Chapter Two #2
Our food arrived. I released her hand reluctantly, picked up my burger.
"Good," I said between bites. "That's the point."
Word would be all over town by dinner. Rhodes Foster and Presley Danforth. Together.
Mission accomplished.
THE AFTERNOON SESSIONS went smoothly until three-thirty.
A tall girl arrived—seventeen, athletic build, long dark blonde hair. She moved with the confidence of someone comfortable in her own skin, but I could see the cracks. Tension in her shoulders. Shadows under her eyes.
"Hi, Miss Presley!" She stopped short when she saw me. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't realize you had company."
"Addie, this is Rhodes Foster. My boyfriend." Presley made the introduction smoothly. "Rhodes, this is Addison Clarke. She's competing in Teen Star Texas next Saturday."
"Nice to meet you, Addison."
The girl's eyes widened. "Rhodes Foster? Wait—THE Rhodes Foster who won the Junior Rodeo Championship? I've watched videos of your team roping online!"
Not the reaction I'd expected. "That was a long time ago."
"Still. You're kind of a legend." She turned to Presley, excitement barely contained despite whatever was weighing on her. "Miss Presley, can we talk? I need to ask you something important."
Presley gestured to the consultation area across the room. I stayed near the door, keeping watch but close enough to hear if something went wrong.
"I want to switch my talent," Addison said, the words tumbling out fast like she'd been holding them in too long.
"From the dance to roping. I know the competition's in ten days and that's crazy, but I've been practicing for months and I'm actually pretty good at it now, and I just—I can't do the dance anymore, Miss Presley. I can't."
Presley's expression shifted—surprise, then concern. "Addie, honey. Your mom choreographed that dance. She's put months into it."
"I know." The girl's voice dropped. "And I've tried so hard to make it work. I can hit every single move exactly like she wants. Technically it's perfect. But when I'm doing it, I feel like I'm disappearing. Like I'm trying to be her instead of me."
She looked up, eyes bright. "When I'm roping, I feel like myself.
Strong. Good at something that's actually mine.
My brothers laughed when I asked them to teach me—said roping wasn't for girls.
But my oldest brother felt bad about it later and showed me some basics in secret.
I've been practicing since then, working on it whenever I can.
It's the only thing that makes me feel real anymore. "
The raw honesty in those words hit harder than it should have. Presley felt it too—I could see the way her whole body shifted toward the kid, protective instinct clear on her face.
"Ten days isn't much time," Presley said gently. "That's not enough to get competition-ready from hobby level. Are you sure about this?"
"I'm sure about not wanting to do the dance.
" Addison's voice cracked slightly. "I'm sure I can't go up on that stage and pretend to be someone I'm not.
Not anymore. I know I'm asking a lot, but.
.." She turned to me, hope and nerves warring in her expression.
"Would you maybe teach me, Mr. Foster? Get me competition-ready?
Maybe Miss Presley could learn with me too? "
Presley didn't hesitate. "If Rhodes is willing, I'm in."
They both looked at me.
Teaching rope work with Presley. My hands correcting her form. Standing close enough to guide her.
My mind went places it shouldn't.
I looked at Presley. "When's good for you?"
She checked her phone. "Addie's scheduled tomorrow at three-thirty for interview prep. But she's already confident with interviews—we could use that time instead?"
"I've got a practice arena," I said. "I can work with both of you there, show you what you need to polish. About fifteen minutes outside town."
"We could drive out together," Presley said. "Drop you home after?"
"That would be perfect!" Addison's face lit up, then fell slightly. "But my mom... she's going to be so upset when she finds out."
"Let me worry about that," Presley said quietly, squeezing the girl's hand. "You focus on your roping."
Addison looked between us. "Thank you. Thank you so much!"
After she left, Presley turned to me. "Are you sure about this? I know it's outside the scope of bodyguard work."
Something flickered in her expression, but she looked away before I could read it.
"Happy to help."
THAT EVENING, PRESLEY made spaghetti. Asked me first if that sounded good, which struck me as considerate given this was her house, her kitchen.
Her kitchen was like the rest of the house—clean lines, everything in its place.
White cabinets, brass hardware, the kind of space that looked like a magazine spread but somehow still felt lived-in.
I set the table while she cooked—domestic, easy.
We ate at the farmhouse-style dining table, talking about her students, about the competition next weekend, about Addison's situation with her mother and the pressure these girls faced. How pageants should build them up instead of breaking them down.
I was trying to listen—I really was—but I kept noticing her instead. The way she moved. How her lips curved when she smiled. When a drop of sauce caught at the corner of her mouth, she licked it away, and I found myself wishing I could have done that for her.
"Rhodes? You okay?"
I blinked. "Fine. Just thinking."
She let it go.
After dinner, we did dishes together. She washed, I dried. Easy rhythm, comfortable silence.
AT TEN O'CLOCK, WE navigated the awkward dance of getting ready for bed. She disappeared into her room—I heard water running in what had to be an en suite. I used the hall bathroom, changed in the guest room.
Usually I slept naked. Tonight I'd pulled on athletic pants and a t-shirt—the most coverage I could manage that still counted as sleepwear.
When I came back, she was climbing into bed from the far side, leaving the side closest to the door open. Thin cotton pajama pants and a tank top—no bra. The lightweight fabric left nothing to the imagination.
My mouth went dry. It was going to be a long night, and no amount of air conditioning was going to help.
I settled in, maintaining the distance between us. Her words echoed in my head: stay on your side, no touching.
But I could feel every breath she took. Every small movement. The whisper of fabric when she shifted position. The faint scent of her shampoo drifting across the space between us.
It’d been years since I'd shared a bed with anyone.
Years since I'd wanted more than a few anonymous hours.
After losing my best friend in combat, after I left the Marines and spent two years trying to function again—I'd had nothing left to give.
A few anonymous nights in clubs in Austin or Houston, places where control and submission existed without names or consequences.
Orders given and followed, both of us gone by morning.
This—Presley beside me in the darkness, close enough to touch, breathing softly—I could reach across the space right now. Pull her against me. Find out if she'd catch her breath or push me away.
But not yet. Not while her father was paying me protect her. Not while someone was threatening her and I needed my head clear.
I rolled onto my side, facing away from temptation.
I'd learned discipline in the Marines. Learned it again in those clubs where control meant everything.
Sharing Presley's bed was going to test every bit of it.