17. Oliver
His eyes won’t meet mine.
His hands are gripping the wheelchair so tight his knuckles have gone white. I crouch down in front of my old friend, a man I barely recognize anymore. Bitterness and defeat have taken over, and I can’t just watch it happen.
“I don’t know what it’s like to be in your shoes, and I won’t pretend I do,” I say, my tone sharper than I intend. “But I’m done watching you spiral. If I must be the bad guy to snap you out of it, fine, I can live with that.”
“Oliver…”
“I’m not done talking.” He nods once, silent.
“You can’t do this alone. You can’t lock yourself away and drown in misery.
I won’t allow it and neither will your family.
This,” I point at the chair, “is just the start of what I’m planning to do to give you your life back.
Monday morning, things change around here. ”
I tear open the box and start assembling the wheelchair.
“What do you mean?” His voice wavers—angry but scared too.
“I mean we’re all gonna help you get better. You need therapy, movement, sunlight. There’s a rehab center that specializes in cases like yours, and I want—”
“I’m not your responsibility, Oliver!” he snaps.
I ignore the outburst, lock the brakes, and place the new chair beside him. The frame gleams under the light, sturdy and sleek.
“You’re family,” I tell him flatly. “And I take care of my family because I choose to. If that hurts your pride, tough luck. Your daughter gave up her life to stay here and help you, and you’re paying her back with anger and complaints. That stops today.”
I step closer, crossing my arms.
“I need to hear you say it.”
Lucien exhales, jaw tight.
“I’ll do my best to make things right.”
“Good,” I say, resting a hand on the new chair. “Then let’s get you into this Ferrari.”
By the next morning, I’d already made the reservation at the rehab center.
Lucien needs to get out of here, to talk to someone who isn’t his wife or his daughter, to breathe air that doesn’t remind him every damn second of what he’s lost.
I have to admit, though, I’m not doing this entirely out of kindness. Deep down, I know the truth: the less time Lucien spends at home, the more time I get alone with Cala.
And I hate that thought. I hate knowing she’s got me this way.
Kill was right. I’ve never been like this over a woman before and hell, even Lucien can tell.
I don’t know where I plan to go with her or how far I’m willing to take this. All I know is that I need her close.
I crave a moment alone with her more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
It feels dangerous—hell, probably toxic for my sanity—but damn it, I need her.
Luckily, today was a productive day.
In the morning, I toured three of our construction sites out in Denton County. The foreman walked me through every inch of progress and the plans for what’s next; it’s one hell of a project, and I’m proud of how smoothly it’s running.
By noon, I had a meeting with investors. We’ve got a new housing development in Flower Mound that’s about to open, almost every lot already sold. It’s one of the most anticipated neighborhoods of the year.
By five p.m., I’m dead on my feet.
I usually make it back to the ranch much earlier, but days like this happen, more often than I’d like to admit.
My hands are slick on the steering wheel, restless. Going home feels less like a choice and more like a physical need. And whether I want to admit it or not, Cala’s in my head, popping up like one of those damn website ads that won’t go away until you hit close.
Get out of my head, intruder.
I pull into the garage and stride toward the kitchen door, eager to tell Lucien about the new phase of his life, to catch a glimpse of Cala—even from afar—and to have my dog greet me like he does every damn day.
But he’s nowhere to be seen.
In fact, no one is.
“Anyone home?” I glance left, then right. The kitchen is spotless—too spotless—and without Eliza bustling around, the place feels huge and hollow.
I make my way through the living room, the silence echoing off the walls and past the dining table—a massive piece built to seat twelve, yet it’s never seen so much as a family meal or a gathering of friends.
The emptiness of the house presses in as I climb the stairs, each step amplifying the hollowness.
When I reach my bedroom, I find it just as deserted.
Even Astro, who usually claims the bed as his own, is nowhere to be found.
The familiar sight of his fur sprawled across the comforter is missing, and the space feels colder and strangely unfamiliar in his absence.
“Where the hell is everybody?” I mutter, peeling off my suit jacket and laying it neatly over the sofa by the fireplace.
Then I glance out the window and there she is.
Cala.
Talking to some man I don’t recognize.
I grab my binoculars from the shelf and focus on the barn.
Everyone’s out there—Eliza, Cala’s mother, Lis, and Lucien sitting in his new wheelchair—all watching Cala and this stranger crouched by one of the goats.
Joan, of course. Even Astro’s sitting nearby, tail wagging like it’s the best show in town.
Without thinking twice, I march downstairs, slam the door harder than I mean to, and climb into the Rover.
By the time I pull up near the fence, a wave of sudden, unreasonable anger already has me in its grip. I slam the car door shut, the noise sharp enough to draw everyone’s attention and make their heads turn toward me.
“Good afternoon,” I say carefully.
“Oliver,” Cala greets me with way too much enthusiasm. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she’s trying to hide how damn nervous she is. “Do you know Spenser? He’s Raúl’s replacement—the new vet.”
I turn to look at Spenser.
Too young to have real experience. Ash-blond hair, green eyes—but not like mine, darker—and a square jaw that could make Johnny Bravo jealous. Broad shoulders, tight black T-shirt, and shorts.
Shorts.
It’s forty degrees out.
Who the hell did Raúl send?
Just to be clear—Raúl’s our trusted vet, comes every six months to check on the animals.
“What happened to Raúl?” My frown deepens—hell, it’s more of a scowl now. My good manners? Gone.
Astro whines and sits at my feet, picking up on the storm brewing above my head.
Cala fixes her gaze on me, her voice steady as she explains, “Raúl had a family emergency.”
I can’t keep the frustration out of my voice as I demand, “And why the hell wasn’t I told?”
Without missing a beat, she shoots back, her tone sharp with defiance, “Because Raúl talked to me, remember? I’m the new manager of this ranch.”
For the first time, I really take a moment to look at Cala. My gaze is unwavering, cold and determined, but she meets it head-on—her eyes alight with a fierce fire, refusing to back down. The tension between us is palpable, a silent clash of wills that neither of us is willing to lose.
Off to the side, Spenser lets out a quiet chuckle, but it dies quickly when I shift my attention his way. My stern look wipes the amusement from his face, and the atmosphere grows even heavier.
In the background, Lis and Lucien decide to quietly head back toward the house, sensing that now is not the time to linger. Eliza follows their lead, making her way in the same direction, as if she can’t bear to stick around and witness whatever is about to unfold.
“Oliver Walker,” I say, extending my hand toward Spenser. The gesture is firm—deliberate—a silent challenge as much as an introduction.
Spenser takes my hand, and instantly, the unspoken contest begins. Our grips tighten, each of us determined to prove strength without a word, knuckles whitening as neither of us yields an inch.
With a polite smile, Spenser says, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Walker. I hope I can meet Cala’s needs with my work.” The words are professional, but there’s an edge to them—something just beneath the surface.
The hell did he just say?
What the… hell …
That possessive flare rises up in me, a fierce thought flashing through my mind—I’m the only man who gets to meet Cala’s needs, you son of a—
Trying to keep my composure, I cut in, voice steady but laced with warning. “I’m the one who needs to be satisfied with your work, Spenser. Don’t get that part wrong.” Our hands remain locked in the test of will, neither ready to back down.
I force a tight, closed-lip smile, jaw set, eyes never leaving his.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Cala rubbing the bridge of her nose, exasperation clear on her face. I know I’m probably giving her a migraine with this little show of dominance.
“Oh, right. My apologies,” Spenser mutters, finally releasing his grip. He looks down at the grass, suddenly absorbed by its details, avoiding my gaze entirely.
That’s what I thought.
Cala’s eyes narrow at me.
Cala takes the lead, her tone brisk as she announces, “Shall we start the round?” Without waiting for a reply, she heads toward the barn, clearly putting as much distance as possible between herself and me—the proverbial dark cloud hanging overhead.
Spenser, ever the eager one, nods and politely asks for permission before following her inside, acting like the model employee.
I trail behind them both, unable to keep myself from tagging along.
Honestly, I’m not even sure what I’m doing anymore. All I know is that Spenser’s intentions seem questionable, and someone needs to look out for my employee—especially from guys who think they can charm their way into anything that moves.
And for the record, my strange feelings for Cala have absolutely nothing to do with it.
Throughout the whole damn thing, Spenser’s all charm—smiling, cracking jokes with that stupid glint in his eyes, saying things with just enough innuendo to make Cala laugh until she’s breathless.
Meanwhile, I’m leaning against the fence, frown carved deep into my face, every muscle in my jaw tight as stone.
He starts with the goats, wrangling them like his life depends on it. The guy’s got a full-on Crocodile Hunter complex, putting on a damn show for Cala, pretending he’s in mortal danger because one of the goats tried to headbutt him.
I let out a loud, irritated sigh—just enough so she hears it.
And she does.
Her glare could cut through bone.
I meet it with a slow, smug smile.
After finishing with the goats, Spenser moves on to the cows, then the horses.
The process is noticeably slower than when Raúl used to handle it, taking twice as long—an immediate mark against Spenser in my book.
Cala assists throughout, her curiosity on full display as she fires off question after question, her eyes bright and eager for answers.
Predictably, Spenser plays up his patience and charm, responding to each inquiry with a smooth, pleasant tone.
Watching him, I can’t help but feel the urge to toss him straight into the trough, his demeanor grating on my nerves.
When he’s finally done, they exchange numbers “for emergencies.”
Sure. Emergencies.
Spenser drives off, and my shoulders drop, tension bleeding out little by little. Until Cala turns toward me, hands on her hips, chin high. And just like that, every muscle in my body locks back up again.
“What the hell was that?”
“What was what?” I cross my arms over my chest.
“That little show you put on. I get that you’re a difficult man, but that doesn’t mean you get to treat employees like crap.”
“I didn’t treat anyone like crap.”
Cala arches a brow and folds her arms too, mirroring me perfectly—right down to the attitude.
“Yes, you did. It was obvious and uncomfortable. Don’t you trust me? Don’t you think I can tell when someone’s doing their job right?”
That’s not the problem, Cala.
“Of course I do.”
“Then what is it?”
I’m cornered, and I can feel it.
“It’s just who I am.”
Sounds better than saying the truth, that the sight of another man making her laugh makes my blood boil. That I wanted to punch the idiot just for breathing near her.
Cala steps closer, close enough that her body brushes mine. Her scent—something wild and clean—slips into my lungs, into my head, into every part of me I’m trying to keep under control.
I swallow hard.
“Save the story for someone else, Mr. Walker,” she whispers, before walking away, hips swaying like it’s her God-given superpower to drive me insane.
And hell, it’s working.
Because the only thing out of control right now is the ache in my jeans.