Page 96 of Stay Wild Darlin’

“I need to go to Dallas.”

Something in me stiffened. “Why?”

She sighed, her hands pausing against the edge of the dresser. “My sister’s being made associate at my dad’s law firm. They’re throwing her a party. They texted, apparently. Guess it got buried in the chaos.”

“A party?” I echoed.

“A gala,” she said, groaning like the word tasted like burnt toast. “Some big formal thing. Champagne, music, long speeches where my dad acts like he built the city with his bare hands.” She turned and dropped onto the bed, landing on her back with a dramatic huff, one arm flopped over her eyes. “I have to wear something stuffy and uncomfortable and probably smile until my jaw cramps. I don’t want to go.”

I moved to the edge of the bed, not sitting—just close enough that she’d know I wasn’t going anywhere.

“You don’t have to go,” I said.

“Yeah, I do.”

I stood there for a beat, watching her melt into the bed. “I’ll go with you.”

She peeked out from under her arm, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”

“To the gala. I’ll go with you.”

She dropped her arm and looked up at me fully now, face unreadable. “No. You have Cora.”

“Someone can watch her.”

“I don’t want to go,” she muttered again.

“I know.” I finally sat on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the heat of her. “But if you do, I’ll be there. I’ll stand next to you in whatever kind of suit they expect and promise not to say anything stupid.”

A small huff of a laugh left her, quiet and unwilling. “You’d go? Even if it’s . . . formal and awkward and full of people who think they’re better than everyone?”

“I already live with one of those people,” I said.

Her eyes cut toward me, and I quickly added, “I mean the formal and awkward part—not the thinking-they’re-better bit.”

She gave me a look, somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“I meant . . . you judge me every time I put ketchup on eggs.”

Her lips barely twitched. “That’s because ketchup on eggs is a red flag,” she murmured.

“Funny, darlin’.”

I loved the way her lips curved into a soft line. I’d tell stupid jokes any day if it meant watching her smile. She sank back into the bed, arm draped over her eyes again, that quiet sigh still hanging in the air.

“I meant it,” I said.

“Meant what?”

“That I’ll go with you. To the gala.”

She blinked slowly.

“I want to,” I added. “I don’t care if it’s stuffy or formal or full of people who think their last name is more important than their first. If you’ve got to go, I want to be there with you.”

She searched my eyes for a beat, as if trying to find the catch.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Beau.