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“I’m not going to let you fake propose to me, Chance.”
“Why not? It’s not like it’s real? I’ll propose, you’ll accept, and then we will still quietly end everything after the rodeo. Just like we already planned.”
Her face pales and the smirk leaves her face. Her eyes dart quickly from mine, leaving an uncomfortable tension.
“Dakota?”
“I said no, Chance.” The finality in her voice makes me pause. She’s no longer playful or challenging. This is her no-shit court voice. The one she hasn’t used on me since the first night in my kitchen.
I straighten, looking down at her as she goes back to tapping the same pile of papers against her desk for the second time since I walked into her office. “What’s really going on here?”
“Nothing,” she says, trying to remain casual, but I know better. She’s trying too hard not to make eye contact with me. Her body is too rigid. She may not think that I’m aware of the change in her, but I am. I know every inch of her body. I know the way she carries herself when she’s giving me sass. The way her body relaxes when she’s on the couch with a glass of wine. The Dakota in front of me isn’t any of those.
“Sweetheart,” I growl, hoping to coax her out of whatever funk she’s worked herself into.
“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, finally rewarding me with laying her green eyes on me.
That was not the reaction I was expecting.
“Talk to me, darling.” I change my tactic, using the nickname she prefers to use on me, even if it’s used sarcastically when she does.
I might be an asshole, but I can’t stop doing what gets a response out of her. This indifferent shit is getting on my nerves, and anything to do with ‘us’ right now seems to be doing just that.
She closes her eyes tight, almost as if she’s willing me to disappear.
But I won’t.
I can’t.
I can’t leave her like this—not knowing what’s going on with her. Yes, it is a dumbass idea to suggest proposing to her, but it’s really the only way out of this hellhole I’ve found myself in.
I silently make my way around the desk and crouch down beside her, stroking the hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. Her face tightens, and I wonder if she’s trying not to cry. But that doesn’t make sense. Dakota doesn’t cry, and especially over something like this.
“You need to leave,” she whispers in a shaky voice.
“Dakota…”
“Please, Chance?”
She keeps her eyes closed, and there’s something in her voice that makes me not want to push her any further.
I run my hand through her hair, feeling her soft strands as I stand.
Without thinking, I lean down and kiss her on her head, taking a moment to breathe her in. She smells like coconut and sunshine, and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of the day with her in my arms, smelling what is uniquely Dakota all day, but I can’t.
With one last breath, I leave her. If I’m not mistaken, she lets out a shuttering, unsteady breath as I close her office door behind me, putting what feels like yet another barrier between us.
“I fucking hate these things,” I can’t help but grumble to no one, pulling at my bolo tie and fidgeting with the sleeves on my dress jacket.
I feel like I’m suffocating. Like I haven’t been able to take a full breath all night. Not since Dakota texted me just before I left to pick her up that she would be finding her own way to the rodeo kick off dinner.
Pulling my phone out again, I open her texts, checking for what feels like the millionth time to see if she’s sent an update, which she hasn’t. Instead, I’m left looking at my unanswered messages from earlier.
Don’t bother picking me up tonight. I’ll find my own way there.
I’m just about to leave to come get you.
Don’t bother. I wouldn’t want to be stranded again.
