Flawless (Chestnut Springs, #1)(20)
I flick my eyes up, but they land on her lips. Smirking lips. Which reminds me that Summer Hamilton pisses me off.
“You think this is ideal for me?” she asks. “Trial by fire? Having to follow around someone who clearly can’t stand me as I try to do a brand-new job while also trying not to make him hate me more? Oh, yeah. Sign me up. Good times.”
I raise a brow. “The embarrassing milk drinks were an excellent path to making me like you. Well played. Having you join in with my dickhead brother felt great.”
That actually might be the worst part. I wanted her to pick my team, not Beau’s. Everyone picks Beau because he’s all sunny and handsome and shit.
She scoffs and squeezes her eyes shut. The first sign of frustration I’ve seen on her. “Would you have preferred I march over there and intervene? Embarrass you myself?”
My brow furrows as I swallow the pill. “Why would you?”
She levels a stare at me and very seriously says, “Because I was freaking out that we shouldn’t have gone out at all. That I’m not going to be able to handle this—or you.”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong.” Jesus, is a few beers at my local watering hole off the table?
“I know that. But I’m supposed to keep Little Rhett in your pants. And that one girl was ready to pack him up and take him home.”
“Pardon me?”
“Your dick.” She points at my lap. “No coming out to play until this is all dealt with. Kip’s orders. Your reputation can’t take you getting caught up in any more drama. You’re supposed to seem wholesome.”
“I am wholesome. Does enjoying sex make a person less wholesome?”
She shivers, and then quickly rolls her eyes like she doesn’t believe me. “It doesn’t matter what you are or are not. You need to look wholesome, which means keep it in your pants. Keep your hands to yourself. Win the whole fucking thing so we can both put this behind us.”
I stare at her. Is this fresh-out-of-law-school knockout seriously telling me what I can and cannot do with my dick? How must she see me?
“And for crying out loud, Rhett.” She stands and swipes her phone off the table before pointing down at me. “Realize that I’m on your side. I don’t want this to be miserable. I don’t want to embarrass you. If you let me, we can be a team rather than fighting the entire time. Use your head.”
I’m accustomed to getting dressed down. Getting in trouble isn’t new, and I’m not about to roll over and take this from her. Which is why I reply with, “Which one?”
And with that, she storms out. Ass barely concealed by her silky shorts. Leaving me wondering if those are the new “team” uniform.
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.”