“Food?” he asks, knocking me right out of my treacherous thoughts.
“Uh,” I reply, scrambling to come up with something to say that doesn’t involve me wondering out loud how it would feel to be man-handled by him. “I’m good.”
He quirks a brow, like he doesn’t believe me, and strides over to the bed. Food in hand, he perches on the end of the mattress before flicking on the TV. The channels flip until he lands on some type of gladiator show where people work their way through an extreme obstacle course and do their best not to die.
“You just gonna stand there, Princess?”
My mouth opens and closes silently. I am seriously not firing on all cylinders right now.
“Have you eaten?” He opens the white box.
“No.” I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. I already feel like I’m imposing in his space, so I can’t waltz in here and steal his food on top of that.
“Summer.” He shakes his head and tosses a napkin toward the bed’s opposite corner. “Sit. You need to eat.”
I move toward the bed and fold myself onto the edge, sitting in a kneeling position across from him. “I’m good. You need . . .”
“What?” He squeezes a packet of ketchup into the box that’s full of fries.
“Is this how you’re eating?”
He chuckles but keeps setting his little spread up in front of himself.
“Rhett, you’re an athlete. You can’t treat your body this way.” I glance at the French fries in one container and buffalo chicken wings in the other. “This food? The lack of physical therapy? Are you even working out?”
He grins at me now. “Why? Do you think I look good?”
“I think . . .” My eyes roam over him again as his leather scent blends with the tang of the wings. “I think you look like you’re running yourself into the ground. If you’re going to win, you need to be better to yourself.”
“I like the way you put that. You might be the only person I know who isn’t on my ass to retire.”
My stomach picks this moment to growl like a grizzly bear.
“Listen, boss, if you eat something, I’ll let you pamper me how you see fit for the next two weeks until the next rodeo. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have ordered more. We can order more. Just share this with me for now, so I won’t drown in the guilt of holding a starving girl hostage in my room.”
“If I eat, you’ll do what I tell you to for the next two weeks?”
He stares back at me, all whiskey eyes and stubble and unruly hair. But his expression is sincere. “Yes.”
I sigh in response. “Okay, fine. Deal.”
He nods, but we’re stuck in that weird limbo where we stare at each other. Like we want to say more but don’t know where to start.
I opt to break the tension by reaching for a fry and shoving it in my mouth. Rhett smiles and does the same.
We watch the show, gasping when people fall and cheering when they seem like they’re on a roll. I think the food tastes better just because we’re sitting at the foot of a shitty hotel bed, legs crossed, takeout containers spread out beside us.
“I think I could do this,” I finally announce.
“Yeah?” He looks at me curiously before pointing at the chicken wing box. “That’s yours.”
I peer down and see the last wing. “You should have it,” I try to argue.
“No chance.” Rhett licks his lips as he stares at the screen, and I can’t look away. “You need your energy to put up with me. Have it.”
I swear that one little drumstick is staring back at me. Daring me to make this mean more than it does. But giving me the last piece is just so . . . sweet. I almost can’t reconcile it. I almost want to ask myself what it means.
But even I don’t want to be that pathetic. So, I lift the wing and start taking bites while getting back to my last statement. “Yeah, I think I could do this. I think I’m strong enough.”
“Smart enough, too. I think half the battle with these is having a strategy. You can’t just brute force your way through it. You know?”
I polish off the wing, nodding. Because he’s right. And my heart is all aflutter over his compliment. “Thanks,” I say with a smile.
He snorts. “You’re welcome. But you’ve got sauce on your face. A big old smudge of it.”
Immediately, I shoot a hand over my mouth. “Where?”
“Kinda hard to see with you covering half your face.”
“But the minute I move my hand, you’re going to laugh at me.” I shift back up onto my knees, a somehow less vulnerable position.
His smile widens as he leans closer. “Oh, absolutely.”
I let out an exasperated groan as I drop my hand and gaze up at the ceiling. “Fine. Tell me where it is. I’m too tired to go to the bathroom.”
After a few beats, when my eyes go back to Rhett, he’s not looking me in the eye anymore. He’s looking at my mouth.
No. He’s staring at my mouth.
His hand moves toward me, and my breath hitches in my lungs. I’m like a deer caught in headlights, too shocked and mesmerized to run from danger.
“It’s right . . .” His voice is low and rough. And I can’t stop staring at his expression. The way he’s watching my mouth is almost filthy, like I can read every thought flashing through his mind without even trying.
My lips pop open, ever so slightly at the thought of him closing the distance, gripping my head, and pressing his lips to mine. Giving me a taste of what I’ve fantasized about.
He’s leaned close when his gentle fingers cup the bottom of my chin. His thumb hovers over the cleft there, like he’s questioning touching me at all.
When the pad of his thumb brushes just beneath my lower lip, it’s feather light. It makes the hair on my arms stand on end and my eyes flutter shut.
But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate.
His thumb caresses over my top lip, a strangled groan catching in the back of his throat. My breathing becomes more labored, and when I catch sight of the expression on his face, I’m panting.
The way he’s looking at me . . . it’s not polite. It’s primal.
I lean forward—right into him—seeking his touch, seeking the promise in his eyes. And I make no move to distance myself from him.
When his thumb makes its next swipe, it’s over my bottom lip and this time it’s rougher, pressing my lip down to the side while his eyes go molten, his body held taut.
“There,” he growls, still transfixed by my mouth.
“Rhett,” I breathe, not sure what else to say. My nipples rasp against the silk cups of the bra, and the trim of my panties graze my core in a way that has me sighing louder than is appropriate.
“Mm.” His eyes flick up to mine, and there’s a question in their depths. I swear if I closed the distance between us, he’d make me glad I did.
But his career is hanging by a thread, and I promised to help. To be a professional who can handle working with athletes. And knowing what I know of Rhett Eaton, my heart would be in shambles right along with his reputation if we were to close the distance between us.
“We should go to sleep.” I clear my throat and sit back, pulling away.
I know I made the right decision. Even though my relief is laced with disappointment. The same disappointment I see flash across his face as he jolts back like I’ve slapped him.
But it disappears quickly, replaced by a blank face and eyes that won’t meet mine as he silently starts tidying the room.
We almost kissed.
That’s the thought playing on repeat in my head as I lie here. In his bed.
I’m new to a job that requires me to work with hot athletes every damn day, and after a short amount of time being out in the wild with one, I’m confused as fuck.
Excellent work, Summer.
The blanket feels like it’s rubbing too heavily against my skin, and my heart is pounding erratically. Even under the covers, I can’t seem to shake the chill. I almost got up to get myself a pair of socks, but I don’t want to disturb Rhett.
I’ve been lying in the dark room for I don’t know how long, listening to Rhett breathing, the hum of the heater every time it turns on, the ding of the elevator, and the dull thud of footfalls in the hallway followed by hushed voices as other people head to their rooms.
Sleep has evaded me so far, and based on the way my mind is spinning, it will continue to hover just beyond my grasp. Especially since all my thoughts and feelings are blending together with an intense sense of guilt that Rhett’s injured and sleeping on the floor.
I was still too tongue-tied to put up a fight when he grabbed what he needed and set himself up on the carpet.
A sigh that borders on a groan filters from where he’s sleeping.
“Are you awake?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he grumbles, shifting around.
“Are you sore?”
“No.”
I roll my lips together and stare at the fire alarm above me, the tiny green dot a point to fix my gaze on. “Are you lying?”
He grunts in response, which I’m almost certain means he’s lying.
“Rhett.”
“Summer.” He sounds exasperated with me.