When my phone rings I take my eyes off the road only momentarily. I see my sister’s name flashing on the screen and can’t help but smile. Violet never fails to make me smile, even when everything around me is total shit. She’s calling me before I even had the chance to dial her.
Stopped at a red light, I slide the button to answer and tap for speaker phone. This truck definitely isn’t equipped with Bluetooth.
“Hey, Vi,” I answer, almost shouting to project my voice at the phone on the seat next to me.
“Hi.” Her voice overflows with concern. “How are you holding up?”
“Fine, I guess. Heading in to Kip’s office right now to find out what sort of damage I’ve done.”
“Yeah. Get ready. He’s worked up,” she mutters.
“How do you know?”
“I’m your emergency contact on file. He’s been blowing up my phone about you ignoring him.” Now she’s laughing. “I don’t even live there anymore. You need to update that.”
I smirk as I merge onto the highway. “Yeah, but you’re the only one who approves of my career and won’t show up to lecture me about quitting if something goes wrong. Basically, you’re stuck with the job.”
“So, I’ll have to leave my husband and kids to hop on a plane and sit at a hospital with you?”
Now that takes me back. Every time I got hurt as a teenager or young adult, it was Violet who took care of me. “You’re just so good at it. But fair point. I think Cole might kill me if I take you away from him.”
I’m poking fun. I like her husband a lot, which is saying something because I never thought she’d meet someone good enough for her. But Cole is. He’s also ex-military and kind of terrifying. I wouldn’t want to piss him off.
My sister just giggles now. Still fucking giddy over the guy, and I couldn’t be happier for her. “He would be fine. I could send him out your way if you need a bodyguard?”
“And leave his girls behind? He would never.”
She doesn’t laugh now. Instead, she makes a quiet grunting noise. “You know if you need me, I’m there, right? I know the others don’t understand. But I do. I can be there for you if you need it.”
And this is the thing with my little sister. She gets me. She’s a bit of a daredevil herself. She doesn’t condemn my career the way the rest of our family does. But she has her own life now. I don’t need her coddling me. She’s got her own kids to coddle.
“I’m good, Vi. Come for a visit with the whole family soon though, yeah? Or at the end of the season, I’ll drag my sorry ass out to you. Race you on a fancy racehorse. Kick your ass.” I try to joke, but I’m not sure my tone is all that convincing.
“Yeah,” she replies. And I swear I can see her chewing on her lip the way she does, about to say something but stopping herself. “I’ll probably just let you win because I feel so bad for you.”
“Hey. A win is a win,” I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
And all she responds with is, “I love you, Rhett. Be safe. But more than that, be yourself. You’re very loveable when you stay true to who you are.”
She’s always reminding me of this. To be Rhett Eaton, boy from a small town. Not Rhett Eaton, cocky bull rider extraordinaire.
I usually roll my eyes, but deep down, I know it’s good advice. One is the real me, the other is for show.
The problem is, not very many people know the real me anymore.
“Love you too, sis,” I say before hanging up and getting lost in my head as I cruise down the highway toward the city.
When I pull up at Hamilton Elite and nab an unusual street parking spot, I realize I’ve been so lost in my thoughts that I barely remember the drive. I tip my head back against the seat. Again. And take a deep breath. It’s hard to say for sure how much trouble I’m in, but based on how that woman scolded me publicly on the airplane, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess a fair bit of hot water.
But I know the people in this area. They’re hard-working. They’re proud. And they’ve got a chip on their shoulders from thinking that people from other walks of life don’t understand their struggle.
And maybe they’re right. Maybe the average Canadian doesn’t truly understand the backbreaking work that goes into farming. Into stocking our grocery store shelves.
But me? I do.
I just fucking hate milk. The whole thing is so bizarre that it’s almost funny.
I walk into the opulent building. Everything is shiny. The floor. The windows. The stainless-steel elevator doors. It makes me want to go smudge my hands all over them just to mess things up.
The security guard gives me a nod on the way past, and I step into the elevator with a bunch of well-dressed people. I roll my lips together to smother the smirk when one woman glares at me with barely restrained judgment.
Worn cowboy boots. Wouldn’t surprise me if there was still cow shit on the sole. Perfectly broken-in jeans topped off with a brown shearling jacket. My hair is long, just how I like it.
Wild and unruly. Just like me.
But not how this woman likes it. In fact, the repulsion painted on her face is clear as day.
So, I wink at her and give her a way over the top, “Howdy, ma’am.” Alberta boys don’t have twangy accents, but when you spend your life at rodeos with guys who do, it’s pretty easy to imitate. I only wish I had a cowboy hat with me to complete the picture.
The woman rolls her eyes and then jams a finger at the button that reads CLOSE DOOR. The next time the doors glide open, she storms through them without a backwards glance.
I’m still chuckling about it when I get to the floor that is home to Hamilton Elite, and based on the way the receptionist’s eyes light when I walk in, she doesn’t share the elevator woman’s perception of me.
Truthfully, most women don’t. Buckle bunnies, city girls, country girls. I’ve always been equal-opportunity, and I do love women. Less so relationships.
A walk on the wild side is what one woman recently called me after we spent a full day locked up in a hotel room celebrating my win in a way that was fun in the moment but left me feeling a little hollow at the end.
“Rhett!” Kip’s voice booms across the foyer before I even have a chance to chat up the girl at the front desk.
Total cock blocker.
“Thanks for coming straight here.” He strides toward me and shoves a hand in my direction before shaking mine so hard that it’s almost painful. This handshake is his way of taking out some aggression on me for whatever pickle I’ve gotten myself into. The fake, pinched smile on his face is proof of that. The owner of this agency doesn’t make a habit of greeting his clients at reception, which means I’ve definitely stepped in it.
“Not a problem, Kip. I pay you the big bucks so that you can boss me around, right?”
We both laugh, but we also both know I just reminded him I’m the one paying him here. Not the other way around.
He claps me on the back, and my teeth shake. He’s a big man. “Follow me. Let’s chat in the conference room. Congratulations on your win this weekend. You’re going on quite the streak this year.”
I have no business winning as many events as I have been this season at my age. I should be on the downhill slide of my career, but the stars are aligning right now. And Three-Time World Champion sounds a lot better than Two-Time World Champion. And three gold buckles on my shelf would look better than two.
“Sometimes the stars align.” I grin at him as he ushers me into a room that holds a long table surrounded by generic-looking black office chairs with a generic-looking man sitting in one. Brownish, close-cut hair. Brownish eyes. Gray suit. Bored expression. Manicured nails. Soft hands. City boy.
Next to him is a woman who is anything but generic. Deep brown hair that shines an almost mahogany color when the sun hits where it’s twisted into a tight bun on the crown of her head. Her black-rimmed glasses are a smidge too strong on her dainty, doll-like face, but her almost overfull lips painted a deep, warm pink somehow balance them out.
The ivory dress shirt she’s wearing buttons all the way up, lace trim wrapped tight around her throat. There’s a slightly bemused twist to her mouth, but her arms are crossed protectively across her chest and sparkling chocolate eyes give nothing away as she sizes me up from above the top rim of her glasses.
I know better than to judge a book by its cover. But the word uptight flits across my mind while I assess her all the same.
“Take a seat, Rhett.” Kip pulls out a chair directly across from the woman and smoothly folds himself into the seat beside me before steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
I flop down and push away from the table, crossing a booted foot over my knee. “Alright. Give me my spanking so I can go home, Kip. I’m tired.”