Flawless: A Small Town Enemies to Lovers Romance

Dad: How many interviews have you set up for this weekend?

Summer: Two.

Dad: Good. You need to tell him what he’ll need to say. He’s refusing to play this off as a joke, so he needs to at least seem remorseful.

Summer: For punching a guy or for having a beverage preference?

Dad: Both. We could have him go out and order a glass of milk and call someone to snap photos.

Summer: No. We’re not doing that. Don’t even suggest it.

Dad: Why?

Summer: Because he doesn’t like it.

“How’s the hot cowboy?” Willa asks, sounding somewhat distracted on the other end of the line.

“Good. Fine,” I say, leaning on top of my leather duffel bag to close everything into it. I thought it would be perfect for our weekends away, but I don’t pack light.

“Actually?” She sounds surprised, and I suppose after our last conversation, that makes sense.

“Yeah. I think we came to some sort of truce earlier this week. My days have involved working out every morning and then making travel arrangements and sending interview requests for the cities we’re heading to. I’m thinking if I can curate some of these news stories for him, they might be more favorable.”

I resolve not to mention that I almost climbed on top of him at the gym yesterday. That he looked good enough to eat and that he finally treated me like he might not totally hate me.

“Huh. And he’s staying out of trouble?”

“Wils, he’s not a dog who keeps getting out of the yard. He mostly sleeps, reads, and helps his dad and brothers around the ranch. He’s not an idiot, and there’s only so much to do out here. I’m not going to ride his ass unnecessarily.”

She hums suggestively. “But would you let him ride yours?”

“Okay, it’s been nice chatting! Bye!”

“Prude,” she mutters.

“Love you too,” I say before ending the call and putting my focus on the last section of zipper. When I finally realize that it’s going to break the bag if I travel with the smaller duffel, I give up and pack everything into the hard-shell suitcase.

I drag my bag down the hallway and meet Rhett at the front door to leave for the airport. He holds a fist over his mouth for a moment to stifle a laugh. I suppose laughing at me is preferable to the scowling we started with.

“Is Kip hiding in that suitcase?”

My lips twitch. “Shut up.”

He doesn’t shut up. He says, “You know we’re gone for four days, right?” But he smiles at me. And it stuns me. All masculine confidence and playful allure.

I think it might be the sexiest smile anyone has ever given me.

The plastic arena seat is cool beneath me. I scroll through my emails, which have all been read and responded to. Even the incessant texts from my dad about how things are going, what we’re doing, and is he keeping his hands to himself.

Those parts have my eyes rolling, because even if Rhett and I are on friendly-ish terms, he would never be interested in someone like me. He’s made that abundantly clear. And that’s fine because I can’t take another heartbreak.

My ex, Rob, put my heart back together and then tore it to shreds. I wish I could say I hate him. I should hate him. But it’s hard to extricate myself from him. There’s something intensely personal about letting someone inside your body that way.

But right now, my heart feels just fine. Aside from the fact that it’s pounding as I look out into the dirt ring.

I have to admit, this is quite the show. The stands are filling with happy chatter and laughter over the din of some twangy country songs in the big stadium. It’s not some tiny rodeo, it’s full-on entertainment. Big sponsors, high stakes.

The highest stakes. Because from the research I’ve done on the sport, the risk of serious injury is enough to keep the average person away. Statistically, it’s a miracle that Rhett is still going at his age. That he hasn’t been seriously injured. Though I’m suspecting he’s more sore than he lets on. The painkillers. The way he flinches. The way he hobbles around like I do after doing too many split-squats at the gym.

It’s obvious to me that he’s in pain.

And I tell myself that’s why I’m nervous right now. The knee I have crossed over my leg is still bouncing as I click off my phone, but it doesn’t stop me from rapping my fingers anxiously against the screen.

When the lights go dark, I stop breathing. But then spotlights flash and the announcer talks about the points race for the upcoming finals. Rhett is firmly in first place, someone named Emmett Bush is sitting in second, and Theo Silva, the younger guy from the infamous milk clip, is in third.

Rhett told me earlier that he drew a good bull, and when I asked what that means, a slightly psychotic expression came over his face as his lips stretched into a toothy grin. “It means he’s going to want to kill me, Princess.”

Princess.

The fifteen-year-old in me fainted on the spot, because this time it didn’t have the bite of an insult. But the twenty-five-year-old me lifted a finger at him and said, “Don’t princess me, Eaton.”

He chuckled and swaggered away to the locker rooms where all the riders get ready, not looking concerned at all. And I left him. Despite what Kip thinks I should do, I’m not barging into his dressing room to follow him around. We all have lines, and that’s mine.

So, here I am, watching and nibbling on my lip. The energy in the arena is downright infectious. The smell of dust and popcorn waft through the stands as I look to the gated area at the closest end of the ring.

There’s a brown bull in the chute. I can hear its snorts and see a few guys approaching the metal fences. Cowboy hats as far as the eye can see. Firm butts in tight Wranglers—the view isn’t terrible.

Especially not when I catch sight of Rhett climbing onto the top of the fence. My heart stutter-steps. Yeah, I watched him on YouTube, but seeing it in real life is different.

There’s something about a man who is damn good at what he does that holds an appeal for me. Every step is sure. Practiced. Full of confidence. His warm-brown leather chaps, with darkened spots from wear, match his eyes. They’re the color of the tiger’s-eye stones I liked as a child. Bright and shiny, perfectly polished.

The collar of his dark blue shirt rubs against where his hair is pulled back in a short ponytail, and his broad shoulders peek out from the vest he wears. The one with padding to protect him from hard falls, or flying hooves, or well-placed horns.

It looks downright flimsy next to the snorting bull in the chute. Like a child with a foam sword about to battle a proper knight.

Theo hops down onto the bull and then glances up at Rhett’s face with a shit-eating grin and a wink. They share a laugh and fist bump. There’s this small sense of relief inside me that it’s not Rhett who’s getting on the bull just yet. I’m so busy watching the way his body balances on the top of the fence, that I jump when the gates fly open and the reddish bull surges out.

The bull’s nose goes straight to the ground and his hooves fly up high behind Theo’s head. A flimsy cowboy hat is the only protection he’s wearing, and I feel like a mother hen wanting to rush down there and scold him for not wearing a helmet.

The bull turns in a tight circle and my eyes flash up to the timer, shocked to find that his eight seconds are almost up. When the buzzer sounds, the rodeo clowns rush over to help him dismount, but he leaps off and tosses a hand in the air before turning and pointing at Rhett, who is still sitting up in the fencing, clapping hard.

Looking so damn proud of the younger rider. Truthfully, it’s adorable.

“You okay, sweetheart?” a woman beside me asks.

I smile back at her. “Yes. Just . . . nervous.”

“I can tell.” She nods her head down at my hands, which are currently fisted in the fabric of my skirt. “You here with one of the boys?”

“Oh.” I laugh nervously, not wanting to throw Rhett under the bus to someone who is wearing a World Bull Riding Federation t-shirt with a longhorn skull on it. “I’m working on the business end. This is my first time.”

“Now the skirt makes sense,” she says kindly, eyeing my outfit. I don’t particularly care if I appear out of place. I feel good in skirts. Look good, feel good. And after years of not feeling good, wearing pretty clothes makes me feel good. So, I do it. Even if I look overdressed.

I laugh politely all the same, but when she makes a grumbling noise, I follow her line of sight, and my eyes land right on Rhett, who is pulling a helmet with a cage over his head as a white and black bull trots into the chute. The gate slams closed behind the animal, trapping it between the panels, which it clearly does not like based on the way it’s crashing against them. Rhett pulls himself back up, wincing as he does.

My throat tightens, but Rhett only pauses for a moment before descending onto the beast’s back, like he’s not terrified by the prospect.

I guess it’s just me.

He runs his hands over the rope before him, and even from some distance away, I swear I can hear the rasp of his leather glove against the rope. The firm grip. The way his hand ripples over it.

It’s downright hypnotic. Soothing.

“That boy thinks he’s God’s gift to this sport,” the woman beside me says. Her statement has me sitting up a little taller, pinching my shoulder blades together, and tipping my chin up. Am I Rhett’s number one fan? No. But after spending a week with the guy, after seeing how hard he’s taking this whole thing—how vulnerable he was at the kitchen table that morning—my protective streak is fired up and ready to burn.

I bite my tongue and turn my body away. If these were my last moments alive, I’d rather spend them enjoying the thrill of watching Rhett ride than mouthing off to some snarky super fan.

I watch in rapt fascination as he secures his hand against the bull, the opposite one braced against the fence. For a beat, his eyes close and his body goes eerily still.

Then he nods.

And they fly.

The gate crashes open, and his bull goes nuts. I thought the other one bucked hard, but this one is truly terrifying. The way its body suspends in mid-air as it twists. The way saliva flies from its mouth and its eyes roll back as it unexpectedly changes direction.

It has me audibly gasping and pressing a hand against my chest to push away the ball of tension building there.

Rhett is poetry in motion. He doesn’t fight the bull, it’s like he becomes an extension of it. One hand up high, body swaying naturally, never losing balance.

I check the clock, and somehow this ride feels much longer. It feels like he’s going to get killed before the buzzer sounds.

The colors on the patches adorning his vest blur together as I watch him, the sound of the crowd and the announcer blending into white noise. I lean forward, swallowing on a dry throat, eyes darting between Rhett’s toned body and the clock, sucked into the ride.

And when the buzzer finally sounds, all the noise and movement come rushing back in, everything in hyper focus as Rhett yanks at his hand.

It’s not coming loose, he’s struggling, and suddenly I’m up on my feet, watching with bated breath.

A cowboy on a horse gallops up beside him, and they reach for one another. With one solid tug, his hand comes free and the bull surges ahead as the cowboy sets Rhett back down on solid ground.

The announcer’s voice crackles through the speakers. “A whopping 93 points for Rhett Eaton tonight, folks. That’s going to be a tough score to beat and all but guarantees we’ll see him back here tomorrow night.”

The crowd cheers, but it’s not nearly as loud it was for Theo. In fact, it’s borderline quiet. Rhett stands in the middle of the ring, his shoulders drooping and his chin tipping down to his chest. His hand held protectively against his torso. He stares down at the toes of his boots, an almost-smile touching his lips, and I swear my heart breaks for him in that moment.

Over a decade of putting his life on the line to entertain these people, and this is what he gets?

So, I guess that’s why I put two fingers in my mouth and pull out the most useless skill I’ve ever learned. One I’ve mastered.

I whistle so loud that you can hear it over everything. I whistle so loud that Rhett’s head snaps up in my direction. And when he sees me in the crowd, grinning back at him, the sad look on his face washes away.

Replaced by one of surprise.

Our eyes lock, and for one moment, we trace each other’s features. Then, almost like that moment never happened, he shakes his head, chuckles under his breath, and limps out of the ring, the fringes on his chaps swinging as he goes.

I gather my things to go meet him back in the staging area. I want to high-five him. Or give him a thumbs up. Or do some other equally professional celebration with him.

But not before I bend down to the woman beside me who just told me he thinks he’s God’s gift to this sport and say, “Maybe he is.”