours?”
Depressing.
Tense.
Restless.
But none of that’s something I plan on saying.
“A little long,” I answer instead, finishing my whiskey and setting the glass down, motioning for another round—for both of us.
She tilts her head, studying me. “You staying at this hotel?”
“No,” I say, letting a hint of a smile pull at my mouth. “But I could book a room.”
Her grin widens. She’s attractive—confident, polished—but not… magnetic. Not in the way that scrambles my thoughts.
I tell myself that’s good. Predictable is safe.
“I’ve already got a room,” she says, leaning in just a little. “Why don’t we finish these and go?”
Straightforward. No games.
Exactly what I thought I wanted.
So why the hell do I hesitate?
For a split second, all I can see is dark eyes that don’t look away fast enough, copper skin lit by sunset, and the sound of a voice saying, If you ever want to talk about your nightmares…
I swallow hard and force myself to focus on the woman in front of me.
Simple. Temporary. Forgettable.
That’s what I came here for.
So why does it feel like I’m already lying to myself?
Half an hour later, we’re in her hotel room. Looks like it’s her first night in Dallas—her clothes are still packed, no perfume lingering in the air, no sign that anyone’s claimed the space yet.
I don’t need her name.
She didn’t ask for mine either.
So, it doesn’t surprise me when her hands slide up my shoulders the second the door clicks shut, eager, confident, already playing the part.
I catch her wrists gently, a grin pulling at my mouth.
“I’m the one who does the touching here, sweetheart.”
Her laugh is soft, indulgent. She lets me lead—most people do.
There’s a rhythm to these things, a pattern that never changes. The heat, the noise, the momentary distraction that passes for connection.
But even as I move closer, even as her perfume fills the room, my mind drifts somewhere else—to copper skin under sunlight, to dark eyes that see too much, to a woman I should’ve stopped thinking about the moment she stepped onto my land.
Everything after that is movement and noise—soft, quick, familiar.
Mechanical.
When it’s over, she lies back, flushed and content, but I already feel miles away. There’s a moment when she might speak, ask something simple, maybe my name—but I’m already fixing my clothes, putting myself back together piece by piece.
By the time I glance in the mirror, I’m buttoned up, expression calm, everything where it belongs again.
She smiles faintly, not realizing that my mind’s somewhere else entirely—on a woman who shouldn’t be taking up space in my thoughts.
Cala Saint-Clair.
The one thing I can’t seem to control.
“Have a better week,” I tell her, adjusting my cufflinks.
“You too,” she says, holding the sheets against her chest.
That’s it.
Quick, clean, impersonal. Just the way I like it.
Or at least, the way I tell myself I do.
I leave the room, walk through the polished lobby, and head out into the warm Dallas night.
The city looks alive from behind the wheel—neon signs, glass towers glowing against the dark, headlights slicing through the streets.
It’s beautiful, in a distant kind of way.
I drive without music, without thought, just watching the skyline blur by.
It always hits me after.
That hollow stretch of silence when the noise fades and I’m left with nothing but the echo of my own breathing.
The truth is, I don’t even know why I bother anymore.
Every time I try to feel something, it’s the same—momentary warmth, then the same cold that waits right after.
Maybe I should stop pretending.
Stop chasing what I already know I can’t have.
Because whatever part of me still remembers what intimacy is…it’s broken beyond repair.