“You don’t need to explain a thing.”
“I feel like I do. I’m not really like that anymore.” He sounds almost desperate.
“Truly, it’s fine.” Just talking about him with other women makes a gnawing sensation take root at the base of my throat. I shimmy my shoulders then, standing up taller, refusing to curl in on myself.
“I’ve sown my wild oats, but a large part of what you see in the media is grossly exaggerated. I’m not a pig.”
“Rhett.” I don’t know why he needs to keep talking about this. “I know. I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve glued myself to you for days on end now, and you haven’t done a single thing to make me think you are. You’ve been a perfect gentleman.”
We stare at each other now, and my lips twitch. “A grumpy, stubborn gentleman.”
He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. The elevator dings, and the moment evaporates. We wave and say our goodbyes before disappearing into our rooms.
Or, I should say, he disappears into his warm one, and I disappear into my cold one. Because they clearly didn’t fix shit.
I opt to have a hot shower, layer up, and crawl under my covers to dream about the cozy room I’ve been assigned at Wishing Well Ranch. The hot coffee in the kitchen every morning. The charming family dinners where all the men on the ranch file into the main house to make fun of each other while cooking a meal.
But first, my phone rings.
Rob’s name flashes across the screen. He calls now and then when the coast is clear. And I know I shouldn’t answer, but our connections are so tangled that it’s hard to tell right from wrong where he’s concerned.
“Hey, what’s up?” I shuck off my boots and flop into the armchair in the corner.
“Checking to see how you’re feeling.”
He always says that, and I don’t believe him anymore.
“I’m fine. What’s up?”
“I saw you on TV tonight.”
My brows knit together. “For what?”
“At a rodeo. Giving thumbs up to some bull rider.”
Ah. There it is. Anytime he sees me potentially moving on, he swoops in. I used to think it meant I had a chance to get him back. Now, I’m old enough to know it’s his power play, it’s how he keeps me in line. Under his thumb.
He sees my attention shift, and he dangles a carrot into my line of vision, thinking he’ll make me lose focus. The problem is, I’m not all that into carrots these days. I’m favoring whiskey and leather.
“Yup. Listen, is there something wrong? I get worried when you call me that something is wrong.”
“I just worry about you. You need to be careful. Specifically with guys like that.”
I almost scoff, but there’s still this pathetic part of me that purrs when he says things like that. Things that make me feel like he cares about me. Rob has groomed me almost beyond repair.
“I’m good, thanks. Don’t need you looking out for me.” My patience frays. I’m tired. I’m cold. And truth be told, I’m horny. This weekend has been jam-packed full of too much testosterone for one simple city girl to withstand.
I also have to confess I don’t appreciate him talking about Rhett the way he is.
“Listen . . .”
“Yup,” I cut him off. “It’s bedtime for me here. We’ll chat at my next appointment. Bye.” I hang up on him.
Agitated, but also cast back in time, I stay in the chair, lost in memories of Rob and my times with him, for I don’t know how long.
All I know is I can’t feel my toes when a knock at the door pulls me out of my jog down memory lane. I woodenly move toward the door, trying to shake my chilled limbs out as I go. When I tug the door open, Rhett is freshly showered, smelling delicious, and looking even better.
His arms are across his chest and his eyes peruse the full length of my body—cream-colored sweater dress and camel peacoat. When I pulled the coat on, it reminded me of Rhett’s chaps.
I wore it because it looked good, not because it’s all that warm. And now, with his eyes tracing my body, I shiver.
“So, you’re cold.” His jaw pops as his teeth grind together, and he pushes past me into the room. “Summer. It’s fucking freezing in here.” The bite in his voice makes me flinch. “I thought they were fixing this today.”
I lean against the wall, kind of enjoying watching him stalk around my room like a caveman. The only thing missing is a club in his hand. “I guess they didn’t.”
“You’re not sleeping in here.” His hands land on his hips when he turns and stares at me square in the eye.
“Oh, yes. I’ll just take my pillow and blanket out into the hallway and sleep there.” I smile at Rhett, but he doesn’t smile back.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll sleep in my room.”
I blink slowly a few times, waiting for the punch line. And when it doesn’t come, I burst out laughing. “That”—I point at him—“is not happening.”
“I’ll sleep in the chair. You can have the bed.”
“That will be just great for your shoulder. No chance.”
“Then I’ll take my pillow and a blanket, and I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Rhett,” I scold, heat burning over my chest at how pushy he’s being. “I’m not doing that. We’re not doing that.”
He smirks now, cocky prick he is. “Why? You worried you won’t be able to resist me?”
My jaw drops. “Rude. And no. I’m more worried I might accidentally hold a pillow over your smug, pretty face until you stop breathing. I have a sweatsuit. I’ll dress warm. I’ll be fine.”
He turns, and in a few strides he flips the top half of my suitcase closed, and I stand frowning at him as he zips my bag shut.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“All I heard was that you think I have a pretty face,” he says as he marches past me, rolling my suitcase behind himself.
“Of course, you missed the part about me wanting to kill you.”
When he gets to the door, he waves a hand over his shoulder and pushes out into the hallway. “Keep up, Princess. Kill me, don’t kill me. At least you’ll be warm. You’re with me tonight.”
14
Summer
Willa: Did you bang him yet?
Summer: Goodnight, Willa.
Willa: You only live once, you know. This is a story you could tell your kids one day.
Summer: What the fuck kind of stories do you plan on telling your children, Wils?
I assess my matching bra and panties in the mirror of Rhett’s bathroom. A set I splurged on. A silvery silk that I’m obsessed with. I contemplate taking them off and just slipping into the matching dusty pink sweatpants and sweatshirt that’s folded on the counter beside me.
I’m overthinking this.
If I keep the lingerie on, what does it mean? Does it mean anything? If I go out there and pull out a different bra and panties, I’ll just draw attention to myself. And if I’m being honest, none of my other sets are any better. I’m an absolute whore for fancy lingerie.
Long months spent in a hospital gown have made me appreciate all things that make me feel pretty. Sexy. Even the angry red scar down the center of my chest doesn’t take away from that for me anymore. I’ve outgrown that insecurity.
But is going naked underneath the sweatsuit any better?
Yes. It’s more casual. More comfortable for sure.
I pull my bra down and am about to flip it around to undo the clasps when I catch sight of my breasts in the mirror.
Full and pale. And peaked with rock-hard nipples.
“Fuck my life,” I mutter, pulling the bra back up and replacing the straps.
Bra it is because I’m not facing Rhett Eaton with full headlights.
I slip on the sweatsuit and neatly fold my other clothes before making my way back into the basic hotel room.
The basic hotel room with one queen-size bed. And a queen-size bed has never looked quite so small as it does right at this moment. Deep down, I know I can’t let Rhett sleep on the floor. Not with the current state of his body. It wouldn’t be fair.
I’m still chilled from sitting in my ice-cold room, and I shiver when I catch sight of him standing at the doorway talking to someone. His broad shoulders do nothing but pronounce the taper of his waist, which does nothing but pronounce his nice ass.
Letting my eyes trail over Rhett Eaton is like spending time at an amusement park. Each part is better than the last. When he turns to face me with takeout boxes in his large hands, my mind flashes to how they might feel on my bare skin. Big, warm, and calloused.
He looks nothing like the men I’ve grown accustomed to spending time with. They’re all pale and smooth—well manicured. Some have been fans of literal manicures.
Rhett is weathered, his t-shirt tan line from last summer still faintly noticeable. And when he smiles, the skin beside his eyes crinkles in the most genuine way.
His work-hewn hands would feel like heaven sliding over my skin.
I shiver again, but this time I don’t think it’s because I’m cold.