Page 30 of July’s Cowboy Dallas

I picked up the evidence bag and set it back down, just to give my hands something to do. The alternative was reaching for him, and I wasn't ready to want him out loud yet.

“You didn't have to do that,” I said.

“Yeah. I did.”

“Admitting you were wrong in front of Holt and Roy⁠—”

“Was the least I owed you.” Dallas's voice went rough. “I told myself I was protecting you by going out there alone. I wasn't. I was protecting myself from seeing you look at me like my name was another problem you had to solve.”

I looked at him. Really looked. “You think that's what you are to me? Another problem?”

“I think—” He stopped. Started again. “I think I know how to be useful to you. And I don't know how to be anything else when I'm scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Of getting it wrong.” He met my eyes. “Of being another man who makes decisions for you and calls it protection.”

I sank down onto the edge of the desk because I didn’t trust my legs to hold me up. “Do you know why it hurt so much?”

He didn't answer.

“Because you were the one man I didn't have to brace for.”

Dallas absorbed that like it broke something in him. He didn't defend himself. Didn't try to soften it. “I'm sorry.”

I believed him. That was the thing that scared me most.

“You keep talking like being useful is all you're allowed to be,” I said.

“Useful I understand.”

“Useful isn't why I wanted you.” Something in me went quiet at that, the truth of it out loud at last, filling the space between us.

Dallas went very still. “Sadie.”

I stood and crossed the space between us.

“You keep thinking you're the man holding the gate,” I said. “But you're the one I look for before I walk through it.”

Dallas's breath caught.

I reached up and touched his jaw, feeling the rough stubble under my palm. Three days ago I wouldn't have let myself. Now I couldn't remember why not.

“This doesn't mean I'm done being mad,” I said.

His mouth almost curved. “I wouldn't expect you to be.”

“Good.” I stepped closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “But I am done pretending I don't want you.”

For a second, Dallas didn't move. Then his hand came up, slow and careful, and curved around the back of my neck.

“Are you sure?” His voice went low and rough in a way that made my stomach tighten and heat bloom between my legs.

“I'm sure.”

“If this is you forgiving me too fast⁠—”

“Dallas.” I kissed him. Soft. Deliberate. “I'm not forgiving you too fast. I'm choosing you on purpose.”