Page 26 of Parentmoon

“Not unless he wanted a shotgun pointed at him.”

Somehow, I don’t think he’s joking. He is from Texas, after all.

“What about Josie?” he asks.

“Never.” I shake my head.

“Joey?”

Finding his line of questioning strange, I grow defensive. “What’s wrong with Jo?”

Dallas twists his body to mirror mine. “Nothing.” His blue eyes are dim and sated while they scan my face. He brushes back my hair once more, cupping my neck again. “You’re perfect.”

My breath catches. He can’t mean it, but it sounds nice.

“How did you get a name like Dallas? Is it because you live in Texas?”

Dallas scoffs. “My mother. She wanted to live in the city, and when she didn’t, she named me after it.”

“Ah.” I pause. “Ever hear of The Outsiders?”

Dallas rolls his eyes and squeezes the back of my neck. “Yes. Hasn’t every person under fifty read that book in eighth grade or something?” He pauses then cuts off my next question before I can ask it. “And no, I do not wish I was Dally Winston.”

“But he was so cool.” I bat my eyelashes, emphasizing my deep crush on a fictional character. Dallas Winston was my first heart throb as a young girl. I wanted to be Cherry Valance, and run off with him, although that isn’t how the story played out.

She could fall in love with him, she’d said in the book.

Would I fall in love with this real-life Dallas? Could I be able to keep my heart and emotions out of whatever it is we are doing? Because just like that fictional character, the man before me feels a little reckless and wild.

“Spoiler alert. He was poor. And died.” Dallas releases my neck and rolls to his back, staring up at the ceiling fan.

Absorbing the shift in his rugged voice, I remain quiet.

“It sucks being poor,” he adds.

“But you aren’t.” Dallas Cole might be one of the wealthiest men I’ve ever met.

“I wasn’t always . . . well off.”

“Spoiler alert. You’re rich.”

He turns his head to look at me once more. Those bold eyes of his hold on mine before narrowing a bit. “Does it matter?”

Does money matter? Is that what he’s asking me?

“No.” I whisper for some reason, keeping my eyes on him, trying to read him. “Do you think I just slept with you because you’re wealthy?” There’s an edge in my voice that wasn’t there before. I would never use him like that. I already feel guilty for encroaching on his space and spending time here. At a place I would never be able to afford. I turn away from him, considering my options. Naked and jump out of bed. Lay here and kick him out.

Either way, I say, “Don’t insult me.”

He rolls toward me once more and catches me by the waist as if he senses my shift to fight or flight.

“I’m not trying to insult you.” His tone softens as much as a rugged voice can. “Michael told me you work hard for what you have.”

Whenever he mentions Michael telling him something about me, Dallas’s edges soften. Or maybe that’s my imagination. But something in the way he’s watching me makes me feel like he can see into my soul. Sense that I’m tired, I’m overworked. I’m lonely.

“Seems Michael has told you quite a bit about me.” I stare at Dallas.

Tense silence lingers between us.