She sighs, her eyes brimming with tears at the memory. “He was incredible.”
“What happened to make him change? I can’t imagine Dallas singing on a stage.”
She turns to me, sniffing. Her tears haven’t spilled over, but her cheeks blush pink as she inhales a steady breath. She hesitates and then frowns, considering how to answer me. I can tell it’s a weighted question. “It’s been a rough year on all of us.” That’s all she says before she walks away to the end of the bar to check on her customer.
I want to agree with her. It’s been a rough year for me, and apparently, it’s been a rough one for Dallas as well.
I look back at the stage and the lone microphone standing in the middle of the platform, wondering what Dallas’ voice must sound like when he performs. But even more than that, I wonder what made him cut music off completely.
Maybe we do have more in common than I thought.
While I’ve spent the last three months trying to find the person I want to be, Dallas has spent the past year attempting to lose the man he used to be.
Our end goals might be different, but our pain is just the same.
Chapter Seven
It wasn’t a difficult decision to move to Texas, far away from Cole and Brenna. Heartbreak has a way of motivating you to change the pieces of your life you haven’t necessarily been satisfied with.
It’s safe to say I am using my new job as a diversion. I’m avoiding working on my house, working nearly every night of my first week at Dallas’ bar. At first, I convinced myself I was holding out on sifting through my mother’s belongings because I simply didn’t have the energy, but in all honesty, I know deep down it’s because I’m afraid of what I might find. As the days pass, I find myself wanting to be at work more than my new home.
I don’t feel connected to my mother because, for nearly all of my twenty-four years of being on this earth, I was raised to believe she was a horrible woman, the kind of woman who willingly gave up her child for her own selfish reasons.
Even though I’m avoiding rummaging through my mother’s things, I’m running out of excuses not to. Not only has Dallas given me today off from the bar, I also received a call that my new desk came in and is ready for me to pick up at the store. While I am happy to have received a small glimpse into the kind of woman Ellie was, I don’t care if I replace her belongings with mine. I avoid the boxes in her attic, surely stuffed with details about her, pictures and items documenting the life she constructed without me. Instead, I continue with the same idea I had when I started with the curtains.
I’ve been standing in front of my mother’s desk for the past ten minutes. I don’t know why I keep staring at it. I know it isn’t going anywhere until I move it. Her desk is sitting against the farthest wall in the office, a thin film of dust coating the top. Eventually I want to clear this room for school supplies and shelves of every kind of book imaginable, everything from children’s books to romance. If it has words typed out onto pages, I love it.
The first step is removing my mother’s desk and replacing it with the one I am scheduled to pick up in an hour.
I step up to the desk and release a deep breath, grabbing the handle of the front drawer. The painted wood sticks before it finally pulls free.
I gasp, surprised to find hundreds of sheets of paper stuffed into the drawer. At first, I think they must be grocery lists or to-do lists. For all I know, my mother was a hoarder, never bothering to toss out her trash. I pick up one of the pieces of paper and read the words written.
Blue Waters by Ellie Roberts
I dream of the day
When I’ve seen the tides
From the blue water on the bay
It never ends
No matter how deep it bends
I dream of the day
When I’ve seen the tides
The blue water Of the blue water rise
I drop the first poem and pick up another.
Pieces of You by Ellie Roberts
Everywhere I look
There are pieces of you
The pieces, the pieces are scattered
Like torn pages from a book
I try to find them
And put them back in order
But sometimes I’m lost in the sea of pages
I drop the page back into the drawer and quickly fan through the rest.
They’re endless, one after the other, a hundred poems my mother wrote. I sit down on the chair in front of the desk and hold the pieces of paper in my hands.
I spend the next few minutes reading every word written on the pages. Here I was, afraid I would find a piece of my mother inside, and I was right. Pieces of my mother’s soul are written on these pages, and surprisingly, I’m not upset to have found them. I feel relieved.
It’s as if I’ve been gifted a tiny glimpse into the kind of person she was. She was a writer. A poet. A lover of words.
My hands shake and tears threaten to spill. I’m staring at my mother’s words written in her own handwriting. The words start to blur with the tears, and then it hits me. I was hesitant to find out more about my mother because I was afraid of liking her. I spent my whole life believing she hated me, and opening up to the possibility of liking the person who hated me is like asking for heartbreak. I’ve already had enough of that in my life than I care to.
I dig into the drawer and gather the rest of her poems, straightening them into a neat pile. I place them on the seat of the chair then clear out the rest of the supplies resting on top of the desk. I don’t waste any more time getting rid of it. The wood creaks and wobbles as I grip the edges, dragging it across the carpet.
“Come on.” I grit my teeth. I manage to pull it out into the hallway, a few feet in front of the door, before I feel myself getting tired. My arms ache with the strength I’ve been using to move the monstrous desk. For a moment I consider walking across the street to ask Dallas if he could help me carry it the rest of the way to the curb, but my pride overrides that option. There is no way in hell I will crack and ask for Dallas’ help. It always seems as if I am caught in some damsel-in-distress moment and he is my reluctant knight in shining armor, only I’m not the damsel in distress and he sure as fuck isn’t my knight in shining armor. He is broody and acts as if my presence is inconvenient.
I swipe my arm across my forehead, convinced I’ll be able to pull it the rest of the way. I open the front door and start to drag it across the floor, lifting it slightly to slide across the threshold. Half of the desk is still inside; the other half is sitting on the concrete of my front porch. I wrap my fingers tightly around both sides of the desk and pull. I dig my feet into the concrete, gritting my teeth as I tug on it harder. The hot midday sun beats across my back and I immediately start to sweat. I’m thankful I’m wearing a tank top, but these sandals weren’t the best fashion choice when attempting to dispose of a desk.
My feet slide across the pavement with every attempt I make to pull it out. The ends of my toes push past my sandals, grating against the concrete.
I’ve nearly made it out the door when two hands reach around me, caging me in. I can immediately feel him behind me. His chest presses against me, his shirt clinging to the sweat beading across my back. I inhale a sharp breath, staring at his hands as they grip the edge of the desk.
Dallas lowers himself, nearly resting his chin on my shoulder. I can tell it’s him because he’s wearing the same black leather bracelet he’s worn every day since I’ve known him. His mouth hovers above my ear. Hot wafts of breath breeze against my skin, sending chills down my neck and arms, the heat between my legs spreading farther down. It’s already a thousand degrees outside, but Dallas has managed to make it even hotter.
“Need help?” His voice moves across me in waves, shooting straight between my legs. I fight the tingling sensation once again, knowing I’m already wet between my thighs simply because he spoke two words. I hate it.
It’s strange the way our interactions have shifte
d over the past week. It’s not as if him being my boss suddenly changed the dynamic between us, but I can tell there is a piece of Dallas that wants to get to know me better, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to know more about him too. He asked me what my rules are, clearly interested in what it could mean.
I also can’t stop thinking about what Vada said that night at the bar, about how Dallas used to sing and perform on stage. I still can’t wrap my mind around it and whatever happened to make him cut it completely from his life.
Dallas’ secrets follow him around like a shadow. He is just as much of a mystery to me as my mother. Regardless, Dallas and I have spent most of the past week avoiding one another and keeping our conversations to a minimum. The man is an enigma, a puzzle I can’t quite piece together. I don’t know how I feel about it other than the annoyance I feel toward him always finding me in the worst possible moments.
I let go of the desk and stand up, straightening my back. “What are you doing here?”
Here he is again, appearing out of thin air as my knight in fucking shining armor.
“It looked like you were struggling so I figured you needed some help.” He peeks around me at the desk, still sitting outside my front door. “And it appears I was correct.”
I rest my hands on my hips and stare up at him. “Why?”
“Why what?” he asks, that all-too-arrogant expression written across his face.
“Why do you always show up at the worst time?”
He frowns, crossing his arms and scratching at his chin. “Actually, I think I happen to show up at the perfect time.”
“Have you always been like this?” I don’t care what Vada said about Dallas changing over the past year. I want to ask him because I can’t imagine him any other way. There’s a darkness to Dallas, a veil surrounding him. I don’t know what is fact and what is fiction. I also don’t understand how thin that veil might be.
His ice blue eyes narrow, and he considers me for a moment.
“Okay.” He sighs, taking a step back. He holds his hands up in surrender. His fingers are covered in black grease, and his white shirt is smudged with black streaks. His motorcycle is parked in the driveway the same way it was the first day I moved here. “I won’t help you then.”
I watch him start to cross the street and step onto the curb in front of his house. I turn back to the desk, imagining how I’ll have to drag it the rest of the way. Then I turn back around, catching him before he takes a seat on the stool he has sitting next to his motorcycle. “Dallas, wait.”
He stops and turns around.
My shoulders sag as the bright sun shines into my eyes. I crack and ask for help. “Do you mind helping me?”
I point to the desk as if he has no idea what I need help moving.
He doesn’t hesitate before crossing the street again, his boots landing hard against the asphalt of my driveway. There isn’t anger written in his expression, and there isn’t arrogance either. It’s a blank expression, one I’m having a hard time reading.
He walks around the desk to the end still sitting inside the front entrance of my house and grips the edges. “Ready?” he asks. Sweat drips down the sides of his face, the beads sliding across the sharp curves of his jaw. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for me.
“Um…” I clear my throat, grabbing the desk. “Yeah, sorry.”
“Try not to trip this time.”
I can’t help but smile at Dallas’ comment. Maybe Vada was right and there’s more to him than I know. I don’t know what to feel about it. All I know is the feeling I get when he stares at me like this, like he’s reaching into my chest and jumpstarting it with his piercing blue eyes. We both lift the desk and start carrying it out to the sidewalk. I glance over my shoulder, watching for where I’m going to step, then turn back to Dallas.
“So why are you getting rid of this desk?” he asks.
“I bought a new one and I have to pick it up this afternoon. This one is kind of falling apart, and I don’t really have anywhere else to put it.”
“Was it your mom’s?”
I swallow, thinking back to all the poems I found stuffed inside.
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” He nods once then sets his end of the desk down. I follow behind him and am thankful I cracked and asked for his help.
I plant my hands on my hips. Dallas hasn’t moved from his side of the desk. He lifts his hand back to his chin and scratches at his scruff once again. A black streak of grease runs from the top of his cheek to the bottom of his lip.
“Well, thank you for your help.” Unlike every other time I’ve been with Dallas, I’m not eager to leave him standing on the sidewalk.
He isn’t being kind. He isn’t being nice. That simply isn’t Dallas, but there is more to him than the way he’s been toward me for the past week. I haven’t seen him much at work, and the guitar and microphone still stand at the bar untouched and unused. We only worked two other nights together after that first day of seeing one another, and most of it was spent on opposite sides of the bar with minimal conversation.
I don’t believe Dallas simply had a change of heart toward me. I can still see the subtle glimpses of irritation in his eyes at the sight of me, but there is also a bit of intrigue, like he wants to know more about the new neighbor who also happens to now be his new employee. Either way, I don’t know what he thinks of me. Does he hate me? Does he like me? Or does he merely put up with me because I am his neighbor and employee?
He’s still standing on the other side of the desk from me as he lifts his hand, threading his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. He pushes it up and off his forehead, exposing his tan skin.
“Do you work tonight?” I ask him. It’s a stupid question, really. I already know the answer.
“No.”
I narrow my eyes against the beaming sun, looking away from Dallas. I focus at the end of our street where it opens to the main road then turn back to Dallas. “Do you mind helping me with the new desk?”
He considers me for a moment, pulling a rag out of his back pocket. He slowly wipes each finger. “I guess I should go just to make sure you don’t break a bone or something.”
Maybe he doesn’t hate me.
I grin at the same time he looks up, stuffing the rag back into his pocket. “I guess so.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m going to grab my keys and then we can go.”
He stays on the sidewalk, and when I step back outside, he’s already standing beside my car. He’s leaning against the passenger side with his legs crossed at the ankle. His phone is perched in one hand as he drags his thumb across the screen. He chews on the inside of his cheek, twisting his mouth to the left. Three lines crease the corner of his mouth, disappearing into the scruff lining his jaw.
“Ready?”
He looks up from his phone, sliding it into his pocket. “Yep.” He pushes off the side of my car then tilts his head in the direction of his house. “Come on. We’ll take my truck.”
“You’re kidding.” I cross my arms, surprised he’s offering to drive.
“Does it sound like I’m kidding?” He shoves his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. His boots scrape across the pavement as he spins around, not waiting for me to follow him before he’s already walking away.
“Not exactly, but why does that not surprise me?”
He scoffs as I lift my purse strap over my shoulder and jog to catch up with him at the end of my driveway.
Along with his motorcycle, I know Dallas owns a truck. I’ve never seen him ride his motorcycle, and the few times I’ve caught him coming and going to work he was in his truck. I wait at the end of his driveway while he pushes his bike into the garage.
I watch him as he effortlessly hops into his truck, and the engine roars to life within seconds. He backs out of the garage and stops before hitting the curb, allowing me to climb into the passenger seat.
And by climb, I mean literally climb. In the past, I never consid
ered myself a short woman, but Dallas’ truck has me questioning the whole idea. I step up onto the running board and reach up for the ‘oh shit’ handle above me. I can feel Dallas’ eyes on me, watching as I pull myself up and slide into the seat with entirely too much effort, way more than should be necessary when getting into a vehicle. The interior of his truck is black, the seats wrapped in leather. The back of my thighs stick to the seat as I adjust and strap on my seat belt.
Once I’m situated, I glance over at Dallas. He’s still watching me. His eyes roam over me, searing every inch of my body. I can’t explain it, but unlike any time before, there’s a heat coming from his intense stare, blue flames raging inside his eyes. And from what I know, blue flames are the most dangerous.
“You ready?” He smirks, turning his attention back to his rearview mirror.
“Your truck isn’t exactly the easiest to get into.”
He shrugs, a smug grin appearing on his all-too-perfect mouth. “It’s not a real truck unless it’s the kind you have to climb into.”
I roll my eyes. “Right.”
“Besides, you’re in Texas—nearly everyone has a truck.”
“I doubt that’s true.” I shake my head. “I don’t know anyone who has a truck.”
He scoffs, reaching into the center console and pulling out a pair of sunglasses. “You just moved here. Plus, you know me.” He raises his hand to his chest, keeping one arm outstretched with his fingers wrapped around the steering wheel.
I wince and lift my hand, turning it halfway over before going back the other way. “Sort of.”
Dallas glances at me before turning his focus back to the road. His long fingers flex against the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. He clears his throat. “What do you want to know?”
I straighten my back against the seat, shocked he’s asking me such an open-ended question. This conversation just took a drastic turn.
I prop my elbow on the door, resting my head in my hand. I watch Dallas, intrigued by the possibilities laid out in front of me. I decide to ask him the first question that pops into my head.
The Rules of Heartbreak: An Enemies-to-Lovers/Next-Door Neighbor Romance (The Heartbreak Series Book 1) Page 7