Because if so, I just might be in.
8
Summer
Dad: Is he being a dick?
Summer: No.
Dad: Would you tell me if he was?
Summer: Also no.
Dad: Summer, if you need backup, just tell me. I can send Gabriel.
Summer: That’s not even his name. Plus, I grew up around you. I can handle dicks.
Summer: Fuck my life. Forget I said that.
Dad: Already deleted.
I sleep like shit. All the witty comebacks I wish I’d said to Rhett last night run through my head like the ticker on the bottom of a news channel.
He agitated me. I let him get under my skin, and I shouldn’t have. I walked away like the bigger person, even though what I wanted to do was kick him in the shins. Which would have hurt like hell because everything about Rhett Eaton is hard, and toned, and cut.
He’s not bulky, but he’s fit. A swimmer’s build. Strong enough to stay on, but not cumbersome.
And maybe that’s why I’m agitated. Staring at a magazine ad of Rhett in Wranglers with hearts in my eyes as a teenager is funny, but seeing him stripped down as an adult is not.
It’s frustrating. Something I need to work off, which is why I’m pulling on my favorite leggings, sports bra, and loose tee. A quick search on my phone brought up one option in town for a gym, and that’s where I’m headed.
I march down the hallway, ponytail swinging behind me as I strut into the kitchen with my head held high, trying not to remember the way the light played off every ridge on Rhett’s body last night—the shadows between every defined ab, the dip at the hollow of his throat, that perfect v heading toward the other head.
What a fucking dick.
And that dick’s dad is already sitting at the table, sipping a coffee, and reading the newspaper.
“Good morning.” Harvey smiles at me. “Early riser, huh?”
“Yeah.” I reach for a mug and pour myself a coffee, making myself at home because, right now, I desperately need some caffeine. “Always have been.”
“Me too,” he tells me.
As I pass the fridge with my coffee in hand, I catch sight of a photo there, held up by a magnet in the shape of a horse’s head. A petite blonde woman beams at the camera beside the shiniest black horse I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing black and gold jockey silks and the horse has a blanket of roses draped over him.
“Who’s this?” I ask Harvey curiously.
His responding smile is immediate. Deep and genuine. “That’s my little girl. Violet. She’s a championship racehorse jockey. Lives over near Vancouver with her husband and my other grandbabies.”
I pull the chair out across from him, returning his grin. “You must be very proud of her.”
A sad look flashes in his eyes, but he covers it quickly. “You have no idea.”
I swallow thickly, sensing that’s as far as I can go with this subject. So, I change the topic entirely. “I’m heading into town to try out the gym.”
The older man nods. “Good for you. I bet you’ll be back before Rhett even wakes up.”
“Well, great. If he gets up, give him a tranquilizer until I return.”
“He giving you trouble already?”
“No chance. He’s a doll.” I wink at Harvey, and we share a laugh before falling into an easy conversation.
I make Harvey and I each a piece of toast for breakfast, and he seems thoroughly amused by me making him breakfast. When we hit a natural lull in the conversation, I clean up and head out the front door to hop in my car.
For the hour that follows, I work out until sweat pours down my body. I swear it smells like cheap wine. But I don’t even care. My heart pumps blood out through my body, and I feel alive. I feel strong. The gym is quiet, and I monopolize a squat rack until my muscles burn and my legs shake.
And when I drive back through the front archway at Wishing Well Ranch, I feel substantially saner.
I breathe in the crisp morning air as I walk toward the sprawling house, admiring the way the frost on the dead grass has turned the landscape a sparkly white. Something that will melt away as soon as the bright prairie sun gets high enough in the bluebird sky.
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.