“Okay, sit up. I’m going to slide this under your back and let you lie on it for a bit. Open up the shoulders, stretch out the chest.”
I’m pushed up to sitting before she even finishes her sentence and find myself face-to-face with her. Closer than I should be, eyes glued to the way her lips move and the flashes of white teeth behind them as she chatters away.
She has no idea how distracting she is.
When she reaches around me with the foam roller, I catch a whiff of cherries and the salty tang of sweat.
“ . . . and then you’ll let your shoulders drop to the floor.”
I missed most of what she was saying, but she’s oblivious. Her small palm lands carelessly in the middle of my chest and presses me back down to the floor.
I think about how bad a chicken farm smells to keep from getting hard. And once I’m lying flat, spine propped over the rounded foam piece, I force myself to focus on the banks of lights above me and the clanking of machinery around me rather than the way she looks hovering over me and the quiet way she murmurs, “Good job.”
She counts under her breath, and I let my eyes close, trying to relax onto the roller, letting myself soften into the stretch across my back and chest. The pain slowly easing when her touch moves to the front of my shoulder, gently pressing down, deepening the stretch.
“How does that feel?” Summer’s voice is curious.
I peer up at her, taking in the earnest expression on her face. The damp hairs at the base of her neck just below her ear. She really is fucking lovely.
And all her attention is on me.
“Really good,” I reply, my voice all gravel. Then I risk looking her in the eye as I husk a deep, “Thank you.”
She brightens, a soft, satisfied smile gracing her features. “You’re welcome. Any time.”
And just like that, I think I have my first gym crush.
10
Summer
Dad: How many interviews have you set up for this weekend?
Summer: Two.
Dad: Good. You need to tell him what he’ll need to say. He’s refusing to play this off as a joke, so he needs to at least seem remorseful.
Summer: For punching a guy or for having a beverage preference?
Dad: Both. We could have him go out and order a glass of milk and call someone to snap photos.
Summer: No. We’re not doing that. Don’t even suggest it.
Dad: Why?
Summer: Because he doesn’t like it.
“How’s the hot cowboy?” Willa asks, sounding somewhat distracted on the other end of the line.
“Good. Fine,” I say, leaning on top of my leather duffel bag to close everything into it. I thought it would be perfect for our weekends away, but I don’t pack light.
“Actually?” She sounds surprised, and I suppose after our last conversation, that makes sense.
“Yeah. I think we came to some sort of truce earlier this week. My days have involved working out every morning and then making travel arrangements and sending interview requests for the cities we’re heading to. I’m thinking if I can curate some of these news stories for him, they might be more favorable.”
I resolve not to mention that I almost climbed on top of him at the gym yesterday. That he looked good enough to eat and that he finally treated me like he might not totally hate me.
“Huh. And he’s staying out of trouble?”
“Wils, he’s not a dog who keeps getting out of the yard. He mostly sleeps, reads, and helps his dad and brothers around the ranch. He’s not an idiot, and there’s only so much to do out here. I’m not going to ride his ass unnecessarily.”
She hums suggestively. “But would you let him ride yours?”
“Okay, it’s been nice chatting! Bye!”
“Prude,” she mutters.
“Love you too,” I say before ending the call and putting my focus on the last section of zipper. When I finally realize that it’s going to break the bag if I travel with the smaller duffel, I give up and pack everything into the hard-shell suitcase.
I drag my bag down the hallway and meet Rhett at the front door to leave for the airport. He holds a fist over his mouth for a moment to stifle a laugh. I suppose laughing at me is preferable to the scowling we started with.
“Is Kip hiding in that suitcase?”
My lips twitch. “Shut up.”
He doesn’t shut up. He says, “You know we’re gone for four days, right?” But he smiles at me. And it stuns me. All masculine confidence and playful allure.
I think it might be the sexiest smile anyone has ever given me.
The plastic arena seat is cool beneath me. I scroll through my emails, which have all been read and responded to. Even the incessant texts from my dad about how things are going, what we’re doing, and is he keeping his hands to himself.
Those parts have my eyes rolling, because even if Rhett and I are on friendly-ish terms, he would never be interested in someone like me. He’s made that abundantly clear. And that’s fine because I can’t take another heartbreak.
My ex, Rob, put my heart back together and then tore it to shreds. I wish I could say I hate him. I should hate him. But it’s hard to extricate myself from him. There’s something intensely personal about letting someone inside your body that way.
But right now, my heart feels just fine. Aside from the fact that it’s pounding as I look out into the dirt ring.
I have to admit, this is quite the show. The stands are filling with happy chatter and laughter over the din of some twangy country songs in the big stadium. It’s not some tiny rodeo, it’s full-on entertainment. Big sponsors, high stakes.
The highest stakes. Because from the research I’ve done on the sport, the risk of serious injury is enough to keep the average person away. Statistically, it’s a miracle that Rhett is still going at his age. That he hasn’t been seriously injured. Though I’m suspecting he’s more sore than he lets on. The painkillers. The way he flinches. The way he hobbles around like I do after doing too many split-squats at the gym.
It’s obvious to me that he’s in pain.
And I tell myself that’s why I’m nervous right now. The knee I have crossed over my leg is still bouncing as I click off my phone, but it doesn’t stop me from rapping my fingers anxiously against the screen.
When the lights go dark, I stop breathing. But then spotlights flash and the announcer talks about the points race for the upcoming finals. Rhett is firmly in first place, someone named Emmett Bush is sitting in second, and Theo Silva, the younger guy from the infamous milk clip, is in third.
Rhett told me earlier that he drew a good bull, and when I asked what that means, a slightly psychotic expression came over his face as his lips stretched into a toothy grin. “It means he’s going to want to kill me, Princess.”
Princess.
The fifteen-year-old in me fainted on the spot, because this time it didn’t have the bite of an insult. But the twenty-five-year-old me lifted a finger at him and said, “Don’t princess me, Eaton.”
He chuckled and swaggered away to the locker rooms where all the riders get ready, not looking concerned at all. And I left him. Despite what Kip thinks I should do, I’m not barging into his dressing room to follow him around. We all have lines, and that’s mine.
So, here I am, watching and nibbling on my lip. The energy in the arena is downright infectious. The smell of dust and popcorn waft through the stands as I look to the gated area at the closest end of the ring.
There’s a brown bull in the chute. I can hear its snorts and see a few guys approaching the metal fences. Cowboy hats as far as the eye can see. Firm butts in tight Wranglers—the view isn’t terrible.
Especially not when I catch sight of Rhett climbing onto the top of the fence. My heart stutter-steps. Yeah, I watched him on YouTube, but seeing it in real life is different.
There’s something about a man who is damn good at what he does that holds an appeal for me. Every step is sure. Practiced. Full of confidence. His warm-brown leather chaps, with darkened spots from wear, match his eyes. They’re the color of the tiger’s-eye stones I liked as a child. Bright and shiny, perfectly polished.
The collar of his dark blue shirt rubs against where his hair is pulled back in a short ponytail, and his broad shoulders peek out from the vest he wears. The one with padding to protect him from hard falls, or flying hooves, or well-placed horns.
It looks downright flimsy next to the snorting bull in the chute. Like a child with a foam sword about to battle a proper knight.