Geoff looks over at me with a flat smile.
I’ve seen that expression on people’s faces at work many times. It says, Must be nice to be the boss’s little girl. It says, How’s that nepotism treating ya? But I’m trained to take this kind of lashing. My skin is thicker. My give-a-fuck meter is less attuned. I know that in fifteen minutes, Kip Hamilton will crack jokes and be smiling. That perfect veneer he uses to suck up to clients will quickly slip back into place.
The man is a master, even if a bit of a weasel. But I think that comes with the territory of wheeling and dealing the contracts he does as a top-tier talent agent.
If I’m being honest, I’m still not so sure I’m cut out to be working here. Not sure I really want to. But it’s always seemed like the right thing to do. I owe my dad that much.
“So, the question is, kids—how does one go about fixing this? I’ve got the Dairy King milk sponsorship hanging by a thread. I mean, a fucking professional bull rider just slammed his entire base. Farmers? Dairy producers? It seems like it shouldn’t matter, but people are going to talk. They’re going to put him under a microscope, and I don’t think they’ll love what they see. This will dent the idiot’s bottom line more than you’d think. And his bottom line is my bottom line, because this nutjob makes us all a lot of money.”
“How did the first recording even get out?” I ask, forcing my brain back onto the task at hand.
“A local station left their camera running.” My dad scrubs a hand over his clean-shaven chin. “Caught the whole damn thing and then subtitled it and ran it on the evening news.”
“Okay, so he needs to apologize,” Geoff tosses out.
My dad rolls his eyes at the generic solution. “He’s gonna need to do a hell of a lot more than apologize. I mean, he needs a bullet-proof plan for what’s left of the season. He’s got a couple of months until the World Championships in Vegas. We’re gonna need to polish up that cowboy hat halo before then. Or other sponsors are going to drop like flies too.”
I tap my pen against my lips, mind racing with what we could do to help salvage this situation. Of course, I have next to no experience, so I stick to leading questions. “So, he needs to be seen as the charming, wholesome country boy next door?”
My dad barks out a loud laugh, his hands coming to brace against the boardroom table across from us as he leans down. Geoff flinches, and I roll my eyes. Pussy.
“That right there is the issue. Rhett Eaton is not the wholesome country boy next door. He’s a cocky cowboy that parties too hard and has hordes of women throwing themselves at him every weekend. And he’s not mad about it. It hasn’t been an issue before, but they’ll pick apart anything they can now. Like fucking vultures.”
I quirk an eyebrow and lean back. Rhett is an adult, and surely, with an explanation of what’s on the line, he can hold it together. After all, he pays for the company to manage this stuff for him. “So, he can’t be on his best behavior for a couple of months?”
My dad drops his head with a deep chuckle. “Summer, this man’s version of good behavior will not cut it.”
“You’re acting as if he’s some sort of wild animal, Kip.” I learned the hard way not to call him Dad at work. He’s still my boss, even if we carpool together at the end of each day. “What does he need? A babysitter?”
The room is quiet for several beats while my dad stares at the tabletop between his hands. Eventually, his fingers tap the surface of it—something he does when he’s deep in thought. A habit I’ve picked up from him over the years. His almost black eyes lift, and a wolfish grin takes over his entire face.
“Yeah, Summer. That’s exactly what he needs. And I know the perfect person for the job.”
And based on the way he’s looking at me right now, I think Rhett Eaton’s new babysitter just might be me.
2
Rhett
Kip: Pick up your phone, you pretty motherfucker.
Rhett: You think I’m pretty?
Kip: I think you picking that one specific detail out of my text means you’re an idiot.
Rhett: But a pretty one?
Kip: Answer. Your. Fucking. Phone.
Kip: Or be here at two p.m. so I can shake you in person.
The plane touches down at the Calgary airport, and I’m relieved to be home.
Especially after the clusterfuck that was the last couple of days.
The guy I punched isn’t pressing charges, but I’m not sure how much money my agent, Kip, offered him to make that happen. It doesn’t matter. If anyone can make this all go away, it’s Kip.
He’s been trying to call me, which is a clue he’s losing his mind because we have more of a texting relationship. Which is why when I power my phone up before I’m supposed to, I’m not surprised to see his name lighting up my screen.
Again.
I haven’t answered because I’m not in the mood for listening to him yell at me. I want to hide. I want silence. Birds. A hot shower. Some Tylenol. And a date with my hand to ease some tension.
Not necessarily in that order.
That’s what I need to get my head back in the game. A quiet break at home while this blows over. The older I get, the longer the season seems, and somehow, at only thirty-two years old, I feel old as balls.
My body hurts, my mind is overfull, and I’m craving the quiet of my family ranch. Sure, my brothers are going to annoy the fuck out of me, and my dad is going to talk to me about when I’m planning on quitting, but that’s family. That’s home.
I suppose there’s a reason us boys keep coming back. We’re co-dependent in a way our little sister isn’t. She took one look at a bunch of grown-ass men living on a farm together and got the hell outta dodge.
I make a mental note to call Violet and check up on her all the same.
My head tips back against the cramped seat while the plane rolls to a stop on the runway. “Welcome to beautiful Calgary, Alberta.” The cabin fills with the flight attendant’s voice and the loud clicking of people undoing their seatbelts before they’re supposed to.
I follow suit. Eager to get out of the small seat and stretch my limbs.
“If Calgary is home for you, welcome home . . .”
You’d think that after over a decade of playing this game, I’d be better at booking my flights and hotels. Instead, I’m constantly scrambling to grab a last-minute spot, which suits me just fine. Even though I’m feeling a little claustrophobic.
When the person beside me files out into the aisle, a sigh of relief whooshes from my lungs. I can’t let myself sink into that intense tiredness yet. I still have to grab my truck and drive an hour outside the city to Chestnut Springs.
“Please remember that smoking is not permitted inside the terminal. . .”
And before that, I have to go meet with my pit bull of an agent. He’s been barking at me since last night about not answering my phone.
Now, I’m going to have to face the music for my poor behavior.
I groan inwardly as I reach up to grab my duffel bag from the overhead compartment.
Kip Hamilton is the man I have to thank for my current financial situation. Truth be told, I like him a lot. He’s been with me for ten years, and I almost consider him a friend. I also dream about punching his clean-shaven face pretty regularly. A double-edged sword, that one.