He squeezes my hand. “I doubt he sees it that way.”
I smile into the dark because I know my dad doesn’t see me that way. Not at all. And it’s nice to hear someone else notice that too. Notice that I have just as much right to that connection, that I don’t need to feel guilty about loving my dad—no matter how complicated he might be.
So, I squeeze Rhett’s hand back and turn toward him, feet crossing over to his side of the bed. Seeking warmth.
“Jesus, Summer.” He startles but doesn’t move away. “Your feet are freezing.”
I pull them back instantly, grateful that he can’t see me blushing in the dark. “Sorry!” I wince, sorrier that I took the freedom of touching him like that when things are already so tenuous between us tonight.
“The only thing you should be sorry for is not telling me you were an ice cube. I should have knocked on your door earlier,” he grumps, right as his long legs stretch across the bed and he tangles them with mine, capturing my frozen feet between his calves.
“Okay,” my voice comes out breathy as the warmth from his body seeps into mine. Heating me from the outside in.
And we fall quiet together. I hear the even rhythm of his breaths and feel his exhale across my chest. I fall asleep like that, lulled by the gentle steady sounds of him, by the solid comfort of him. My hand held tight in his, my feet cradled against his skin, and my heart warm wrapped up in his words.
15
Rhett
Kip: Saw the interviews. You did well. You being good to my girl?
Rhett: Thanks. I laid awake all night, hoping I’d get your stamp of approval. And of course, I am.
Kip: But not too good, right?
Rhett: Is that what I’m aiming for? Good, but not too good? It’s a wonder you raised an adult as functional as Summer.
Kip: Why aren’t you complaining about her?
Rhett: Because she isn’t so bad.
I’m so fucked. I’m super fucked. I’m so super-mega fucked.
Summer was also right. I’m a massive prick. Because I’ve been awake for the better part of an hour, letting her cuddle me. Staring at her, trying to memorize every little freckle. Watching her sleep like a lovesick Ted Bundy or something.
I woke up when I felt her nuzzle against my bicep, and when I slowly opened my eyes, I was as close to her mouth as I had been the night before. When I’d done everything I could to not lick that hot sauce off her lips like a goddamn savage.
But now she’s on me. Thigh slung over my legs, just below where my morning wood is saluting the world—Summer specifically.
Her small palm presses against the center of my chest, while her cheek rests against my arm. She’s even still clutching my hand. Something that makes an ache throb in my chest.
I’m trying to be a gentleman. I really, really am. But I also haven’t failed to notice how her sweatshirt has ridden up her mid-section. The way the waist band of her silky underwear is peeking out from her sweatpants.
Taunting me.
I want to do distinctly ungentlemanly things to Summer Hamilton. But I also want her to warm her cold feet up on me again. Anytime she wants. The thought of her being cold and uncomfortable infuriates me.
I want to take care of her, even though she doesn’t need taking care of.
It’s honestly really fucking confusing. It’s also a terrible fucking idea. But then, good ideas haven’t ever been my forte. Why start now?
She stirs, and I look at her shuttered eyes again. Soft lashes drawn down, a smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks. I wonder if they show up on any other parts of her body.
My cock surges, and I don’t think I can blame my current erection on morning time physiology anymore. It’s just a straight boner because I want to bang my agent’s daughter.
And then snuggle her. Trace her freckles.
Goddamn. I scrub my face with my spare hand and berate myself for not sucking it up and sleeping on the floor—no matter how badly it hurt. It couldn’t have been worse than this realization.
I peel myself away from her, trying to extricate my tangled limbs and feelings.
But when I silently fuck my palm in the shower minutes later, I’m not all that sure I’ve succeeded. Especially since it’s her name on my lips when I spill myself on the base of the porcelain tub.
“You’ll be pleased to hear that while I was using the restroom on the flight back, Summer ordered me a glass of milk.”
Summer snorts and takes another bite of the scone in her hand.
From the opposite side of the breakfast table, Beau cackles over the rim of his coffee mug. “Summer, will you marry me?”
My brother asks in jest. But my caveman brain misses the joke. Instead, it sounds like my big brother is hitting on her, and I want to scoop her up and hide her away. Because Beau is everything I’m not. Heroic, organized, dependable, clean-cut.
If I had to pick a type for Summer, I’d envision Beau.
To prevent myself from saying something I’ll regret, I scald the back of my throat with hot coffee. To her credit, Summer just rolls her eyes. Which, pathetically, makes me feel better.
“You wound me!” Beau dramatically grabs at his chest. “Will you at least come out to The Railspur tonight?”
“Don’t you need to deploy again soon?” I interrupt.
“Trying to get rid of me, baby brother?” Beau winks at me, and I momentarily wonder if he knows he’s turning me into a jealous crybaby.
Summer ignores our antics. In fact, she’s been the picture of professionalism ever since that night we shared a bed. Not weird, or cool, or awkward, just . . . professional.
Over the past week, I’ve often wished she’d be a little less professional. A little more reckless.
“Rhett has an MRI at the hospital,” she says. “Then acupuncture at four. Then he has a teleconference interview. So probably not tonight.”
“You could come without him, you know?”
Summer smiles at my brother as she pushes out of her chair to stand. It’s a kind enough smile, but not a full one. Not the one I saw on her face when she cheered for me in the stands.
It’s the exact smirk that used to bug me. But now I see it in a different light—she thinks it’s a polite smile. It’s kind of the equivalent of a pat on the head.
“I could,” she agrees as she turns and walks away.
My eyes drop to her ass in her skin-tight workout pants. She might be short, but fuck me, the girl has curves in all the right places. Firm muscles. She reminds me of a gymnast in spandex.
“Let’s go, Rhett. It’s gym time.”
I groan and stand, still sore. Though I have to confess, this routine Summer has me on isn’t terrible. I feel better every day. My biggest complaint is that I’m getting professional massages rather than ones from her.
I dump the dregs of my coffee and leave the cup in the sink. Beau can fucking wash it, put that military clean streak of his to use for flirting with my babysitter right in front of me.
“Have fun.” He winks and hits me with a knowing smirk.
Dick.
I sneak my finger into my mouth and give him a big, slippery wet willy on the way past. And it’s surprisingly satisfying.
“You don’t have to stay here with me, you know.” I nudge Summer’s shoulder with mine and peer down at the glossy cooking magazine she’s flipping through.