Chapter 50: Playful Rivalry
The smell of coffee, perfectly brewed and sugared just how she liked it, still hung in the air like a truce flag. Beth padded into the cavernous kitchen, the heels of her bare feet clicking on the polished concrete. Sunlight flooded the space, glinting off the Viking range. A plate sat on the vast island, covered with a cloche. She lifted it. Maria’s migas, still warm, the tortilla strips crisped to perfection, flecked with jalapeño.
She was forking the first bite when the low, gravelly rumble of an engine cut through the morning quiet. Not one of the ranch trucks. This was closer, personal. It came up the main drive, the sound slowing as it approached the house. Security hadn’t stopped it. A familiar vehicle, then.
Beth set her fork down, a knot forming in her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. She wiped her hands on a linen towel and moved toward the grand foyer, her silk robe whispering against her legs.
Through the sidelight window, she saw the truck—a vintage Ford F-150, cherry red and gleaming like a trophy. The door swung open and boot heels hit the gravel. Then he emerged, unfolding himself with a lanky, easy grace.
Beau.
Strawberry-blond hair brighter in the Texas sun, worn Levi’s, a button-down rolled to the elbows. He had a gallon-sized Ziploc bag in one hand, full of what looked like… tamales?
His face broke into a wide, uncomplicated smile the moment he saw her standing in the doorway. “Well, I’ll be damned. If it isn’t my Bell!”
He dropped the bag on the hood of his truck and closed the distance in three long strides before Beth could form a word. His arms went around her, lifting her clean off her feet in a whirl of spicy cologne and sheer masculine warmth. He spun her once, a familiar, dizzying move from a lifetime ago.
“Beau—put me down, you oaf!” she gasped, but she was laughing, the sound startled out of her.
He set her down, his hands lingering on her waist, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Mama said she saw you at H-E-B. I was headed out to the deer lease, figured I’d detour through a memory or two.” He jerked a thumb toward the truck. “Brought contraband. Alma’s pork tamales. Figured you’d been in New York too long, probably forgotten what real food tastes like.”
“I have a private chef, you heathen,” she said, smacking his arm, but she was still smiling. It was easy. It was simple. It was a sun-warmed stone from a creek she’d played in as a girl. “What are you really doing here, Beau Gracie?”
“Can’t a man visit his oldest friend?” He leaned against the doorjamb, effectively blocking her view of the interior. His gaze swept over her, taking in the robe, the bare feet, the sleep-tangled hair. His expression softened, but a question flickered in his eyes. “You just get up? I didn’t wake you, did I?”
From the depths of the house, a floorboard creaked. A specific, familiar creak from the hallway that led to the bedroom wing.
Beth’s smile froze.
Beau heard it too. His eyes shifted past her shoulder, into the dim, cool foyer. His easy posture didn’t change, but something in his face did. The friendly warmth banked, replaced by a lawyer’s quiet assessment.
Damien emerged from the shadow of the hall like a storm cloud forming on a clear horizon. He’d pulled on his black trousers from the night before, but his chest was bare, his hair tousled. In his hand was a second mug of coffee. He moved with a predator’s silent economy, coming to a stop just behind Beth’s left shoulder. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. His presence was a territorial claim etched in the air between them.
The morning’s fragile peace vaporized.
Beau’s eyes met Damien’s. The two men looked at each other for a long, silent moment. The air in the doorway grew thick, charged with a voltage that made the hair on Beth’s arms stand up.
“Well,” Beau said, his drawl a fraction slower, a fraction cooler. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Damien replied. His voice was neutral, flat. The kind of tone he used right before a business meeting went south.
Beau’s gaze dropped to the mug in Damien’s hand, then flicked back to Beth’s disheveled state. The puzzle pieces clicked together with almost audible force. His jaw tightened, just a notch.
“Bell,” Beau said, keeping his eyes locked on Damien. “You gonna introduce me to your… friend?”
Bell. The childhood name, a tender familiarity, hung in the space like a challenge.
Beth felt Damien go very still beside her. She could feel the heat radiating off his skin, could almost hear the calculation whirring behind his eyes. He was mapping the situation, this sun-bleached stranger in his boots who called her by a secret name.
“Beau, this is Damien Rossi,” Beth said, her voice miraculously steady. “Damien, this is Beau Gracie. An old friend from high school.”
“Rossi,” Beau repeated. The name meant something to him. Not the socialite ex-husband. The other thing. His eyes hardened. “I’ve heard the name.”
“I bet you have,” Damien said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Beau. You a cowboy or a lawyer? I can never tell with you people.”
“I’m the man who taught Bell—Beth—how to skip stones on Miller’s Creek,” Beau said, pushing off the doorjamb. He stood to his full height, which nearly matched Damien’s. “Before she ever heard of New York. Or penthouses.”
The shot landed. Damien’s green eyes went cold as bottle glass. He took a slow sip of his coffee, his stare never leaving Beau. “Cute. She prefers coffee to creek water these days. Two sugars. No cream.”
The standoff stretched, brittle and sharp. The scent of jasmine from the gardens, the distant whinny of a horse, the blinding Texas sun—it all felt suddenly like a stage set, too bright, too quiet.
Another vehicle, this one a ranch diesel with a pronounced growl, came up the drive and parked behind Beau’s truck. The door opened and Jackson stepped out. He took in the scene at the front door with one swift glance: Beth between them, robe-clad and tense; the blond stranger squared up; Damien half-dressed and looking like he was measuring the man for a coffin.
Jackson didn’t speak. He leaned back against his truck, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched. A silent, ominous jury.
Beau broke the gaze first, looking back at Beth. The warmth tried to return to his expression, but it was strained now. “Looks like you’ve got a full house. I should probably let you get to your… day.” He nodded toward the bag on his hood. “Tamales are in the bag. Heat ‘em up in the steam. You remember.”
“I remember,” Beth said softly.
He started to turn, then stopped, his eyes finding Damien’s one last time. The politeness fell away, revealing the steel beneath. “You take care of her, Rossi. Real careful. This isn’t one of your cities. Things out here have roots. They don’t get pulled easy.”
He tipped an imaginary hat to Beth, a gesture achingly familiar, and slid back into his truck. The engine roared to life. He reversed in a smooth arc, gravel crunching, and headed back down the long drive. Jackson watched him go, then his impassive gaze settled on Damien and Beth in the doorway. After a moment, he just shook his head once, got in his truck, and drove off toward the stables.
The silence he left behind was suffocating.
Beth turned. Damien was already looking at her, his expression unreadable.
“Bell?” he said, the word a soft, dangerous probe.
“Don’t,” she warned, wrapping her arms around herself.
“An old friend who brings tamales and pickup lines from the nineties.”
“He’s a good man.”
“I’m sure he is.” Damien set his mug down on the hall table with a definitive click. “He’s also in love with you.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t,” he echoed, his voice dropping low. “I know the look. I invented the look.” He stepped closer, the bare expanse of his chest suddenly the only thing in her vision. “Things with roots, Beth? He’s talking about himself. He thinks he’s your past. Your home.”
“Maybe he is,” she fired back, anger finally sparking through the shock.
A muscle ticked in Damien’s jaw. The possessive fury she knew so well flashed in his eyes, but he banked it, controlled it. He gave her a slow, measured smile that felt more threatening than any scowl.
“Okay,” he said, too softly.
“Okay what?”
“Okay. Day two of courting just got more interesting.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. His whisper was a promise and a threat woven together. “Let’s see how deep those roots really go.”