Chapter Four
Rhodes
The dress shirt felt wrong. Too formal, too tight across my shoulders—or maybe that was just my chest constricting at what I was about to do.
Church. First Baptist, where the whole town would be watching.
I hadn't set foot in a house of God since Jake's funeral. His family's pastor had spoken beautiful words over the casket—about sacrifice and honor and a greater plan. Probably brought Jake's parents comfort.
None of it reached me. Just stood there numb, watching them lower my best friend into the ground because of a call I'd made.
I'd grown up in Sunday services on my family's ranch in Abilene. But after Jake? After watching him bleed out and realizing no amount of prayer would bring him back? Faith felt like one more thing I'd lost that day.
And sitting in a pew this morning wasn't going to change that.
But Presley had asked. Everyone expected it. So I'd put on this shirt and play the part.
I finished with the buttons, ran a hand through my hair.
Presley appeared in the doorway. Pale yellow dress that hit just above her knees, pearls at her throat, heels that made her legs look endless. The woman took my damn breath away every time she entered a room.
We'd been orbiting each other for days. Every roping lesson at my ranch—Friday, Saturday—while Addison practiced the routine we’d put together, I'd stood close enough to guide her form, close enough to imagine what it would be like to bind those delicate wrists and trust me with her pleasure.
Yesterday we'd spent the evening preparing Crown & Grace for today's Competition Send-Off Tea, working side by side while that same awareness hummed between us.
Now I was heading to worship to sit beside her and pretend my thoughts were appropriate for the Lord's house.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
WE DROVE TO FIRST BAPTIST in careful silence, both aware the congregation would be watching. Speculating. Judging whether we looked real.
The parking lot was packed when we arrived at nine forty-five. Families everywhere—kids in Sunday clothes, mothers smoothing down hair and straightening ties. Everyone heading toward the white church building with its tall steeple cutting into the clear Texas sky.
I came around to Presley's door. We walked toward the entrance together and she reached for my hand, interlacing her fingers through mine as she smiled at the usher who greeted us.
We settled into a pew halfway back. Her shoulder tucked against my arm, close enough to feel the warmth of her beside me. She reached for a hymnal, and I caught that vanilla-citrus scent again, had to fight the urge to bury my face in her neck.
The service began. We stood for hymns I'd known since childhood, sat for prayers I'd stopped believing in. The pastor talked about grace and redemption—and something in my chest loosened. Maybe I wasn’t such a lost cause after all. I glanced at Presley beside me, her voice raised in song like an angel’s, and she caught my eye and smiled.
I didn't know what middle ground looked like between blind faith and total isolation. But just then, I wanted to find out.
After the service ended, weathered ranchers and older couples nodded in our direction as we left.
By the time we reached my truck, it was past noon.
We grabbed a quick lunch back at Presley’s house—sandwiches and chips, nothing that required actual cooking.
By two o'clock, we'd arrived at Crown & Grace.
Ruth-Ellen from Garden Gate Florals—who had a key since her shop was next door—was putting finishing touches on the centerpieces.
Pink and cream roses and peonies on every table.
The caterer from Sweet Sage Bakery was arranging final platters of finger sandwiches and pastries.
The tables and linens had been set up yesterday.
For the next hour and a half, we helped finish setup. I moved chairs at Presley's direction, carried trays, positioned serving dishes. She adjusted flowers, rearranged pastries, made sure every detail was perfect for her students' celebration before Saturday's competition—just six days away now.
By three-thirty, Ruth-Ellen had gone back to her shop and the caterer had left. The studio looked transformed.
The first mother and daughter arrived at four sharp.
Lisa Lindsey swept in with twelve-year-old Harper, who immediately found Presley and hugged her with a squeal.
"Miss Presley! Everything looks so pretty!"
"You think so? I'm so glad you're here, sweetheart." Presley smoothed Harper's hair back. "Are you excited about next weekend?"
"Nervous. But mostly excited." Harper grinned. "I've been practicing my interview answers like you taught me."
"I know you have. You're going to be wonderful."
I stayed near the serving table, watching Presley work her magic.
Lisa came over, introduced herself properly, asked about how long we'd been dating and what I did for work.
I gave her the cover story—business consulting, travel frequently, old friend of Dalton's from A&M.
She seemed satisfied, moved on to fill a plate with cucumber sandwiches.
Over the next thirty minutes, the other families arrived—Rebecca Morrison with ten-year-old Mary-Kate, who made a beeline for the pastries.
Dawn Sutherland and fourteen-year-old Brynlee, who waved at me from across the room.
Maria Torres with shy eight-year-old Gabriela, Christine Chambers with fifteen-year-old Crystal, Shelly Hawkins with thirteen-year-old Sierra.
Six mother-daughter pairs so far.
I helped serve. Carried trays. Refilled drinks.
The mothers were curious about the new boyfriend but mostly wanted to talk about their daughters' performances.
Lisa mentioned Harper's piano piece. Rebecca worried that Mary-Kate was too nervous about her dance routine.
Dawn asked if I thought Brynlee's vocal performance was strong enough.
I reassured them. Kept my answers general but confident. Let them see that Presley had someone supporting her.
This was what she'd built—not just pageant coaching, but genuine mentorship relationships. These families trusted her with their daughters.
At four-thirty, the energy shifted.
Vanessa Clarke walked in with Addison.
The temperature dropped. Conversation didn't stop exactly, but it got quieter. Careful. The other mothers exchanged glances.
Vanessa made a beeline for a cluster of women near the serving table. Her voice carried just loud enough.
"Must be nice to have a cowboy doing your heavy lifting."
I caught the dig. Kept my expression neutral. Focused on refilling the tea pitcher like I hadn't heard a thing.
Addison found Presley immediately. The kid looked relieved to be here despite whatever was happening at home. They talked quietly in the corner, Presley's hand on Addie's shoulder, both of them smiling.
The party continued for another hour and a half. The girls excited about getting dolled up for the runway. Mothers reassured. Everyone performing the careful dance of small-town social politics while eating pretty finger food and drinking sweet tea.
By six, my face hurt from maintaining the pleasant boyfriend expression. Not from the mothers or students—they were fine. But from staying civil while Vanessa shot pointed looks and made comments designed to cut.
When the last family finally left, Presley locked the door and leaned against it.
"God, I'm exhausted."
"Long day." I agreed. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
BACK AT HER HOUSE, we both headed to change. I pulled on jeans and a plain t-shirt, came back out to find Presley already in yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt, hair down, no makeup. Soft and real and more beautiful than she'd been all day.
"How about I order pizza?" I said. "We're probably still full from the party anyway. Late dinner."
"That sounds good."
"Go relax. Find something on TV. I'll bring wine."
She settled onto the couch while I called in the order, then poured her a glass of wine and grabbed a beer for myself. Found her flipping through channels until she stopped on some detective show.
We sat close, sipping our drinks while the TV detective pieced together clues.
"I wish real life were this simple," she said quietly. "The guilty person always gets caught. Everything works out. Happily ever after."
The doorbell rang before I could answer. I got up, paid for the pizza, brought it back with paper plates.
We ate in comfortable silence for a while, the show playing in the background.
"Do you think whoever vandalized Crown & Grace will ever be caught?" She set down her half-eaten slice. "At least nothing's happened lately. Maybe they'll stop?"
"I don't know what will happen," I said honestly.
The show ended. We'd finished eating. The room had gone dark except for the TV's glow. She shifted closer on the couch.
I reached over, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Wished I could tell her things would be okay. That they'd work out the way she wanted.
Tears welled in her eyes.
I leaned in. Kissed her softly.
She kissed me back—hungry, desperate, like she'd been waiting for this all day.
The kiss deepened. Her hands fisted in my shirt. Mine slid into her hair.
"Bedroom," I managed against her mouth.
She nodded, took my hand, led me down the hall.
INSIDE HER ROOM, I cupped her face.
"I know you're scared," I said quietly. "About whoever's threatening you. About your business. About whether it could all fall apart."
She nodded, blinking back tears.
"I can't promise we'll catch them tomorrow. But I can promise you this—I will do whatever it takes to protect you. And I need you to know you can trust me. Completely."
"I do trust you."
"Then let me help you let go of some of that fear. Some of that worry you're carrying." I held her gaze. "There are things I want to do with you. Ways I want to touch you. But they require you surrendering. Trusting me. And I think it might help you feel better. Even if just for tonight."
Her pupils dilated. "What kind of things?"