Rhett groans and drops his head back against the couch.
“I don’t like my babysitter either, Uncle Rhett.” Luke pats him like a dog and a laugh bubbles up out of me. Because Rhett called this. Harvey called this. They knew exactly how it was going to go down, and that level of familiarity is heartwarming to me. It’s chaotic in here already, and I love it. I’m starry-eyed and giddy.
“Mind your manners, Lucas Eaton,” Cade says while pulling a pan out from under the stove. “Answer the question, Rhett.”
Rhett glances over at Beau and says, “You can contact my agent for a comment.”
Beau barks out a laugh and looks over at me, hands held up in prayer position. “Please, Summer. Make my day. Tell me he’s in time out. Tell me he’s a thirty-two-year-old man with a full-time nanny.”
I press my lips together, dedicated to not throwing Rhett under the bus—no matter how badly I’d like to. “I’m new at the firm. This job is so that I can get some experience under my belt outside of the office.”
“Yeah. She told me that too,” Cade interjects as he seasons a sizeable chunk of beef now. “I think Miss Hamilton might be full of shit though.”
“Mind your manners, Daddy!” Luke shouts, right as Harvey scolds him, “Cade!”
I rub a hand over my mouth to cover my smile. You grow up around Kip Hamilton and a few bad words aren’t going to phase you.
“I’ll go grab dinner in town, leave you all to it. I don’t want to be a nuisance.”
Beau holds up a hand to stop me. “Not a chance, Summer. You’re going to take a seat and tell us everything over Cade’s famous pot roast. Then I’m going to take us all for drinks in town at The Railspur so you can get a warm Chestnut Springs welcome and meet my buddy, Jasper.”
“Jasper is home?” Harvey’s head snaps up from where he was watching his grandson with an amused expression on his face.
And just like that, I’m sucked into a dinner of hearty home-cooked food, friendly taunting, and comfortable laughter.
Even Rhett lightens up now that it’s not just us, but he still avoids looking at me throughout the meal.
6
Summer
Willa: I miss your face already. Have fun playing Hell on Wheels?
Summer: What?
Willa: Your cowboy. I looked him up. He looks like the hot guy from Hell on Wheels. You know, the one with the long hair? Did you know they filmed that show out there?
Willa: You should bang him.
Summer: No.
Willa: Want me to print you a picture of him for your wall?
Summer: I don’t miss you at all.
Rhett and I drive in utter silence, which is fine. It gives me the opportunity to get acquainted with everything out the window.
“Turn here.” One small turn takes us to a dead-end side street, at the bottom of which sits The Railspur.
The pub is not what I was expecting from a small town. In fact, Chestnut Springs is not what I was expecting from a small town. I think my dad and I have watched a few too many old western movies, and I’m realizing that I am truly an oblivious city girl.
Because Chestnut Springs is beautiful. The main street has these adorable bricked-in sidewalks, ornate lamp posts with little town flags dangling from them, and the businesses down here have maintained the historic facades while modernizing or adding on to the rest. Old brick buildings with dramatic archways or charming colorful awnings line each side of Rosewood Street, the main thoroughfare in town.
And the pub is not some small-town dive either. It’s like . . . cowboy chic.
“Is this an old train station?” I ask as I roll into the parking lot that Rhett just silently pointed to.
“Yup.”
“I guess the name should have been clue enough,” I say, mostly to myself since Rhett seems limited to grunts and one-word answers, before pulling to a stop in a space not too far from the door.
He grunts.
And I turn to him as he flings off his seatbelt, like he can’t get away fast enough. “Are you always this monosyllabic? Or is this special just for me?”
“I don’t need this,” he mutters just before he slams the passenger door in my face and storms toward the bar.
I flop back against my seat and blow a raspberry out through my lips.
I ask myself what I always do.
If this were my last moment alive, how would I want it to be?
My eyes flutter shut, and I suck in a deep breath, like that might help me grow some extra patience to deal with the big asshole bull rider assigned to me. Because in my last moments, I’d want to feel happy. If I step out of this car and get run down, I want to go out feeling good, not pissed off at some long-haired, broad-shouldered, round-assed cowboy.
That is not how Summer Hamilton goes.
Not today, Satan.
Then my door is wrenched open. “Are you having a stroke?” Rhett peers down at me, lips curving toward the ground.
“What are you doing?” I ask, brows knitting in confusion. I thought he’d stormed into the bar.
“Opening your door for you. Now get out.”
My lips tug up and a silent giggle fills me as I realize he’s trying to be gentlemanlike while also being a grumpy dick. And with that, I step out of my SUV, patting the hood on the way past with a quiet, “Sorry.” Because that dick slammed her door way too hard.
We don’t look at each other as we walk, but he touches my shoulder gently and gestures me across his body. He moves me to the opposite side of him before taking up position by the road.
This man gives me whiplash.
He tugs the bar door open by grabbing one of the long brass pulls that stretches almost the full length of the wood frame. Once I pass through, Rhett is gone without a word, and I’m left admiring the interior of the pub.
Inside there’s a long bar that runs the full length of the left side of the building and high-top tables dot the main area. Further back, I can see a slightly raised section with a pool table, burgundy leather couches, and a fireplace.
Rhett clearly made a beeline for the bar, and a few locals have cornered him. There are back pats and handshakes exchanged between the men, but there’s also a tension to the greeting, and I can’t help but wonder what they’re saying to him.
Beau was stopping to pick up a friend and is a few minutes behind us, so I opt to do a walk-by behind Rhett and see if I can overhear anything before heading to the ladies’ room to burn some time before people who actually acknowledge my existence arrive.
I’m still wearing my favorite skin-tight skinny jeans and white eyelet blouse. I even paired the outfit with a pair of super-cute booties that seem a tad country to me. Minus the heel, but whatever.
You can take the girl out of the city and all that.
But it must be obvious to the locals that I’m not from around here, because I’m definitely garnering some looks as I weave my way through the tables. Rhett’s gaze darts to me as I ease myself in his direction, but aside from that one flick of the eyes, he doesn’t acknowledge my existence.
It’s an obvious hint that he’d rather not associate with me right now, so I trail past him, catching a whiff of whatever cologne he’s wearing. There’s a liquorice note to it I’ve never noticed before now, followed by leather. I don’t know if it’s his boots, or his belt, or just that a man that rugged is destined to smell like something equally masculine.
Either way, it’s a heady combination. One that has me taking a deep breath on my way past, creepy as that makes me.
It is what it is.
One man squeezes Rhett’s shoulder. “We know you, Rhett. We know your family. What the media tells us about you doesn’t matter. You’re a good boy.”
I almost snort. Boy. Maybe that’s the problem. Everyone still coddles him like he’s a little boy rather than telling him to take some responsibility for his actions. Should he be in trouble for what he said? No. But he doesn’t need a bunch of back pats over it either.
The bathrooms are straight off the end of the bar, and I push the door open to find far more women primping under the bright halogen lights than I was expecting on a Monday night.
I give them that weird closed-mouth smile I often give to strangers instead of just saying hi. I know it looks pained, forced—a little serial-killer-y—but I keep doing it anyway.
It’s a problem, and I can’t stop.
They eye me suspiciously as their conversation pauses, but as soon as I lock myself in the stall, they go on like I’m not even here.
“Did you see Rhett Eaton at the bar?” The girl’s question is met with a chorus of moans and “oohs” like he’s king crab and a bowl of butter or something.
Another one pipes up. “Nobody call Amber. She’ll march down here and freak out when she sees him go home with someone else.”
“She needs to get over him.”
“Yeah.” The first girl laughs. “Give the rest of us a turn.”