I reach for the day timer in front of me, grab my favorite silver pen, and proceed to stare at him until he talks. I listen and note specific dates as he reads them off his phone while completely avoiding eye contact with me.
We exchange phone numbers and email addresses, and I make clear that he’s to behave like a good little boy that no one can find fault in for the next eight weeks.
I don’t get too specific, because I’m hoping he’s picking up what I’m putting down as I speak in vague generalities about his behavior—that Little Rhett needs to stay in his pants. Because having to dictate a man’s sexual activities is just way beyond my pay grade. Kip can call him and break those details down himself. Rhett and I are going to need to maintain some semblance of dignity if we’re spending the next two months stuck together.
Rhett responds in grunts and stares up at the ceiling like he wishes it would open up and swallow him whole. And quite frankly, I can’t blame him.
“Okay.” I tap my fingers on the open page before me. “So, we have three qualifying events. Pine River is the first, then Blackwood Creek, then the one here in Calgary. That’s kind of nice. Has there always been a stop here on your tour?”
“Yup.”
“No rest for the wicked, huh? They bang these out back-to-back.”
He sighs and finally holds my gaze for a moment. “The World Bull Riding Federation, or WBRF, is as competitive as it gets. If I wasn’t sitting comfortably ahead and was chasing points instead, I’d probably be doing two more before Vegas. We usually go every weekend.”
“Right. World Finals in Vegas.” I stare down at the date on the calendar. That’s the day I’ll be free of this assignment and this grumpy cowboy.
“Championships, not finals. Do you even know anything about this sport?”
I draw a star on that calendar square and sigh wistfully before tipping my face back up to glare at Rhett, who is sitting across from me, taking up the maximum amount of space on the couch. Long arm draped over the back of it and jean-clad legs spread wide.
Man spreading.
“No. Just what I’ve searched on the internet. But I bet you’d love to tell me all about it.”
He glares back like he’s trying to figure out how his life turned into this, and then he asks, “Why do you need to go to law school to become an agent?”
“You don’t. Well, not really. But it’s a lot of contract work, so it definitely helps.”
“Huh,” is all he says while spinning the silver ring on his finger. “That’s a lot of school. You must love it.”
I give him a flat smile. I’m not sure I’d take it that far, but I’m not about to tell a client that. “Yeah. Can you explain the scoring? So I understand what I’m watching next weekend?”
He eyes me a suspiciously and then he starts. “So, you’ve got two judges. Each judge gives the rider a score out of twenty-five and the bull out of twenty-five. Add them up and you get an overall score out of one hundred.”
“And what are they judging on?” My hope is that if I can get him talking about something he likes, he’ll warm up a bit.
“Several things. Their agility, speed, whether they turn. You pull a bull that runs down the arena in a straight line and you aren’t going to get good style points. But you pull one that wants to kill you and will spin in a circle and toss his hooves to the roof? Then you’re talking.” Rhett is more animated than I’ve ever seen him as he explains the sport. His excitement is almost infectious.
“Now the rider is more about his form. His balance. His control.” He shows me how that looks by moving his hands into the position. “The way he covers the bull. If you can spur ‘em, they buck harder and there are extra points for that. And of course, you’ve gotta hang on for eight whole seconds.”
“And if you don’t?”
He clicks his tongue and tilts his head. “No score then.”
I blow out a breath and tap my pen against the table. “Do or die, huh? I can’t wait to see it live.”
He eyes me up and down now, like he can’t quite figure me out. “Yeah,”—his tongue pushes into his cheek—“that’ll really be something.”
I don’t know what the hell a comment like that is supposed to mean, so I just forge ahead. “I’ll book our flights and hotels for these dates. Fly in one day early and leave one day after?”
“Separate rooms.”
I roll my eyes.
And there goes all that positive momentum. This guy has some serious nerve. It makes all my professionalism fly out the window. “No shit.”
“Just trying to keep the line clear, Princess.” He’s mocking me, but I don’t bite. Even though I wish with every fiber of my being that Kip would stop calling me that—especially in front of other people. “Your dad made it seem like you were going to put me on a leash.”