I thought a few drinks would provide me the pain relief I need to get a good sleep since that rough dismount last weekend, but I was wrong.
I’ve been lying here for the past two and a half hours trying to get comfortable. Failing. And then berating myself for taking such a stupid fall. I’ve been at this for over a decade. The bull didn’t pile drive me into the ground—no avoiding that—it was just a stupid landing.
And because I’m truthfully too old to still be doing what I’m doing, I don’t bounce back like I used to. I’m trying so hard not to live on painkillers—only one set of kidneys and all that—but I’ve been popping them like candy for the better part of my life. I just didn’t use to care.
Scrubbing my hands over my face, I let out a groan and roll myself out of bed, wincing as I do. The wooden floorboards are cold against my feet as I pad across my bedroom and turn the door handle. In the hallway, I tiptoe like a child.
I feel like one, too, trying not to wake my dad up. Can’t say I ever imagined living with him at this age, but when I’m on the road for the better part of the year, maintaining my own house makes little sense.
Once I retire, I’ll build, just like my brothers have.
Once I retire.
That’s what I keep telling myself. That’s what I keep putting off. Because without a bull to get on every weekend, I have no idea who I’ll be. Or what I’ll do.
It’s a terrifying prospect. One I’m happy to continue ignoring.
Once I’m down the stairs, I take normal strides again, heading straight toward the kitchen where I keep my meds up high so Luke can’t get his grubby, trouble-making hands on them.
Rounding the corner into the kitchen, I freeze when I find it’s not empty.
Summer is sitting at the big family-sized table, scrolling through her phone with a glass of water in front of her. The light from her screen reflects on her bare face, capturing the look of surprise when she realizes I’m standing in the wide archway watching her.
“Hi,” she says carefully, like she’s not sure how I’ll react to her presence.
Things seemed to settle between us at the bar after we all got a good laugh out of the way. I don’t want to be a dick to Summer. None of this is her fault. But I’m pretty sure I’ve been one all the same. The woman can get a rise out of me without even trying.
“Hey. Everything okay?” I ask, sounding loud in the otherwise silent kitchen.
It’s one thing I love about coming home. The silence. You just don’t get that in hotels or in the city. Out here, it is truly quiet. Truly peaceful.
She places her phone down before lifting her glass in my direction. “A few too many sugary drinks mixed with the biggest glass of white wine ever. Thanks for driving back.”
I click my tongue as I pull open the cupboard over the sink. “The Railspur has gotten a facelift in recent years. Still not the place for fancy-girl wine though.”
She hums thoughtfully. “Good point. I’ll go for the warm milk next time.”
“You just gonna make fun of me for the next two months?” I pour a glass of water and then march back over to the table, not missing the way her eyes trail over my body. I’m only wearing boxers, not really accustomed to having to cover up for a woman in the house.
Her lips press into a thin line as I take a seat, deciding not to be a total dick and storm out of here. Her company isn’t the worst. She could be Laura pawing at me like a bear on a beehive. That would be worse.
“Probably. It’s my default when I’m uncomfortable.” She doesn’t whisper or drop my eyes; she just says something vulnerable like sharing that kind of shit is normal.
“You’re uncomfortable?”
Summer blows a raspberry and flops against the worn ladder-back chair. And it’s only now that I notice she’s wearing some sort of silky tank top and matching shorts. They’re light purple, and they shimmer in the dim light cast from the bulb over the stove.
“Of course, I am.”
“Why? You’re all smirks and quick comebacks. Winning everyone over.”
She reaches up, combing her fingers through her long silky hair. Tresses that shimmer like her matching pajamas. And it’s now I notice the scar on her chest, followed by the outline of her nipples through the top. They’re not hard, but I can see the swell, the tease of the shape. It’s almost more alluring to imagine what they might look like.
I flick my eyes up, but they land on her lips. Smirking lips. Which reminds me that Summer Hamilton pisses me off.
“You think this is ideal for me?” she asks. “Trial by fire? Having to follow around someone who clearly can’t stand me as I try to do a brand-new job while also trying not to make him hate me more? Oh, yeah. Sign me up. Good times.”
I raise a brow. “The embarrassing milk drinks were an excellent path to making me like you. Well played. Having you join in with my dickhead brother felt great.”
That actually might be the worst part. I wanted her to pick my team, not Beau’s. Everyone picks Beau because he’s all sunny and handsome and shit.
She scoffs and squeezes her eyes shut. The first sign of frustration I’ve seen on her. “Would you have preferred I march over there and intervene? Embarrass you myself?”
My brow furrows as I swallow the pill. “Why would you?”
She levels a stare at me and very seriously says, “Because I was freaking out that we shouldn’t have gone out at all. That I’m not going to be able to handle this—or you.”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong.” Jesus, is a few beers at my local watering hole off the table?
“I know that. But I’m supposed to keep Little Rhett in your pants. And that one girl was ready to pack him up and take him home.”
“Pardon me?”
“Your dick.” She points at my lap. “No coming out to play until this is all dealt with. Kip’s orders. Your reputation can’t take you getting caught up in any more drama. You’re supposed to seem wholesome.”
“I am wholesome. Does enjoying sex make a person less wholesome?”
She shivers, and then quickly rolls her eyes like she doesn’t believe me. “It doesn’t matter what you are or are not. You need to look wholesome, which means keep it in your pants. Keep your hands to yourself. Win the whole fucking thing so we can both put this behind us.”
I stare at her. Is this fresh-out-of-law-school knockout seriously telling me what I can and cannot do with my dick? How must she see me?
“And for crying out loud, Rhett.” She stands and swipes her phone off the table before pointing down at me. “Realize that I’m on your side. I don’t want this to be miserable. I don’t want to embarrass you. If you let me, we can be a team rather than fighting the entire time. Use your head.”
I’m accustomed to getting dressed down. Getting in trouble isn’t new, and I’m not about to roll over and take this from her. Which is why I reply with, “Which one?”
And with that, she storms out. Ass barely concealed by her silky shorts. Leaving me wondering if those are the new “team” uniform.
Because if so, I just might be in.
8
Summer
Dad: Is he being a dick?
Summer: No.
Dad: Would you tell me if he was?
Summer: Also no.
Dad: Summer, if you need backup, just tell me. I can send Gabriel.
Summer: That’s not even his name. Plus, I grew up around you. I can handle dicks.
Summer: Fuck my life. Forget I said that.
Dad: Already deleted.
I sleep like shit. All the witty comebacks I wish I’d said to Rhett last night run through my head like the ticker on the bottom of a news channel.
He agitated me. I let him get under my skin, and I shouldn’t have. I walked away like the bigger person, even though what I wanted to do was kick him in the shins. Which would have hurt like hell because everything about Rhett Eaton is hard, and toned, and cut.
He’s not bulky, but he’s fit. A swimmer’s build. Strong enough to stay on, but not cumbersome.
And maybe that’s why I’m agitated. Staring at a magazine ad of Rhett in Wranglers with hearts in my eyes as a teenager is funny, but seeing him stripped down as an adult is not.
It’s frustrating. Something I need to work off, which is why I’m pulling on my favorite leggings, sports bra, and loose tee. A quick search on my phone brought up one option in town for a gym, and that’s where I’m headed.
I march down the hallway, ponytail swinging behind me as I strut into the kitchen with my head held high, trying not to remember the way the light played off every ridge on Rhett’s body last night—the shadows between every defined ab, the dip at the hollow of his throat, that perfect v heading toward the other head.
What a fucking dick.
And that dick’s dad is already sitting at the table, sipping a coffee, and reading the newspaper.
“Good morning.” Harvey smiles at me. “Early riser, huh?”
“Yeah.” I reach for a mug and pour myself a coffee, making myself at home because, right now, I desperately need some caffeine. “Always have been.”