Chapter Three
Presley
The smell of fresh coffee woke me.
I opened my eyes to find Rhodes's side of the bed empty, sheets already cool. Through the doorway, I could hear him moving around in my kitchen like he belonged there.
I pressed my face into his pillow before I could stop myself. God, even the way he smelled was getting to me.
This was ridiculous. I'd dated before. Been attracted to men before. But lying beside Rhodes last night—close enough to touch but not touching—had made sleep impossible. Every time he shifted position, I'd held my breath. Every time the sheets rustled, my whole body had tensed.
I hadn't felt like this in... heck, how long had it been? Two years since Landon. But this felt different. Faster. More intense.
Which might not be a good thing.
With Landon, the attraction had been slower. Comfortable. Safe. Right up until it wasn't. Right up until "I love you" became "Where are you?" and "Who were you with?" and "Why haven’t you texted me back yet?"
After we broke up, I'd thrown myself into Crown & Grace. It was definitely easier to focus on my students than wonder if I'd ever trust my own judgment again.
But Rhodes seemed different from Landon. At lunch yesterday, he'd held my hand at The Grill without making it feel like ownership. He made my pulse race just by existing in the same room.
Or I was being an idiot. Again.
Three days wasn't long enough to know a person—even if the person in question was a bodyguard and probably the hottest man I’d ever laid eyes on.
I dragged myself out of bed before I could do something stupid like stay there inhaling his pillow until he discovered me and asked what I was doing.
By the time I emerged from the bathroom, I'd dressed in designer jeans, low-heeled boots, and a lightweight blouse.
Practical enough for a ranch, put-together enough that I wouldn't feel—I hoped—completely out of my element today.
I'd never been roping in my life. The closest I'd come to ranch life was a pony ride at my sixth birthday party. Somehow, I didn’t think that counted.
I found Rhodes leaning against my kitchen counter with coffee in hand.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning." I poured myself a mug, added cream. "Sleep okay?"
Something flickered across his face. "Better than the daybed."
I studied him over the rim of my mug. Dark circles under his eyes said he hadn't slept much better than I had. Though whether that was because of me or just an unfamiliar bed, I had no idea.
"What do you think about stopping at Sweet Sage Bakery to pick up something for breakfast on the way to the studio?" I asked. “Patsy—the owner—makes the most delicious scones this side of the Mississippi.”
"Sounds good."
I grabbed my purse, locked up. The short drive was quiet, the sky that clear blue that heralded a perfect spring day.
Despite the serenity of the morning, the roping lesson this afternoon had my stomach in knots.
I'd built a business on teaching confidence and poise.
Now I was about to prove I was terrible at something in front of Rhodes and my best student.
PATSY WOMACK LIT UP when we walked into the bakery at seven-thirty.
The warm scent of butter and sugar enveloped us the moment we stepped inside.
Sweet Sage occupied a charming corner spot on the square, with exposed brick walls, mismatched vintage chairs, and a glass display case showcasing Patsy's handiwork—golden scones, cinnamon rolls the size of my fist, and delicate pastries that looked almost too pretty to eat.
A few early-morning regulars sat scattered at small tables with their coffee and newspapers, glancing up with interest when they saw us together.
"Presley! And this must be the boyfriend everyone's been talking about. " She beamed. "Rhodes, right?"
"News travels fast." I smiled, letting Rhodes's hand settle on the small of my back. The touch sent heat straight up my spine.
"Honey, this is Valor Springs." Patsy winked, already boxing up half a dozen scones. "What else can I get you?"
"Two large coffees. One with cream, one black."
Rhodes held the door open for me as we left, his hand returning to the small of my back as we walked to the truck. That simple touch had my pulse jumping all over again.
AT CROWN & GRACE, THE morning fell into an easy rhythm.
Crystal Chambers arrived at nine with her mother Christine for interview prep. The moment they walked into the main coaching room, Christine's gaze landed on Rhodes. He stood near the windows, positioned where he could watch the door while staying out of the way.
"And who's this?" Christine's curiosity was written all over her face.
"Christine, Crystal, this is Rhodes Foster. My boyfriend." The word still felt strange on my tongue. "Rhodes, this is Christine Chambers and her daughter Crystal."
"Nice to meet you both." Rhodes shook Christine's hand, then Crystal's.
"Boyfriend?" Christine's eyes lit up. "Well, it's about time someone snatched you up, Presley. How long have you two been together?"
"About a month. We've been keeping it quiet." I smiled up at Rhodes, trying to look natural. "But we're ready to go public now."
"Well, isn't that wonderful." Christine beamed. "You two make a lovely couple."
After a few more excited questions that I answered with a smile, I guided Crystal to the center of the room.
The space was my pride and joy—eight hundred square feet with mirrors lining one wall, a small elevated runway area at one end, and professional lighting I'd installed myself.
Motivational quotes in elegant script decorated the cream-colored walls between framed photos of my students at various competitions.
"All right, Crystal. Let's run through your interview answers like you're on stage at the competition."
At fifteen, Crystal had a tendency to overthink her answers, but today she was on fire—confident, articulate, hitting every point perfectly.
"That's it exactly, Crystal. You're going to wow them next weekend."
After they left, Rhodes remained by the windows. "One down.” The corner of his mouth quirked slightly.
"Get ready—you're going to be interrogated by every pageant mom who walks through that door today."
"Looking forward to it," he said, completely deadpan.
Sierra Hawkins arrived at ten-thirty with her mother Shelly for runway coaching. After I introduced Rhodes as my boyfriend and fielded Shelly's excited questions, thirteen-year-old Sierra ran through her routine with the grace of someone twice her age.
"She's got presence," Rhodes said after they left.
"Natural performer. Some girls have to learn it. Sierra was born with it."
We ordered sandwich delivery for lunch and ate together in the small break room.
The space was barely more than a closet—just enough room for a small table, two chairs, a coffee maker, and a mini-fridge.
But I'd made it cozy with soft pink walls and a small vase of fresh flowers on the table.
The door to the main studio stood open, letting in the scent of the lavender air freshener I kept near the entrance.
I found myself telling him about each of my students—their strengths, their struggles, their dreams. He listened.
Asked questions. Seemed genuinely interested instead of just waiting for his turn to talk.
When I stood to clear our trash, he stood too. Our hands brushed reaching for his wrapper at the same time.
His fingers curled around mine for just a moment. Just long enough for my pulse to jump.
"Sorry," I said, pulling back.
"Don't be."
The look in his eyes said he wasn't sorry at all.
AT FOUR O'CLOCK, VANESSA Clarke's SUV pulled up outside Crown & Grace.
Addison climbed out, waving goodbye to her mother. The moment she walked through the door, nervous energy radiated off her.
"Ready for this?" I asked.
"More ready than I've ever been for anything." She glanced at Rhodes. "Thank you again for doing this, Mr. Foster. I know it's a lot to ask."
"Happy to help," he said easily. "And it's just Rhodes."
We piled into Rhodes's truck and headed out of town.
The landscape shifted as we left Valor Springs behind—manicured lawns and sidewalks giving way to open ranch land dotted with mesquite and live oak.
Barbed-wire fences stretched alongside the road, marking property lines that seemed to go on forever.
In the distance, cattle grazed under the late afternoon sun.
Fifteen minutes later, Rhodes turned onto a gravel drive.
His property appeared gradually—a simple one-story ranch house painted white with a deep front porch, a weathered red barn, and beyond that, a practice arena enclosed by wooden rails.
Two horses stood in a corral attached to the barn, their heads lifting to watch our approach with curious dark eyes.
"This is beautiful," Addison breathed as we climbed out.
"It is," I agreed, taking in the wide Texas sky and the peaceful quiet broken only by birdsong and the soft snort of one of the horses. This was a whole different world from my studio with its mirrors and polished floors.
"Thanks." Rhodes led us past the barn toward the practice arena. The horses followed our progress along the fence line, one of them—a bay mare—nickering softly. "Let's get you warmed up."
The arena was simple—packed dirt surrounded by wooden rails, with three practice dummies positioned at varying distances. Rhodes grabbed a coiled rope from where it hung on a fence post and moved to the center of the space.
"Watch first," he told us.
He demonstrated the technique—feet planted wide in the dusty arena floor, weight balanced, shoulders squared.
His hands worked the rope with an ease that came from years of practice, building the loop overhead in smooth, controlled circles.
The rope sang through the air before he released it.
The loop sailed forward and settled perfectly over the nearest dummy's head.
Made it look effortless.