There’s this tiny part of me that wishes he’d just hop off that fence and retire on the spot. I want him safe. I want him to win too though. I want that for him.
But I also want him for myself.
It’s fucking confusing. I’ve never worried about another person this way, and that’s saying something, considering I’ve spent my entire life worrying about everyone around me.
Theo hops down onto his bull now, giving Rhett a bit of an unhinged grin as he does. I watch Rhett talk to him as Theo rubs at his bull rope, nodding—listening. There’s an intensity about their conversation right now that I haven’t noticed before.
Usually, things are lighthearted and friendly between them, but tonight there’s a definite mentor feel to their interaction. It’s heartwarming and nerve-wracking all at once.
The bull slams itself against the metal sides of the chute, and where I noticed Rhett back off in similar situations, Theo grins, drops his chin, and nods.
The gate flies, and so does the bull, like a bat out of hell. Theo looks like a younger, smaller Rhett, spurs riding up every time the bull bears down. He rides like his life depends on it. And based on how riled his bull is and how many times it switches directions, I would say his life actually does depend on it.
I barely know Theo, but I hold my breath all the same. On my nights spent sitting in the stands, I’ve seen other guys get head butted and stepped on. I’ve seen them leave strapped down on a stretcher.
In a lot of ways, it’s hard to watch, in others . . . I can’t tear my eyes away.
So, when Theo jumps off and tosses his hat in the air, I shoot up and cheer. The bull lopes out of the ring, chasing the clown, and Theo soaks up the cheers of the crowd. He scores himself a 90, which pushes him to the top of the standings for this weekend.
When I look back over at the fence, Rhett is sitting there, grinning ear to ear. So damn proud, chest puffed out, pride spilling off him.
He also looks fucking delicious. Dark and mysterious with his hat pulled down low on his face, charcoal shirt under his bull riding vest, and those simple warm brown chaps.
So. Good.
When he hops down to go stretch and warm up, my momentary calm dissolves and the nerves creep in.
I hate the feeling. I hate that I’m having it. I’ve come to terms with death in a lot of ways. Knowing that your time could come at any moment at such a young age does weird things to you. Somehow, the thought of me dying is easier to swallow than the thought of having to sit here in the stands while something might happen to Rhett.
I don’t want to be this girl, telling him not to take risks because my heart can’t take it. So, I push it down, like he told me he does.
I take a few big swigs of beer and let myself eavesdrop on the surrounding conversations. And when it’s Rhett’s turn, I take bigger gulps.
I watch him every moment, absently aware that it could be the last. It’s like time slows down. I see his cocky smile, the way his cheeks fold beside his mouth when he gives it. I can almost feel the raspiness of his beard on my neck just by watching him.
He pulls at the bull rope, looking hypnotized, and I try to slip into that too.
And then he does something he’s never done. He peeks up at me from beneath the brim of his hat, like he knew exactly where I was sitting.
He winks at me.
And then he nods, and the gates fly open.
“You were so close.”
The rippling of water sounds as Rhett swipes a facecloth over my back. This shitty hotel bathtub is too small for the two of us, but we’re packed into it anyway. He told me if I’m going to continue to force him to take Epsom salt baths that I have to come in with him.
So here I am, seated between his legs in the hottest, smallest bath known to man.
While Rhett Eaton washes me. And kisses me.
This is how I want to go.
“Ah, if I’m going to lose to someone, I’d have it be Theo. Give him a year or two, and he’ll be winning left and right.”
“So, like . . . a newer, shinier version of you?” I tease, but it ends in a gasp when he wraps my hair around his fist and gives it a tug.
“Watch that pretty little mouth, Summer,” he murmurs against my ear.
His erection presses against my back, but we’ve mostly ignored that in favor of just soaking for a bit.
“Or what?” My lips tip up as I glance over my shoulder, hoping to egg him on.
He chuckles, making goosebumps race over my flushed skin. “Or nothing. I’m out of condoms.”
“I don’t know if they taught you this at cowboy school, but I can’t get pregnant from giving blowjobs.”
He reaches around and roughly squeezes one of my breasts as he pulls me back against him. “Jesus, woman. The things that come out of your mouth sometimes.”
I giggle and soften against him. “Fine. Fine. You started it.”
“Started what?”
“This.”
I feel the rumble in his chest against my shoulders. “I did not.”
“You did. You kissed me first,” I joke.
“Huh. I thought you said that meant nothing.” He trails the washcloth over my arms now.
I close my eyes and sigh. I did say that. And at the time I meant it, or at least I wanted to. “I needed it to mean nothing so I could maintain some sense of professionalism.” It’s a painfully honest statement, and there’s a part of me that wishes I could take it back.
But for as much as Rhett and I rib each other, I don’t think he takes me lightly. Men who take a woman lightly don’t look at a woman the way Rhett looks at me.
That look could be all in my head.
Maybe I’m unraveling over a look that doesn’t even exist.
“Is taking Epsom salt baths with your clients something they teach you at law school?” His chest shakes under the strain of trying not to laugh at his own joke. Dork.
I groan and cover my face with my hands. “Rhett.”
He presses a kiss to the crown of my head. I’m pretty sure just to keep himself from laughing.
“It’s not funny. I don’t know what we’re doing here. And I’ve spent years in school and tens of thousands of dollars on it to do this job. This is . . . I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I think you do. I think you’re doing what you want for the first time in your life and that’s scary for you.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“I think you don’t need to worry about if I’m a client or not. I think that has nothing to do with what’s between you and me.”
“It’s the perception—” I try to say, but he interrupts me.
“What perception? Have you done this before? You planning to do it more in the future? Or does what’s happened between us have nothing at all to do with what either of us do for work? Do you think if we’d met under different circumstances, it would be different?”
“You might have been less of a growly prick to me,” I say, trying to steer the conversation away from what feels like something bigger than what I’m ready to face.
“I’m serious, Summer. I’m not sure why you keep talking about our jobs like it matters. We’re not doing anything wrong. I think Doctor Douche has you scared that there’s something shameful about being with another person. That you need to hide something you don’t.”