Chapter 12 Dahlia
DAHLIA
“Dinner’s ready!” Dahlia called over her shoulder, stirring the last of the gravy. She’d heard the front door open, and their loud bantering in between boots scuffing the hardwood floors. “Y’all wash up, and I’ll set the table in just a sec.”
She turned, expecting Beau’s deep voice leading the charge—but froze when Luc walked in with the rest of the crew. His hat tilted low, his shirt clinging to the frame of a man who’d spent the day mending fences and not one ounce of energy caring what it did to women’s nerves.
“Evenin’, DeeDee,” Beau said, grinning wide as everyone filed toward the sink.
“Good evenin’,” she replied, but her eyes didn’t acknowledge him.
Her attention was on Luc. Unlike Beau, who had to duck coming into the door, Luc just barely missed the top of the frame.
Tracking him cross the spacious kitchen had Dahlia moistening her suddenly dry lips.
Forget about watching him walk away, seeing this sexy cowboy enter a room was worth the ogling.
Sexy? The thought entered her mind without hesitation.
Even if she wanted to deny it, she couldn’t.
Her coochie antennae was tuned in to the Lucas A.
Stanley channel and she was binging on this show.
She hadn’t been with one in a while, but Dahlia sure as hell wasn’t blind.
Any woman seeing this tall man with that wide gait, wearing those worn jeans would agree.
Lucas Stanley was a one fine cowboy, oozing nothing but big dick energy.
Her thoughts didn’t have the chance to wander into the dangerous zone of what ifs.
Luc brushed past her to wash his hands, sleeves rolled to his elbows, water catching the tan lines along his forearms. She had to brace the edge of the countertop to keep from buckling under his shifting gray gaze. Were they green right now?
He nodded once. “Smells good.”
“And it’s gonna be good,” Beau stated, already dragging his chair out from the trestle dining table.
“Hope so,” she said, reaching for the plates before her nerves betrayed her.
Once everyone had washed up, Dahlia began setting out the meat loaf, mashed potatoes with brown gravy, and sweet peas bright against the white bowls, and a basket of homemade rolls steaming in the center. This was the kind of meal that made a place feel like home, even if it wasn’t hers.
On her way back with their pitcher of sweet tea, she caught Luc’s gaze following her.
He didn’t leer; he observed, intent, as if cataloguing something precious without meaning to.
She tried to play it cool, laughing at Beau’s story about the downed fence, but his focus pressed in making it impossible.
Ever since that almost-kiss in the stable, the air between them had burned low and constant, waiting for a spark.
It had been living in her mind rent-free all day.
She still remembered how close they’d been, his stormy gaze when he’d leaned in.
He’d smelled of earth, leather, cedar, and something deeper—something that reminded her of home.
Not her daddy’s cologne, not the spice of aftershave, but a scent that carried safety and want all muddled together.
It made her knees weak then, and even now, sitting so close at this table and inhaling him all over again, the memory nearly undid her.
She couldn’t explain why she’d wanted to press her nose to his neck, breathe him in, and memorize every breath he gave her. She didn’t want to explain it. Let it be what it was.
Luc was fighting it, though. That ol’ junkyard dog was softening around her, and it made her grin without warning.
For all his rough edges, he had the makings of a golden retriever—if golden retrievers glared, growled, and had forearms that could probably bench-press her, Teylor and her cousins for that matter.
She laughed quietly to herself, shaking her head.
“What’s funny?” Luc asked, his voice rough enough to pull her eyes up.
Her hand froze midair. “Huh?”
“I said, what’s funny?”
Her mind scrambled for anything that didn’t sound like you. Before she could speak, a loud, piercing, beeping noise split the air. Dahlia jumped, her fork clattering against the plate.
Luc turned toward the sound, calm as ever. “It’s all right. It’s just the alarm—power’s back.”
Beau threw his arms up, letting out a whoop. “Took a full damn week, but happy we finally got it!”
Luc leaned back slightly, relief flickering across his face while he reached for his phone. Around the table, others did the same. Dahlia checked hers and noticed the empty signal bars in the corner of the screen. No service. Judging by everyone else’s expressions, they were in the same boat.
“Looks like towers are still down,” Luc said, placing the device face down next to his silverware. “At least we got the roads cleared this afternoon. Means we can make a run into town tomorrow. Need to see how far this storm wreaked havoc across the Dakotas.”
He hesitated and then looked right at her. “You should probably head on up to the hotel, make sure your things are all right.”
The words hit soft, but a slow heaviness crept through her chest. He’s ready for me to go.
But before the thought rooted, he added, “Until they get those cell towers up, you can stay here.”
She blinked slowly, letting it sink in. “Okay … thank you. So, will you or Beau take me?”
Luc looked at his foreman. Some unspoken message passed between them, both men nodded and then Luc said, “Since I have a lot of business to handle, Beau will take care of you.”
Dahlia kept her expression easy, and ensured her tone remained even. “All right. Sounds like a plan.”
Inside, though, something small tugged tight. She would’ve liked it better if Luc had been the one to take her, but she wasn’t about to let that show.
Luc reached for the basket of rolls, tearing one in half before passing it to her. “You cook like somebody’s grandma,” he said, a grin ghosting across his face.
She laughed, grateful for the shift. “I’ll take that as a compliment since Granny taught me how to move around a kitchen.”
“It is,” he said, that huskiness threading his voice. “Means you know how to feed folks right.”
Smiling, Dahlia joined everyone in enjoying dinner.
The rest of the meal continued with conversation, teasing, Luc and Beau going for seconds.
Outside, the last of the sunset bled orange across the horizon, and for a fleeting moment, Dahlia let herself imagine this as ordinary: supper on a ranch, laughter around the table, and the man at the head of it watching her like he too was thinking the same.
By late morning the next day, Beau’s truck rumbled down the gravel road toward town. The fields rolled wide and gold under a blue sky filled with white clouds. Dahlia leaned against the window, half watching fences slide by, half thinking of the man who hadn’t come.
Luc had offered to pay for her hotel stay, admitting it was his fault for the fender bender that brought her here. That kind of gesture told her more than his brooding silence ever had.
At the hotel, she packed her things and checked out. Beau helped load the bags, and they made a few stops before heading back—shops reopening, folks sweeping porches and restringing lights. The town was shaking itself awake.
When she spotted The Hen House sign lit again, she grinned. “Oh, they’re open tonight!”
Beau laughed. “You sound like you’ve been waitin’ on it.” He slowed in front of the honky tonk bar.
“I have,” she confirmed, reading the signage. “But it looks like Haven’s Chicks won’t be back till next week. At least the DJ’s solid. Plays a little bit of everything.”
“Yeah, he’s good. I heard you cut up last week. I think the town needs a revisit from the girl who had everybody line dancing.”
“I think so too.”
hey returned to the ranch, the quiet settled heavy again. After supper, she found Luc under the porch light, sleeves rolled, hammer in hand, fixing a rail.
“I need to get off this ranch for a bit,” she said, stepping close enough to smell sawdust and sweat. “Come dance with me.”
He looked up. “Dance?”
“At The Hen House. You owe me a night out.”
“I don’t owe you anything. I think we,” he said automatically.”Besides, I don’t dance.”
“Sure you do,” she teased. “You just forgot how.”
His eyes narrowed, a mix of annoyance and something else. Then he sighed. “You don’t quit, do you?”
“Not when I’m right.”
That earned her a small grin—the kind that hooked at one corner and meant trouble.
The Hen House was alive—music thrumming through the floorboards, scent of fried catfish and whiskey hanging thick in the air. The crowd was a mix of ranch hands, locals, and a few familiar faces from Luc’s crew.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here, boss,” one of them joked.
Luc gave a half grin. “Don’t get used to it.”
They ordered food, shared a table, let the noise fill the silence that had lived between them too long. The DJ blended country and R&B, sliding from “Pour Me a Drink” to “Body Like a Back Road” to “The Way You Move.”
When “Texas Hold ’Em” hit the speakers, Dahlia stood, tossing him a look. “C’mon, cowboy. Time to rep your city.”
Luc shook his head, but a smile tugged at his mouth. Then he stood. “All right, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
A laugh escaped her as she met him on the dance floor. Their bodies moved in sync through the steps, before either of them realized they were. His fingertips grazed her waist, stayed there a second too long.
The music shifted. Amber light pooled around them as Chris Stapleton's "Tennessee Whiskey" spilled through the speakers. All around, couples melted into each other, hands claiming hips, palms settling on shoulders. Dahlia nodded toward the slow-dancing crowd. “You gonna hide now?” she challenged.
His answer was a step that closed the space between them.
His hand found the small of her back, careful, then firmer when she didn’t flinch. She slid one palm up his chest, the other curling behind his neck. They moved without counting, rocking, slipping into a turn inside a turn. Dahlia ground her body closer to him, her hat brim brushing his.
His fingers flexed across her spine. “Keep dancing like that, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice all gravel and heat, “and you’re gonna find out just how much restraint I don’t have.”
Heat crawled up her throat. She inched closer, the muscle in his jaw tightened when her thumb grazed that cleft that had ruined her good sense since he backed into her.
She angled her head slightly, lips close enough the warmth of their breaths mixed.
“If you didn’t want me near you, cowboy, you shouldn’t have backed into my car. ”
Their steps slowed to a gentle sway, his chest solid against hers. The lyric about being as warm as a glass of brandy rolled over them. The air thinned to the size of a kiss.
When he sang the next line, he changed it, whispering against her temple. “You’re as sweet as cherry wine.”
Dahlia looked up. “Did you just say cherry wine?”
“Mmhmm. Just keep dancing.”
So she did. The world narrowed to the cadence between them, the brush of fabric, the pulse in his throat. She could sense the fight in him, the push to hold the line, and the pull to give in.
By the time the song faded, neither had stepped away.
Luc’s fingers lingered at her hip, his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them.
He was losing that battle, and Dahlia knew it.
She smiled faintly, pulse racing. Good.