Chapter 2 Dahlia
DAHLIA
“Maybe you should watch where you’re going.”
The nerve.
Dahlia blinked at him, momentarily stunned. “Watch where I’m going? You backed into me. What was I supposed to do—teleported away?”
“Might’ve been helpful,” he muttered, crouching to check her bumper.
“Wow. Hilarious. We’ve got ourselves a comedian.” She threw a hand toward the crumpled frame, disbelief giving way to heat. “Not even a ‘you alright?’ after you almost took off the front of my car.”
He glanced up at her, the shadow from his Cattleman’s hat hiding everything but the tight line of his mouth. “Didn’t need to. You’re standing. Talking. Clearly, you’re fine.” Something shifted in his expression, voice dropping to gravel. “But . . . are you? Hurt?”
Behind them, The Hen House door burst open, flooding the lot with chatter and laughter before slamming shut.
The sign above the brick building flickered between red and pink, washing the line of parked trucks in a fluorescent glow.
Cigarette smoke curled from a man leaning against the steps, mingling with the greasy-sweet scent of onion rings from the kitchen vent as the band’s riffs bled through the walls.
The cowboy had planted himself in front of her with the unbothered calm that made tempers climb.
Dahlia let her attention travel upward—from worn boots, past denim that hugged in places that made her throat dry to a belt buckle that caught the light as if it were a warning sign.
Her gaze lingered on his chest, where black cotton strained across muscles likely earned from years of hard labor, not gym memberships.
When she finally reached his face, their gazes collided.
His eyes held the color of storm-washed steel, gray with hints of green, shifting with each passing headlight.
The cleft in his chin only made the whole thing worse, a dangerous detail on a man already too handsome for common sense.
A couple drifted past them toward their own car, the woman’s brows lifting at Dahlia’s front bumper with a wince. “Y’all good?” she asked.
“We’re fine. Just a fender bender,” he said, already turning back to his truck as if she weren’t still standing there.
Dahlia pressed her lips together and drew in a five-count breath that did nothing to calm the heat rising under her ribs. She’d be damned if this cowboy’s don’t-give-a-damn attitude ruined her night.
“Like hell it is,” she muttered, digging through her purse. “I’m calling this in.”
“Don’t bother. No point tying up emergency lines for a fender bender,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll call it in.”
Her hand stilled. “You will?”
“Doing it now.” He moved several paces away, cell already at his ear.
Dahlia folded her arms, watching the rigid line of his shoulders while he talked into his phone—hopefully with the dispatcher.
The bar continued emptying around them, patrons casting curious glances before slipping into their vehicles.
She couldn’t tell if she wanted to thank him or throw something at his back.
With a huff, she dug her phone out of her purse and fired off a text to her best friend Teylor:
Girl. Just got hit by some white cowboy who must think this parking lot was a NASCAR race. I’m okay. Waiting for the police. Call you in a few.
Not even a full minute later, her phone buzzed.
“Hold up. What white man hit you?” Teylor came on the line, demanding instead of hello.
“Did you even read the whole message?” Dahlia asked dryly.
“No ma’am. All I saw was you got hit by some white man. Now, what happened, DeeDee?”
Dahlia groaned into a laugh. “Girl. This man backed straight into my rental, then fixed his mouth to say I should watch where I was going. Didn’t ask if I was hurt or nothing. Just looked at me and said I ‘looked fine.’”
“I know you lying. The nerve!” Teylor snapped, disbelief crackling in her voice. “The police are on their way, right?”
“Yes, I told you that in the text . . .” Dahlia risked a glance in his direction and caught those stormy eyes boring into her. Something fluttered in her chest—not fear, but a strange pull she didn’t recognize. She turned away, skin prickling. “He called them, actually.”
“Good,” Teylor said, her tone softening a notch. “And I’m staying on this line until they get there. You sure you’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine. This car, though?” Dahlia surveyed the front end. “Toast. But trust me, his wallet’s about to feel it.”
“Facts! But insurance’ll cover it.”
“You’re right. Maybe his rate’ll go up then.”
“Serves him right for driving like a bat outta hell.” Her drawl carried a teasing edge. “Now, tell me about Haven’s Chicks—your stories looked lit.”
Dahlia leaned against the car, the frustration from moments ago giving way to pure excitement.
“They killed it! That girl Cashea can blow! Everybody was singing along, dancing and everything. This spot though, The Hen House—they got everything we love—greasy burgers, cold beer, and honey, I had that whole bar boot-scootin’. ”
“Lord, DeeDee. You turned that place into a Briarwick trail ride.”
“And did,” she giggled.
Red and blue lights swept across the ground before Teylor could respond.
“Tey, they’re here. I’ll call you when I get back to the hotel.”
“You better. I’ve got your location. Any longer than an hour, I’m making calls. Me and your cousins’ll be on the next flight,” Teylor advised.
“Okay, talk to you in a few.” Dahlia ended the call and moved toward the police car at the same time as the cowboy.
A lone sheriff’s deputy stepped out, a young white man in his thirties with a small notepad in hand. “Evenin’ folks.” He addressed both of them. “Everybody okay? Got a call for a fender bender?”
“Yeah,” Dahlia said, cutting her eyes at the cowboy. “He backed right into me.”
He tipped his hat slightly. “She’s right. I did. But there aren’t any injuries. We’re getting a report so the insurance companies can handle the rest.”
After the deputy took their official statements, he started documenting the scene, moving between the two vehicles. Dahlia stood off to the side, tracking his movements as he scribbled notes. When he finished, the deputy explained he was going back to his car to log it all into a report.
She caught the cowboy watching her from beside his truck, his gaze fixed in that unreadable way that made her wonder what ran through his head. She wanted to look away, but he pinned her where she stood. Was he angry with her? For what? He hit her.
For a moment, the noise of distant chatter and engines starting faded, leaving only those storm-gray eyes locked on her.
The air between them shifted, something unseen brushing over her skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold.
Dahlia exhaled and forced her focus back to the deputy’s cruiser.
A few minutes later, the young officer returned. “Alright, folks. Luc, I gotta hit you with a citation for failure to yield. Here’s y’all’s copy to obtain the report for insurance.” He handed them each the printout before cautioning, “Be careful and have a good night.”
“Will do, and you too,” the cowboy said, giving an affirmative nod.
Dahlia took her copy with a polite smile. “Yes, thank you, Deputy.”
As the cruiser rolled away, Dahlia glanced down at the report. There it was in bold print: Lucas A. Stanley.
Without another word, Lucas turned on his heel and strode back to his truck.
Dahlia stared after him, her fingers tightening around the report.
Unbelievable—hit a woman’s car, then walk off as if courtesy cost extra.
She slid into her driver’s seat and pressed the push-start, trying to shake the irritation curling through her chest.
The engine gave her nothing.
She tried again, foot firm on the brake and pressing the ignition button harder than necessary, then once more for pride. Still nothing—just the tired blink of her dashboard lights and the bar’s neon spilling color across her hands.
“Come on,” she whispered, forehead resting against the wheel for a brief second.
A tap at the window made her jerk. She whipped her head up.
Lucas Stanley.
Great. This guy again.
Drawing in a lungful of air, Dahlia lowered the glass halfway.
“What’s wrong? Won’t turn over?” His tone was curt, all business.
“It would’ve, if a certain cowboy hadn’t rearranged the front end.” The sarcasm came easy, but her stomach pitched at the thought of a dead rental in the middle of nowhere. She sighed. “No. It’s not starting.”
Lucas shifted his weight, the loose gravel crunching under his boots. “Hang on. I’ll make another call.”
He moved a few feet away, phone back at his ear, not waiting for a response. Two men stumbled over, slurring offers of directions to places she had no intention of going. Dahlia ignored them until they wandered off.
Watching the cowboy’s broad back, irritation seeped through the rip in her confidence where her plans had been. She wasn’t even supposed to be there. Then again, maybe she was.
The universe had a habit of putting her where she needed to be, even when it didn’t make sense.
A few months back, Dahlia had stumbled across a viral clip of Haven’s Chicks performing at The Hen House and was instantly hooked.
The group’s soulful country rhythm—the Black cowgirl energy—spoke to her.
Supporting women who looked like her and created from the soul was second nature, so she’d planned a girls’ trip with Teylor to see them live.
Only problem? She booked her ticket for the wrong weekend.
Typical. Time was more of a suggestion in Dahlia’s world.
Rather than cancel, she decided to roll with it.
If the cosmos wanted her in Ironhaven early, she’d trust the detour.
Still, sitting in a mangled rental outside a honky-tonk, she had to wonder what exactly the universe was trying to say this time.