Flawless (Chestnut Springs Book 1)

Willa: Did you bang him yet?

Summer: Goodnight, Willa.

Willa: You only live once, you know. This is a story you could tell your kids one day.

Summer: What the fuck kind of stories do you plan on telling your children, Wils?

I assess my matching bra and panties in the mirror of Rhett’s bathroom. A set I splurged on. A silvery silk that I’m obsessed with. I contemplate taking them off and just slipping into the matching dusty pink sweatpants and sweatshirt that’s folded on the counter beside me.

I’m overthinking this.

If I keep the lingerie on, what does it mean? Does it mean anything? If I go out there and pull out a different bra and panties, I’ll just draw attention to myself. And if I’m being honest, none of my other sets are any better. I’m an absolute whore for fancy lingerie.

Long months spent in a hospital gown have made me appreciate all things that make me feel pretty. Sexy. Even the angry red scar down the center of my chest doesn’t take away from that for me anymore. I’ve outgrown that insecurity.

But is going naked underneath the sweatsuit any better?

Yes. It’s more casual. More comfortable for sure.

I pull my bra down and am about to flip it around to undo the clasps when I catch sight of my breasts in the mirror.

Full and pale. And peaked with rock-hard nipples.

“Fuck my life,” I mutter, pulling the bra back up and replacing the straps.

Bra it is because I’m not facing Rhett Eaton with full headlights.

I slip on the sweatsuit and neatly fold my other clothes before making my way back into the basic hotel room.

The basic hotel room with one queen-size bed. And a queen-size bed has never looked quite so small as it does right at this moment. Deep down, I know I can’t let Rhett sleep on the floor. Not with the current state of his body. It wouldn’t be fair.

I’m still chilled from sitting in my ice-cold room, and I shiver when I catch sight of him standing at the doorway talking to someone. His broad shoulders do nothing but pronounce the taper of his waist, which does nothing but pronounce his nice ass.

Letting my eyes trail over Rhett Eaton is like spending time at an amusement park. Each part is better than the last. When he turns to face me with takeout boxes in his large hands, my mind flashes to how they might feel on my bare skin. Big, warm, and calloused.

He looks nothing like the men I’ve grown accustomed to spending time with. They’re all pale and smooth—well manicured. Some have been fans of literal manicures.

Rhett is weathered, his t-shirt tan line from last summer still faintly noticeable. And when he smiles, the skin beside his eyes crinkles in the most genuine way.

His work-hewn hands would feel like heaven sliding over my skin.

I shiver again, but this time I don’t think it’s because I’m cold.

“Food?” he asks, knocking me right out of my treacherous thoughts.

“Uh,” I reply, scrambling to come up with something to say that doesn’t involve me wondering out loud how it would feel to be man-handled by him. “I’m good.”

He quirks a brow, like he doesn’t believe me, and strides over to the bed. Food in hand, he perches on the end of the mattress before flicking on the TV. The channels flip until he lands on some type of gladiator show where people work their way through an extreme obstacle course and do their best not to die.

“You just gonna stand there, Princess?”

My mouth opens and closes silently. I am seriously not firing on all cylinders right now.

“Have you eaten?” He opens the white box.

“No.” I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. I already feel like I’m imposing in his space, so I can’t waltz in here and steal his food on top of that.

“Summer.” He shakes his head and tosses a napkin toward the bed’s opposite corner. “Sit. You need to eat.”

I move toward the bed and fold myself onto the edge, sitting in a kneeling position across from him. “I’m good. You need . . .”

“What?” He squeezes a packet of ketchup into the box that’s full of fries.

“Is this how you’re eating?”

He chuckles but keeps setting his little spread up in front of himself.

“Rhett, you’re an athlete. You can’t treat your body this way.” I glance at the French fries in one container and buffalo chicken wings in the other. “This food? The lack of physical therapy? Are you even working out?”

He grins at me now. “Why? Do you think I look good?”

“I think . . .” My eyes roam over him again as his leather scent blends with the tang of the wings. “I think you look like you’re running yourself into the ground. If you’re going to win, you need to be better to yourself.”

“I like the way you put that. You might be the only person I know who isn’t on my ass to retire.”

My stomach picks this moment to growl like a grizzly bear.

“Listen, boss, if you eat something, I’ll let you pamper me how you see fit for the next two weeks until the next rodeo. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have ordered more. We can order more. Just share this with me for now, so I won’t drown in the guilt of holding a starving girl hostage in my room.”

“If I eat, you’ll do what I tell you to for the next two weeks?”

He stares back at me, all whiskey eyes and stubble and unruly hair. But his expression is sincere. “Yes.”

I sigh in response. “Okay, fine. Deal.”

He nods, but we’re stuck in that weird limbo where we stare at each other. Like we want to say more but don’t know where to start.

I opt to break the tension by reaching for a fry and shoving it in my mouth. Rhett smiles and does the same.

We watch the show, gasping when people fall and cheering when they seem like they’re on a roll. I think the food tastes better just because we’re sitting at the foot of a shitty hotel bed, legs crossed, takeout containers spread out beside us.

“I think I could do this,” I finally announce.

“Yeah?” He looks at me curiously before pointing at the chicken wing box. “That’s yours.”

I peer down and see the last wing. “You should have it,” I try to argue.

“No chance.” Rhett licks his lips as he stares at the screen, and I can’t look away. “You need your energy to put up with me. Have it.”

I swear that one little drumstick is staring back at me. Daring me to make this mean more than it does. But giving me the last piece is just so . . . sweet. I almost can’t reconcile it. I almost want to ask myself what it means.

But even I don’t want to be that pathetic. So, I lift the wing and start taking bites while getting back to my last statement. “Yeah, I think I could do this. I think I’m strong enough.”

“Smart enough, too. I think half the battle with these is having a strategy. You can’t just brute force your way through it. You know?”

I polish off the wing, nodding. Because he’s right. And my heart is all aflutter over his compliment. “Thanks,” I say with a smile.

He snorts. “You’re welcome. But you’ve got sauce on your face. A big old smudge of it.”

Immediately, I shoot a hand over my mouth. “Where?”

“Kinda hard to see with you covering half your face.”

“But the minute I move my hand, you’re going to laugh at me.” I shift back up onto my knees, a somehow less vulnerable position.

His smile widens as he leans closer. “Oh, absolutely.”

I let out an exasperated groan as I drop my hand and gaze up at the ceiling. “Fine. Tell me where it is. I’m too tired to go to the bathroom.”

After a few beats, when my eyes go back to Rhett, he’s not looking me in the eye anymore. He’s looking at my mouth.

No. He’s staring at my mouth.

His hand moves toward me, and my breath hitches in my lungs. I’m like a deer caught in headlights, too shocked and mesmerized to run from danger.

“It’s right . . .” His voice is low and rough. And I can’t stop staring at his expression. The way he’s watching my mouth is almost filthy, like I can read every thought flashing through his mind without even trying.

My lips pop open, ever so slightly at the thought of him closing the distance, gripping my head, and pressing his lips to mine. Giving me a taste of what I’ve fantasized about.

He’s leaned close when his gentle fingers cup the bottom of my chin. His thumb hovers over the cleft there, like he’s questioning touching me at all.

When the pad of his thumb brushes just beneath my lower lip, it’s feather light. It makes the hair on my arms stand on end and my eyes flutter shut.

But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate.

His thumb caresses over my top lip, a strangled groan catching in the back of his throat. My breathing becomes more labored, and when I catch sight of the expression on his face, I’m panting.

The way he’s looking at me . . . it’s not polite. It’s primal.

I lean forward—right into him—seeking his touch, seeking the promise in his eyes. And I make no move to distance myself from him.

When his thumb makes its next swipe, it’s over my bottom lip and this time it’s rougher, pressing my lip down to the side while his eyes go molten, his body held taut.

“There,” he growls, still transfixed by my mouth.

“Rhett,” I breathe, not sure what else to say. My nipples rasp against the silk cups of the bra, and the trim of my panties graze my core in a way that has me sighing louder than is appropriate.

“Mm.” His eyes flick up to mine, and there’s a question in their depths. I swear if I closed the distance between us, he’d make me glad I did.

But his career is hanging by a thread, and I promised to help. To be a professional who can handle working with athletes. And knowing what I know of Rhett Eaton, my heart would be in shambles right along with his reputation if we were to close the distance between us.

“We should go to sleep.” I clear my throat and sit back, pulling away.

I know I made the right decision. Even though my relief is laced with disappointment. The same disappointment I see flash across his face as he jolts back like I’ve slapped him.

But it disappears quickly, replaced by a blank face and eyes that won’t meet mine as he silently starts tidying the room.

We almost kissed.

That’s the thought playing on repeat in my head as I lie here. In his bed.

I’m new to a job that requires me to work with hot athletes every damn day, and after a short amount of time being out in the wild with one, I’m confused as fuck.

Excellent work, Summer.

The blanket feels like it’s rubbing too heavily against my skin, and my heart is pounding erratically. Even under the covers, I can’t seem to shake the chill. I almost got up to get myself a pair of socks, but I don’t want to disturb Rhett.

I’ve been lying in the dark room for I don’t know how long, listening to Rhett breathing, the hum of the heater every time it turns on, the ding of the elevator, and the dull thud of footfalls in the hallway followed by hushed voices as other people head to their rooms.

Sleep has evaded me so far, and based on the way my mind is spinning, it will continue to hover just beyond my grasp. Especially since all my thoughts and feelings are blending together with an intense sense of guilt that Rhett’s injured and sleeping on the floor.

I was still too tongue-tied to put up a fight when he grabbed what he needed and set himself up on the carpet.

A sigh that borders on a groan filters from where he’s sleeping.

“Are you awake?” I whisper.

“Yeah,” he grumbles, shifting around.

“Are you sore?”

“No.”

I roll my lips together and stare at the fire alarm above me, the tiny green dot a point to fix my gaze on. “Are you lying?”

He grunts in response, which I’m almost certain means he’s lying.

“Rhett.”

“Summer.” He sounds exasperated with me.

“Stop being difficult and come sleep in the bed.”

Silence fills the room, and I wonder if he heard me at all.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he rasps.

I already am. Uncomfortably horny. But I don’t say that. “You won’t. What’s making me uncomfortable is that you’re sleeping on a dirty floor with an injured shoulder or back. Get your ass up here.”

He blows out a deep breath in response, and I hear the rustling of blankets as his form takes shape across the room. When he comes to sit on the bed, the mattress dips beneath him and he scrubs at his face. The sound of his stubble rasping against his hands is more pronounced in the dark.

“You sure?”

His shoulder must be sore for him to have given in so easily.

“Eaton, stop being such a pussy and get in here. I thought you were good at hopping in and out of women’s beds.” I lift the blanket and scoot over to my side to make extra room for him.

He chuckles as he moves under the covers and drops his head onto the pillow he brought with him. “Most women aren’t as terrifying as you.”

“Yeah, right.” I tuck the covers tight around myself, as though they’ll protect me from the scent of liquorice and leather that envelops me. As if I won’t feel the heat of his body sidled up close to mine and let my mind wander.

He lies flat on his back, hands clasped over his chiseled abs. Because, of fucking course, he’s not wearing a shirt.

When his elbow bumps me, I try not to start. “I mean, you told me you were going to kill me in my sleep. I have some sense of self-preservation, you know.”

“You ride angry bulls for a living. I’m really not so sure about that.”

He huffs out a small laugh, and we fall into an uncomfortable silence.

So, like the awkward mess I am, I blurt out, “Where’s your mom? There’s an awful lot of testosterone out at that ranch. Total sausage fest.”

“She’s gone.” His voice gentles.

“Yeah. Mine too.”

His head turns in my direction. “Really? I thought you had an older sister. I know I’ve heard Kip talk about his wife.”

My face scrunches. “Yeah. Funny story that.”

“I could use a laugh.”

“The nanny is my mom.”

Rhett’s body goes rigid beside me, and I laugh. This story always horrifies people. “Come again?”

I clear my throat and reach up to push my hair off my forehead. “Kip was getting busy with the nanny. And ta-da! Along came me.”

“Shit.” I wish there were light so I could see his face right now.

“Yeah. Pretty much. My mother was travelling from abroad when she worked at our house. She basically had me, signed me over to my dad, and went back home. I don’t even think I blame her. I’m not sure I’d want to be tied to the aftermath of that.”

“That’s . . . well, that’s really fucked up.”

I laugh and know he’s looking at me like he can’t quite decide how to tread into this. Most people don’t.

“When did you find out?”

My eyebrows rise. This is usually when people promptly change the subject and run like hell toward another topic. “I think I’ve always known in some regard. My stepmom made sure that was the case.”

“She stuck around?”

“She sure did.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. I don’t get it either. Particularly since she’s always gone out of her way to make things strained between us. Between my sister and me. Between her and my dad. I almost feel bad for her. I know he shouldn’t have cheated on her, obviously, but it’s like she stuck around just to make everyone else miserable. I wish she could be happy.”

“What does she do?” I know he’s thinking she stuck with Kip for the money.

“She’s a surgeon. Just like my sister. Or just like my sister will be.”

“Wild.” He sounds genuinely shocked. “And you and your sister?”

“Complicated.” Really, really fucking complicated. “She’s . . . well, she’s pretty much the polar opposite from me. Looks. Personality. Shit, her name is even Winter. I think in my dad’s misplaced desire to have us be one big happy family, he tried to stick with a trend of seasonal names, and instead we’ve just been pitted against each other. Even in moments that we weren’t aware of it.”

Silence stretches between us. “I’m sorry you grew up with that,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, well, we adapt. I prefer the vibe at your ranch.”

“Have you ever tried to find your mom?”

I suck in a sharp breath. “No. If she wanted to know me, she could easily find me. But she never has, and I don’t want to be a burden to someone I don’t even know.”

He’s silent at that, so after a few drawn-out moments, I ask, “What happened with your mom?”

“She died giving birth to my little sister.”

I don’t hesitate as I inch closer, pressing my arm against his, hoping to provide some sort of gentle comfort to him now that we’ve traveled down this path. Straight into heavy conversation, sharing secrets in the dark.

“I’m sorry, Rhett.”

“I was not quite two, so I don’t remember her. Actually, I think that’s the worst part. I missed out on this whole facet of life. I’ll never get to experience having a mom. And my dad never moved on.”

Nodding, I say, “I can relate to that. But you know, at least your mom wanted you.” I sound terribly tragic saying that, but I blurt it out before I can think better of it. “My dad has spent his entire life proving to me he loves me, and I think a lot of that is to make up for the clusterfuck that is everyone else around me.”

“Kip pisses me off sometimes.” I snort because Kip Hamilton does have a knack for pissing people off. “But I can see him being a good dad. A funny one. A protective one. Obviously. Can we not tell him about this bed-sharing thing?”

We both laugh. Thinking of his threats. The rules he set out for us.

“Yeah. It took me a while to reconcile, you know”—my hands flap in front of me—“the circumstances of my birth. That my dad can be a flawed but good man, all at once. When I was sick, he stayed with me every day. He literally worked from my hospital room and slept in the chair in the corner until some nurse took pity on him and snuck him a cot.”

My voice breaks. This always gets me. That kind of love, well, it’s scarce. Someone who doesn’t leave your side, no matter what. Unlike my mother or stepmother.

This time, Rhett reaches down and tentatively threads his fingers through mine, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. His callouses rasp against my skin just like I knew they would, and against my better judgment, I don’t pull away.

“I didn’t know,” is all he says, and somehow, that simple sentence and the feel of his warm hand brings me comfort.

“Yeah, lots of health issues growing up. Turned out to be an undiagnosed congenital heart defect. Fixable with surgery, except surgery went wrong, and there were complications. Big scary ones. Plus, a nice lingering infection. Kind of killed my teenaged years. Just really had to go all out on making myself an extra burden and all that.”

He squeezes my hand. “I doubt he sees it that way.”

I smile into the dark because I know my dad doesn’t see me that way. Not at all. And it’s nice to hear someone else notice that too. Notice that I have just as much right to that connection, that I don’t need to feel guilty about loving my dad—no matter how complicated he might be.

So, I squeeze Rhett’s hand back and turn toward him, feet crossing over to his side of the bed. Seeking warmth.

“Jesus, Summer.” He startles but doesn’t move away. “Your feet are freezing.”

I pull them back instantly, grateful that he can’t see me blushing in the dark. “Sorry!” I wince, sorrier that I took the freedom of touching him like that when things are already so tenuous between us tonight.

“The only thing you should be sorry for is not telling me you were an ice cube. I should have knocked on your door earlier,” he grumps, right as his long legs stretch across the bed and he tangles them with mine, capturing my frozen feet between his calves.

“Okay,” my voice comes out breathy as the warmth from his body seeps into mine. Heating me from the outside in.

And we fall quiet together. I hear the even rhythm of his breaths and feel his exhale across my chest. I fall asleep like that, lulled by the gentle steady sounds of him, by the solid comfort of him. My hand held tight in his, my feet cradled against his skin, and my heart warm wrapped up in his words.