Flawless (Chestnut Springs Book 1)

Beau: How’s Summer?

Rhett: Seriously?

Beau: Yeah. Are you being nice to her?

Rhett: Why is everyone so worried about Summer?

Beau: Because you’re a dick and she’s really nice.

Rhett: Oh, yeah. I’m sure it’s her personality you’re after.

Beau: It doesn’t hurt that she seems really smart too.

Rhett: You done here?

Beau: I also really enjoy looking at her, so there’s that. She’s like the total package, ya know?

Rhett: Can you fuck off now?

Beau: Sadly, no. You’re stuck with me forever. Don’t die out there tonight!

Rhett: What if that was the last thing you ever said to me?

Beau: Then I’d think to myself: if only Rhett had listened to my good advice.

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, scrubbing at my stubbled face with my hands, when I hear a soft knock at the door.

As I march toward the door, I realize that while I’m still tired, I’m not as sore as I was. Though the pain did wake me up at one point in the night, and I got up to take more pills—which Summer had laid out in a row for me.

Seeing them sitting out like that made my chest pinch in a completely new way.

In the same way it does when I swing the door open and see her petite frame standing in the hallway, bundled in a puffy down jacket holding a paper cup of what I’m assuming is coffee in her hand.

“Good morning,” she says flatly, holding one cup out to me. She seems a little tired now that I get a closer look at her.

“You okay?” I ask, holding the door open wide for her to come in.

Summer sighs when she steps across the line and brushes past me toward the desk where her medicinal treatments are laid out. “I’m fine,” she says, counting the pills that she left there. “How are you feeling this morning? You woke up to take a pill? Or have you just had one this morning? You need to take the twelve hour one.”

“Yes, Boss.” I swagger over, having an internal laugh at her fussing over me like this. I one hundred percent get off on it.

After grabbing the pills and the stale glass of water—the one that still tastes a smidge like bourbon—I toss back the medicine while noting the dark smudges beneath her eyes and the way her lashes flutter shut while she takes a deep swig of her coffee like she needs it to survive.

“You look tired.”

She tilts her head and hits me with her most unimpressed look. All wide eyes and pursed lips. “Thank you. How charming. Now lose the shirt and get on your bed.”

I blink slowly as I put together the real meaning behind what she’s saying. “That’s very forward, Summer.”

“Don’t test my patience this morning, Eaton. I need at least three cups of coffee before I can deal with this adorable version of you.”

“It’s alright. I like it when a woman knows what she wants and just asks for it.” I chuckle as I head toward the bed, lowering myself to the edge in the exact spot I sat last night.

“Someone’s in a good mood this morning,” she grumbles as she exchanges her coffee for the two tubes of cream and tosses them onto the bed beside me.

She doesn’t even ask; she just steps up between my legs and reaches for the bottom hem of my shirt before pulling it up. No fanfare, no oohing and aahing like some women have done in the past. Just straight to business.

But I also don’t miss the way her eyes snag on my body as she lifts the shirt up and over my head. She seems generally indifferent toward me, but now and then, I swear something flickers between us.

“How can I not be? You just called me adorable.”

She clambers up behind me. “Save it for the buckle bunnies, Rhett.”

When her hands touch my skin, they’re ice cold. I jump. “Jesus, Summer! You’re freezing. Have you been outside already?”

“No,” she says before wordlessly getting to work on my shoulder.

“How do you know about buckle bunnies?” I ask, trying to talk about something that will keep my cock from fixating on Summer’s hands gliding across my skin.

“I didn’t show up at your ranch without doing some Google research.”

“Huh.” I roll my lips together, wondering what she might have seen on there about me, about the sport.

She massages me like last night, but it doesn’t feel quite the same in the morning light. Somehow less private, though no less kind. I try not to read into how she woke up, got coffees, and walked across the hallway to take care of me. Especially since she doesn’t need to do this.

“Why are you so cold?”

She sighs, running a thumb into a deep knot. “The heat in my room isn’t working.”

“What?”

“That radiant heater thing.” She points toward the metal grate beneath the window in my room. “It’s not working.”

“So, you slept in a freezing cold room?”

“Yeah. It was okay with my coat and blankets. I’ve survived worse.”

I’m suddenly sitting up rigid, less focused on her hands than I am on the fact that after sleeping in a freezing room all night, she’s here taking care of me. “They need to get you a different room. Did you call down and ask?”

“I did. The hotel is full, thanks to the WBRF event.”

I turn to face her, gaze tracing the soft freckles across her button nose. “Then they need to get it fixed. Or we’ll move hotels.”

She sighs again, suddenly sounding just as weary as she appears. “I looked. Pine River isn’t big. There are only so many hotels, and they’re all sold out. They’re going to send maintenance over today to take a look.”

“Fucking right, they are.” Suddenly I’m incensed that she spent an entire night freezing. That I’ve made her feel like she couldn’t knock on my door and ask for help. “I’m going to talk to them.”

“Okay, macho man.” She laughs breathily. “Shut up and let me rub your back. It’s warming my hands.”

And I let her, because when she puts it like that, it sounds an awful lot like she’s enjoying touching me.

I spent my day doing a few interviews and acting suitably humbled when people ask me about my comments and actions regarding the milk shitstorm.

Summer made me practice the right facial expression to make while feeding me little pills like some sort of Pez painkiller dispenser.

I told her I’m not really sorry, and she told me that sometimes we do or say things we don’t mean to make other people comfortable. It’s a sentiment I’ve been turning over in my head all day.

I’m not sure she’s right.

We walked through the trade show attached to the rodeo, and when fans approached, she’d step away. Always there . . . but not really. As the day wore on, I felt like a bigger and bigger dick. But not the good kind.

Toward the end of our walk through the rows of vendors, she found a leatherworker that makes custom chaps and tried on a pre-made pair. They were charcoal leather with ivory highlights and ornate silver details. Her ass looked like an apple that I’d trade a limb to bite.

She checked the price tag, and I saw her consider it. I’ve only known Summer for a short time, but I already know she likes nice things. Nice boots, nice skirts—quality stuff. But she hesitated with these.

“You taking up riding, cowgirl?” I’d teased.

“I already know how.” She smiled, a faraway look on her face. “It’s been a while though. I was pretty into it but quit when I got sick.” And with that, she handed the chaps back to the man and carried on into the crowd, leaving me to catch up with her after I spent a few beats staring at her perfectly round ass. Again. And wishing she’d stuck around so I could ask her more about her past.

Now, I’m back in the locker room with the other guys, trying to get my head in the game. But it keeps wandering back to Summer.

Her fingers brushing my hair away.

Her breath on my neck.

Her lips when she purses them in disapproval.

Her ass in those goddamn jeans and chaps.

“Who’s the hot new piece, Eaton?” Emmett asks from where’s he’s lounging on a bench across the room. I don’t hate Emmett, but I don’t like him either. And that has nothing to do with him breathing down my neck in the standings this season.

He pretends he’s so wholesome, all tightly cropped blond hair and big blue eyes that the girls seem to lose their minds over. But he’s a sleaze bag. Something they find out quickly when he treats them like shit the morning after he gets what he wants.

I generally stick to a one-night stand. It’s just less complicated that way. And I’m not above banging the odd buckle bunny. I’m just not a disrespectful dick about it. The difference between Emmett and me is I like women . . . with him, I’m not so sure. I wouldn’t want my sister stuck in an elevator with him. That’s for sure.

I also know he’s reveling in my current scandal. He sees it as an opportunity rather than something shitty that’s happened to a friend or teammate.

Yeah, I trust this fucker about as far as I can throw him. Which, considering the current state of my shoulder, is not at all.

“She’s not a new piece,” I reply, my tone sharper than I intend as I tape my hands without bothering to glance up at him.

He chuckles, like he knows he’s struck a chord I didn’t even know was there. “So, fair game then?”

“She’s my agent. So, no. Not fair game.”

Emmett props a booted foot across his knee, knowing that he has the attention of the other guys in the room now too. “I thought Kip Hamilton was your agent?”

“Yeah. And she’s his daughter.”

“Hooo boy!” He slaps his knee and laughs, his hillbilly accent really shining through right now. “So not fair game for you. But fair game for me.”

I hum in response. I’m pretty sure Summer could handle this fuckboy without my help, but I don’t like the thought of it. Not at all.

“Just ignore him.” Theo elbows me and mumbles, “You know he’s trying to throw you off.”

“You’re smart for a baby, Theo.”

He smiles and elbows me a little harder. His dad, a world-famous bull rider from Brazil, was my mentor, until a bull took him from us. So, I’ve taken Theo under my wing, and I make it my business to see him succeed. To give him all the support his old man gave to me once upon a time.

“Ready, old man?” He removes his ear buds and comes to stand in front of me. He pulls me up and then we’re off, walking through the staging area toward the din of the crowd and the flashing lights in the ring.

I drew another good bull for tonight. A real jumper. A vicious spinner. He’ll toss me like a lawn dart or give me the ride of my life. Later Gator is just that kind of bull. I’ve ridden him before, and he hated it. But I loved my score. So, here’s hoping he hates the feel of my spurs against his ribs again tonight because after that exchange, I sure as shit don’t want Emmett Bush leaping me in the standings.

People say hello, but it’s all in my periphery. This always happens to me before I step into the ring. The world melts away, and I hear nothing else. I see nothing else. My focus is singular, and I love this feeling.

Other riders take their turns. The cheering and color from the crowd becomes a backdrop for me and what I’m about to do.

Do I know a bull can kill me? Yeah. But I don’t think about that. Half the battle in this sport is mental toughness. If I think that way, who knows what will happen. I’ve always told myself as soon as I look down at a bull and feel fear rather than anticipation, that’s when I’ll know my career is done.

So instead, I turn up the swagger. The confidence. The devil-may-care smile. It’s a mask meant for the fans and competitors just as much as it’s meant for me.

When my name is called, I shove my mouth guard in and swap my favorite brown hat for my favorite black helmet to climb up the fence while Later Gator makes his way down the chute.

My shoulder is sore, really fucking sore, but not like it was before Summer got her hands on it. She didn’t even try to stop me from getting onto a bull tonight, something I appreciate more than she even realizes.

My chin turns momentarily to the stands where she sat last night. Exact same spot. A muscle in my chest twists when my eyes linger on her, leaned forward in her seat, elbows propped on her knees, one hand on each cheek. She looks nervous. And not because she thinks I’ll get hurt. She looks like you do when your favorite hockey team is in a shootout for the win.

She looks invested.

And it makes me grin down at the vibrating two-thousand-pound bull beneath me.

Within moments, I jump down and rub at the bull rope, the rosin warms and softens as I do so that I can wrap it just the way I like.

It’s going to be a good ride. Sometimes I have this gut feeling, and I roll with that feeling, letting it seep into every bone.

Theo says something to me, but I’m not sure what. He smacks my shoulder, and I sink down, finding my center of balance. I don’t even register the pain.

Then I nod.

And the gate flies open.

The angry bull instantly drops his right shoulder into a spin. Dirt pelts my vest, and I find my balance, leaning away from the hole he creates in that turn. I definitely do not want to fall down in there.

Eight seconds feels like it lasts forever when all you want to do is stay on and keep your arm in the perfect L shape. Because of my size, my form needs to be textbook for all the angles to work in my favor. And it is—that’s sort of what I’m known for. I’m an anomaly.

I keep my chin dipped to my chest, because I know this fucker is going to veer left at some point.

And I know it’s going to hurt.

A few breaths later, it comes to fruition. He leaps in the air, twisting like the athlete he is before dropping and turning. My shoulder screams, and I focus on keeping my fingers tight on the rope and my elbow tucked tight against my ribs. It’s all I can do for now.

My body riots, but I force it into position, cursing under my breath as the bull continues his tour of destruction.

The buzzer sounds, and relief hits me.

I used to feel like I could go forever on the back of a bull bucking like this, but lately, the minute that buzzer goes, I want off. There’s this little part of me that knows the statistics are less in my favor every time I hop on a bull. Something is bound to happen after how long I’ve been at it.

No one can be this lucky.

Tonight, my hand comes free, and I leap off, landing on my feet. The rodeo clowns take over, and Later Gator chases them toward the out gate while I race to the side fence.

Standing and celebrating in the middle of the ring always seems very cinematic—until you see a couple of unsuspecting guys get run over by a bull that comes back for seconds behind their back.

Safely on the sidelines, the first place my eyes go is to where Summer was sitting. For the second night in a row, she’s on her feet, whistling like a grizzled, old sports fan. It makes me laugh. When she sees me laughing, she gives me a timid thumbs up, followed by a shy smile.

And fuck, it feels good.

Because that—right there—is not part of her job description.