When I head back into the kitchen to make another pot of coffee, Rhett is sitting at the table, looking as frosty as the grass.
“Good morning.” I smirk at him because he reminds me of a pouty teenager scrolling through his phone with a forced frown on his face.
He grunts. Eyes don’t even lift from his screen.
So, everything is going great.
“Who pissed in your Shreddies, Eaton?” I ask, unshaken by his sour attitude because there’s already coffee made, ready and waiting for me. It’s the little things in life.
“Everyone.”
I snort. “Sounds delicious.”
Rhett makes a growling noise and tosses his phone on the table hard enough that it slides almost down the full length. “Am I just a big joke to you? I just lost another sponsor. You think everything I’ve worked for these past ten years circling the toilet is funny?”
I turn and regard him. Obviously, we’re not doing the biting banter thing this morning. He’s truly downtrodden.
“I don’t find it remotely funny.”
He props his elbows on the table and drops his head into his hands, his mane of hair falling around his face like a curtain that hides whatever expression might be there right now.
A sigh shudders through my body, and I approach to pull out the chair next to him, rather than across from him. When I sit beside him, he still doesn’t look up. He’s clearly trying out some sort of deep breathing technique, based on the whoosh of air from his nostrils.
My clay mug clunks on the table as I reach out with my opposite hand toward the broad expanse of his back. I hesitate, my hand fluttering above his plain white t-shirt, because I seriously wonder if touching him is a good idea.
It’s a little like sticking your hand between the fence boards to pet a dog you don’t know. They might be a very good boy who loves attention. Or they might bite you.
But I’m an empath. A caretaker. I can see the disappointment emanating from him. A hug never fails to make me feel better, but I won’t hug him—mostly because I’d enjoy it far more than is professional. However, a gentle back pat never hurt anyone.
So, I drop my hand onto his shoulder. First, I give a squeeze, but he flinches and sucks in a deep breath, like he’s in pain.
I pull my hand away. But when his reaction ends there, and he doesn’t make any other moves to get away from me, I put my hand back, a little lower this time. Running it along the ridge of his shoulder blade through the fabric of his shirt.
I move my hand in a soft circle, the way my dad used to do to me when I was having a rough day. He’d sit in that chair beside my hospital bed and rub my back for hours. And he never complained.
“I was unwell as a teenager. I had a surgery that went wrong,” I say quietly, letting myself think back on that time. “I spent a lot of time in the hospital. I even spent some of that time thinking I’d never leave that hospital. So, I came up with a new way of looking at things. Are you interested in hearing the musings of an eternally optimistic teenager?”
“Sure.” His voice is tight as he pushes his palms harder into his forehead.
“If these were your last few moments on earth, would you go happy?”
His responding sigh is ragged. He clears his throat. “No.”
“But why? You have so much. You’ve achieved so much. No one’s life is perfect.”
He sits up straight now. Amber eyes regard me like I might not be the she-devil he took me for. “Have you googled my name? It’s all just,”—he huffs out a sad laugh—“stupid.”
“It is,” I agree, solemnly nodding my head and letting my hand fall away.
“I got an email from your dad suggesting we spin this as I was joking about hating milk.”
I lean back, turning slightly toward him as I sip my piping hot coffee, inhaling the caffeinated steam. If you could huff coffee, I would. I’m pretty sure I’m trying to right now. “You could.”
“But I don’t want to.”
My head tilts. “Why?”
His hands fly up in frustration. “Because it’s true! I fucking hate milk. And that shouldn’t be a crime.”
A breathy laugh escapes me, my cheeks twitching as I struggle to contain my smile.
“See? You’re laughing at me.” He scrubs a hand through the scruff on his chin before swinging his finger over my face in a U shape. “You have been since that first day in the office. That snarky little smirk.”
I sit up straight now as his gaze drops again. “Rhett.” His eyes roll, and he avoids making any eye contact with me, like a petulant child. I lean forward and nudge my knee against his. “Rhett.”
When he turns his full attention on me, my heart skitters in my chest. No man has any business looking as good as he does. The dark lashes, the square jaw.
With one shake of my head, I regain my focus. “I was not laughing at you. I was laughing at this situation. Because you know what I think?”
“Yeah. That I’m a dumb cowboy.”
I rear back, face scrunching. “No. I think they blew this so far out of proportion that I can’t help but laugh. Who the hell cares what you prefer as a beverage? I’m laughing, or smirking, or whatever you think, because this entire situation is so insulting and far-fetched that if I didn’t laugh about it, I’d straight up quit my job and become a personal trainer.”
He stares at me blankly, eyes darting over my face like he’s searching for proof I’m joking.
“If I think about it too much, it makes me angry on your behalf. And I don’t want to be angry.”
He gazes down at his hands and spins the silver ring on his finger before whispering, “Okay.”
God, he’s really got this wounded, insecure little boy routine down. I nudge his knee again. “Okay,” I repeat. “You gonna tell me why you hate milk so much?”
“Ever had raw farm milk?” he asks.
“No.”
“Okay. Well, it’s thick, and yellow, and fatty, and we had a cow growing up, and my dad would make us drink a glass of it every day, and I’m pretty sure it was borderline child abuse. Now, the thought of sitting down and just slugging back an entire glass . . .” He shudders. “I’ve never been happier than I was the day that cow died.”
“That’s dark!” I burst out laughing. “It sounds terrible though. I’ll give you that.”
“I’m properly traumatized.” His cheek twitches, and he gives me a soft smile. A genuine one that makes butterflies swarm in my chest.
Did we just have some sort of breakthrough? It seems like it. But so far, this guy gives me whiplash. So maybe I’m wrong.
What I know for sure is that I smell like sweat and look like a mess. So, I push to standing, not realizing how close I am to him when I do. Our knees brush, and his eyes lock on that spot.
I suck in a sharp breath and walk away. I’m very due for a shower, but I stop at the doorway, mulling over the conversation we just had. When I glance over my shoulder, I catch his eyes lower on my body than they should be, but they snap up to my face instantly. My cheeks heat all the same. After all, Rhett Eaton just checked out my ass in gym tights.
Which must be why my voice comes out more husky than usual. “Don’t spin it if you don’t want to. And don’t let Kip bully you into it.”