Flawless (Chestnut Springs #1) (27)

Rhett: This is the worst fatherly advice you’ve ever given me.

Kip: Just do what Summer says, you’ll be fine. Don’t stress. We got this.

Rhett: Stop being nice to me. It’s fucking weird. And your daughter is a pain in my ass.

Kip: Don’t be such a pussy, Eaton.

Rhett: Better. Thank you.





“Rhett!” Some girls are gathered right by the exit of the ring where I ditch my helmet and place the brown cowboy hat back on my head. I recognize a few. The rest . . . well, I recognize the type. “Hell of a ride,” one says, biting her lip in a very intentional way.

“Thanks,” I say and keep walking. Not in the mood to stop for them.

Lame as it sounds, part of what I love about this gig is the attention I get for being good at something. It makes me feel like I have something to offer, like people are invested in me. And not just riding my dick to say they did.

Because as close as I am to my dad and my brothers, none of them have ever taken my job seriously. It’s more like they’re all waiting for me to outgrow it. To grow up. And I hate that.

I grit my teeth as I walk through the staging area toward one of the locker rooms. The splash of heat burning on my cheeks. One of the best rides of my life, and the crowd gave me a fucking golf clap. I swear I could feel their disdain for me.

Except for Summer. That woman surprises me at every turn. I can’t figure out what to make of her. I thought I had her pegged as a smug little princess, but I’m second-guessing that assessment more every day.

“Rhett!”

I start at the voice, and wince when pain shoots down from my shoulder. I said I wouldn’t stop, but I’ll stop for Summer.

I stop because there’s no avoiding her. She’s relentless, and she’s really fucking nice. Which makes me feel like a total dick for being growly at her.

Turning stiffly, I see her petite form striding toward me like a splash of color in a sea of concrete, dirt, and brown fence panels. She’s paired her dark yellow sweater with a flowing skirt covered in some sort of flower print and a pair of high-heeled boots. Her leather jacket and purse are slung over her arm, and her heels click against the concrete, drawing attention from all sides.

She carries herself like royalty, oblivious to the side-eye she’s getting from the people back here. Especially the buckle bunnies hanging around by the gates.

“That was . . .” Her dark eyes go wide, sparkling like stars, and those cherry lips pop open wordlessly. “Just incredible. I think my heart is still racing.”

Her excitement over my ride is real—not at all forced. The skin beneath the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks is a soft pink, and she sounds out of breath.

Her encouragement shouldn’t feel this good. I shouldn’t like that she’s excited. So, I just say, “Welcome to the wild side, Princess.”

I turn to walk away, wanting to get the vest off. Just the weight of it against my shoulder is agitating me. I wave her along but suck in a breath as I do. Pain lances up into my neck.

I hear the clicking of her heels behind me, and then her hand slips over my elbow, dainty fingers splayed over the joint as she leans close and whispers, “Did you make it worse?”

I grunt back because I don’t want a bunch of people knowing I’m injured. It’ll just give them one more thing to talk about, and I’m not feeling terribly trusting right about now.

“Let’s just get back to the hotel.” I want out of here before a tour doctor gets wind of this or before someone convinces me to come out and party tonight.

Her fingers rub gently, making the fabric of my shirt rasp against my skin. Heat blooms through the joint in an unfamiliar way before she pulls away with a stiff nod.





Our drive in the rental car from the arena is silent, something I don’t entirely mind. And when we’re back at the hotel, the silence continues all the way through the lobby.

In the elevator, we lean against opposite walls. Some shitty instrumental version of what I’m pretty sure is that song from Titanic filters through the speaker. My arms are crossed, and hers are pressed behind her.

And we stare. Actually, I glare. But this girl doesn’t back down. My eyes on her don’t make her nervous, and she just stares right back. Not saying a goddamn thing. Like she can read the thoughts running through my head.

“Staring is rude, Summer.”

She doesn’t smile. “Running yourself into the ground when you’re already injured is stupid. You need to take care of yourself.”

“Don’t ride, don’t get paid,” I bite out. It sounds harsh—harsher than I intended—but this isn’t a new conversation for me. Everyone in my family tries to get me to retire. They haven’t succeeded, and neither will Summer.

“What are you doing to manage your injuries? Anything?”

I cross my arms tighter across my body and clamp my molars together. “You going to play nursemaid now too? Go all Mary Poppins on my ass?”

She sighs deeply, shoulders drooping as she does. “Do you remember the part where she daydreamed about holding one of those kids down and gagging them with a spoon full of sugar?”

I go back to glaring now.

“Yeah, me neither,” she mutters.

When the doors slide open, I storm out, leaving her behind. And I feel like shit about not letting the lady go first the entire way to the door of my room and into the scalding hot shower. The guilt almost outweighs the pain of removing all my clothes with a mangled shoulder.