So, in the wee hours of the morning, I decided it was my turn for a few gestures, though I’m not sure how grand they are.
First up, I broke into his truck this morning—which wasn’t hard to do considering he never locks the damn thing when it’s parked in his drive—and plugged a USB device into his radio console. I accompanied it with a sticky note reading, “Press play. P.S. Prince Charmings come in all different forms.”
If things went to plan, Dallas drove around today listening toWrangled and Wronged by My Rival Rancher, one of my favorite enemies-to-lovers romance novels about neighbors who fight like cats and dogs to secretly hide that they’re head over heels in love with each other. My ultimate hope is to show him that romance doesn’t have to be all flowery proclamations and bed-and-breakfast weekends. It can be snarky comebacks while secretly sacrificing yourself for the other person’s happiness, just like Everett does for Darby.
My second project, the one that has me strangely nervous as I sit waiting on Dallas’s bed, proved to be much more challenging. It turns out writing poems is fucking hard! God bless Elias, the poetry professor, but this shit ain’t for science-y people to undertake.
I hear the front door open and shut, followed by the jangle of Nelly’s collar and the footfall of heavy boots across the wood floor. Dallas clears the bedroom doorway a minute later, dressedin old jeans that do fantastic things for his thighs (Oh, who are we kidding? It’s his thighs that do fantastic things for the jeans.) and an olive-green T-shirt that molds to his chest like he just took home first prize at a wet T-shirt contest. Yum.
His steps falter when he sees me, his eyebrows spiking halfway to his hairline. “I thought you were with Archie.” His tone is almost accusatory, but I ignore it. Nelly runs straight for me, his nose buried in my thigh while I give him a good scratch behind the ears.
“He went home. I wanted to talk to you.”
His hand goes to the back of his neck. “Uh, can we raincheck it? I got a lot to do.”
“Nope.” I pop the P, and he scowls. Even his scowl is hot. And cute. Before he can protest again, I ask, “How are you liking the audiobook? You remind me a little of Everett right now.” I can’t help my grin.
He growls. The man literally growls at me.
Oh well. Time to press on. “I wrote something for you.”
His expression turns suspicious now. “Shelby, I really don’t?—”
I cut him off. “Just let me read it, and then you can skulk away if you want to. I promise.” I cross my heart for good measure, and Dallas sighs in resignation, hands landing on his hips just to make sure I can’t ignore his irritation.
Welp, here goes nothing. I clear my throat and take a deep breath, straightening my spine as I perch on the edge of the bed.
“It’s a poem. The working title is ‘My Favorite Things.’” I bob my head back and forth before continuing, “But I wasn’t exactly going for a Julie Andrews vibe, so I might change it.”
The scowl is back, so I clear my throat again, lift the paper, and begin reciting my terrible poem.
You say you’re not romantic
It’s taken me too long to see
That your heart is gigantic
And you’re the perfect one for me
I glance up to gauge his reaction, but his face is a blank mask. Maybe I should just focus on the paper before I chicken out.
We have the best time when we dance
You let me win at darts
You always look for every chance
To brag about my smarts
You know all of my favorite songs
And you’re a damn great dad
You have the very best of dongs
The best I’ve ever had
I can’t help but chance another glance and am gratified to see his lips twitch just the tiniest bit.
