Her fingers grasp my shirt, and her eyes are laser focused on me when I spare a glance up at her face.
I give her my best cocky, panty-melting smirk and dive back down between her breasts. One of her hands slides over the back of my neck, her fingers raking through my hair before taking hold. My lips wrap around the shot glass of something syrupy and sweet. Something I would never normally drink, but if Summer wants me to lick it off every square inch of her delectable body, I will happily spend hours obliging.
I stand tall and wrap an arm around her waist, tugging her against me as I tip my head back and down the shot.
I can feel her heart pounding against my ribs. She fits right under my arm, like that spot was meant for her.
“Okay, my turn.” Emmett tries to step in, but I turn Summer away under the shelter of my arm. The thought of letting her go now is almost unbearable. To him, to anyone.
Turn? This isn’t bowling, asshole. “I already told you. Not a fuckin’ chance.”
I hear him try to say something to Summer, but I’ve got her by the wrist and have a clear shot to the door.
We’re getting the fuck out of here.
20
Summer
Dad: Summer, what did you do to that poor boy?
Summer: I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I do wish everyone would stop talking about a man in his thirties like he’s a child. Or a dog.
Dad: Okay. You’re defensive too. Got it.
Summer: I’m not being defensive. I’m just pointing something out.
Dad: Defensively.
“Where the hell do you think you’re taking me?” I ask right as we clear the doors into the cool night air. Cool air that I desperately need after Rhett Eaton just set my entire body on fire.
I’m mad at him. I’m hot for him. And those two things blend until they’re almost indecipherable.
Rhett’s breath puffs out in front of him as we face off. “Away from Emmett. Before he tells you about the cowboy hat rule.”
I scoff. “What the hell is the cowboy hat rule?”
“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.”
My eyes bulge in their sockets. “What?”
“You heard me. You wanna take Emmett for a ride, Summer?” His voice is pure venom, and I lurch back, not recognizing this tone on him.
“What if I do?” I’m not backing down just because Rhett’s going all caveman on me. “Seems an awful lot like none of your business, seeing as how the minute you had a chance you were all over some blonde buckle b—”
I go to hold up a hand between us, the one still holding the stupid whipped cream, and close my eyes. “You know what? It doesn’t even matter. For a minute there I had a major lapse of judgment and just . . . forget about it.”
Spinning on my heel, I turn and storm toward the crosswalk, relieved that our hotel is across the street. I jam my finger at the button, willing the light to change as quickly as possible so I can get the hell away from Rhett before I tumble right into the deep well of poor decision making that I’m staring down into.
I feel him come to stand beside me, but he says nothing. We walk in tense silence. The chirping sound of the walk signal is our only companion as the thumping music from the bar fades. My fingers wrap tightly around the whipped cream can, and I envision it being Rhett’s neck for a moment, but truthfully, that just makes my palms sweat.
Why does he have to be the first guy since Rob who gives me butterflies in the chest? And not the same kind I got as a horned-up teenager staring at pictures of him. These butterflies almost hurt. They feel like they’re writhing beneath my skin, taking over my stomach, impeding my vision.
Because all I can see is Rhett. On the back of my eyelids when I sleep, and with me all the fucking time when I’m not asleep.
It’s like he’s become an extension of me, a necessary part of my personal ecosystem. Infatuation by proximity. It’s like I never even had a shot.
We walk into the hotel, him just a step or two behind me. We don’t look at each other, we don’t talk, but the most intense sense of anticipation grows in my chest. Expanding, pressing, aching.
I want it to stop and carry on forever all at once. I want to peek at him, but I think if I do, the reality of what we’re about to do might scare me out of whatever trance I’m in. Whatever sense of resolve I’ve come to.
We wait at the bank of elevators with one other person, and when we step into the space, Rhett and I take opposite walls. I cross my arms under my breasts, the cool metal can pressing against my ribs and seeping through my shirt while I stare at him across from me.
The other man takes the space in the middle. He looks tired, ready for bed, not nearly as amped up as Rhett does. Rhett looks like a downed power line sparking in the dark.
And I think I’m about to pick that line up and let the electricity course through me.
When the man realizes he’s standing in the middle of two people eyeing each other like they might set one another on fire with the power of their sight alone, he straightens up. I catch him peeking at us, head swiveling as he peers at each of us.
When we reach his floor, the elevator dings, and I swear he shakes his head as he gets out, like he knows there will be some sort of brawl between us.
When the doors slide shut behind him, my body tingles—the tips of my fingers, up my inner arm, into that dip behind my elbow, before shooting straight into an ache beneath my bra straps.
Rhett stares at me like no man has before in my life. And for all the times I couldn’t decipher his look and thought he was glaring at me with irritation, or frustration, or distaste . . .
I realize I was wrong.
He’s staring at me like he wants me. Really wants me. Like he aches for me. Like he might melt, just for me.
My breathing quickens, eyes scouring his features. Heavy brows, straight nose, deep, warm eyes, all that scruff. God knows I’ve stared enough at him over the years, and he just keeps getting better. Firm broad shoulders, narrow waist, and long, lean muscles.
When the elevator dings, I startle and swallow hard, watching his Adam’s apple bob in a similar fashion as he holds a hand out to gesture that I go first.
My lips press together, but I exit, mind whirring with what to do next.
I should go to my room.
I should go to his room.
I should take a freezing fucking shower.
I should run straight down this hallway and jump through the window like James Bond getting away from a super villain because no matter what I do, this is going to end poorly. I just know it.
Rhett Eaton will ruin me if I give him the opportunity, and I don’t even know what to do with that.
I think I might want him to ruin me.
As we walk toward our side-by-side rooms, I focus on breathing. I’m so hyperaware of his presence I might forget to breathe if I don’t actively remind myself to do it.
When I finally reach my door, I place one palm flat against it to hold myself up as I wait for him to walk past me. This is hands down the most out of control, confounding feeling in the world. I want to stare at him all night long, and I want to squeeze my eyes shut and never look at him again.
“Rhett, I—”
“Go to bed, Summer.”
I snap back, surprised by what he’s saying. “Go to bed?”
“Yes. Before I do something distinctly ungentlemanlike to you.”