Page 8 of Dallas Rivals

I trudge across the grass, boots squelching, hair sticking to my forehead. I’m two steps away from grabbing it when⁠—

“WHAT do you think you’re doing!? Stop right now!”

The voice snaps through the air like thunder. I freeze mid-crouch, hand out like a kid caught stealing cookies.

“Huh?” I turn, startled, and there he is—Mr. Walker himself. He’s striding toward me with purpose, his steps quick and measured, the long tails of his coat whipping behind him in the breeze. Every inch of him radiates frustration, his posture stiff and his expression carved from pure annoyance. Even his boots seem to defy the muddy ground, gliding silently across the mess, which, of course, only adds to his imposing presence.

“Why is a van blocking the entrance to my property, Miss Saint-Clair?”

He’s wearing dark sunglasses, his beard trimmed to near perfection, and a tailored coat so sharp it practically declares him out of place. Everything about his appearance says he belongs in a glossy Manhattan high-rise, not standing knee-deep in Texas mud.

“Morning, Mr. Walker.”

He exhales like he’s already out of patience. “I’m waiting for an answer.”

“Uh, well, clearly the van’s stuck. I was just trying to⁠—”

“And who on earth drives down this path without an off-road vehicle?” he mutters, half to himself.

“It’s a rental, sir. Not like I had a lotta options.”

I can’t see his eyes, but I swear I feel that judgy billionaire energy radiating off him. The man’s forehead probably has a permanent wrinkle from frowning at people.

“And what exactly were you doing here?” He gestures broadly at the scene, like it’s all my fault.

“Looking for a rock to⁠—”

“Did you find one?”

Does this man have a thing against full sentences or what?

I point toward my new best friend—the rock—lying on the ground. No idea if this’ll actually work, but I already feel accomplished just finding it.

He exhales sharply and strides over, lifting the thing like it weighs nothing. Not even a grunt. He just turns and walks back toward the van like I’m not even there.

My jaw drops. I’ve met plenty of difficult people in journalism—folks with egos the size of Texas—but none this rude, this… aggressively unpleasant.

Halfway back to the truck, he stops and glances over his shoulder.

“Well? You planning to stand there all day, or am I doing all the work myself?”

“No!” I blurt, taking off at a run. “I’m coming!”

The oh-so-charming Mr. Walker sets the rock down into the puddle with military precision, then claps his hands clean, like he’s just solved world hunger.

“Alright. Try it now,” he orders.

Heart pounding, I climb into the van, not daring to protest. I grip the steering wheel tightly, turn the key in the ignition, and with a shaky breath, press down on the gas pedal. For a tense moment, the tire does nothing but spin in place, the engine whining in protest as mud churns beneath the rubber. Then, suddenly, the tire finds traction. In an instant, a geyser of mud explodes outward, spraying in every direction.

I gasp as a full wave of brown slush arcs through the air and showers Mr. Walker from head to toe. Coat, pants, expensive shoes—gone. He’s a walking mud sculpture.

The van lurches free, but I’m frozen in the driver’s seat, hands over my mouth, staring in horror through the windshield.

He removes his sunglasses in slow motion, wipes his face with one muddy hand, and starts walking toward my window.

“Mr. Walker—oh my God—I am so sorry!” The words trip over each other as I speak. “But honestly, who stands that close to⁠—”

“Get out of my sight, Miss Saint-Clair.”