20
Summer
Dad:Summer, what did you do to that poor boy?
Summer:I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I do wish everyone would stop talking about a man in his thirties like he’s a child. Or a dog.
Dad:Okay. You’re defensive too. Got it.
Summer:I’m not being defensive. I’m just pointing something out.
Dad:Defensively.
* * *
“Where the hell do you think you’re taking me?” I ask right as we clear the doors into the cool night air. Cool air that I desperately need after Rhett Eaton just set my entire body on fire.
I’m mad at him. I’m hot for him. And those two things blend until they’re almost indecipherable.
Rhett’s breath puffs out in front of him as we face off. “Away from Emmett. Before he tells you about the cowboy hat rule.”
I scoff. “What the hell is the cowboy hat rule?”
“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.”
My eyes bulge in their sockets. “What?”
“You heard me. You wanna take Emmett for a ride, Summer?” His voice is pure venom, and I lurch back, not recognizing this tone on him.
“What if I do?” I’m not backing down just because Rhett’s going all caveman on me. “Seems an awful lot like none of your business, seeing as how the minute you had a chance you were all over some blonde buckle b—”
I go to hold up a hand between us, the one still holding the stupid whipped cream, and close my eyes. “You know what? It doesn’t even matter. For a minute there I had a major lapse of judgment and just...forget about it.”
Spinning on my heel, I turn and storm toward the crosswalk, relieved that our hotel is across the street. I jam my finger at the button, willing the light to change as quickly as possible so I can get the hell away from Rhett before I tumble right into the deep well of poor decision making that I’m staring down into.
I feel him come to stand beside me, but he says nothing. We walk in tense silence. The chirping sound of the walk signal is our only companion as the thumping music from the bar fades. My fingers wrap tightly around the whipped cream can, and I envision it being Rhett’s neck for a moment, but truthfully, that just makes my palms sweat.
Why does he have to be the first guy since Rob who gives me butterflies in the chest? And not the same kind I got as a horned-up teenager staring at pictures of him. These butterflies almost hurt. They feel like they’re writhing beneath my skin, taking over my stomach, impeding my vision.
Because all I can see is Rhett. On the back of my eyelids when I sleep, and with me all the fucking time when I’m not asleep.
It’s like he’s become an extension of me, a necessary part of my personal ecosystem. Infatuation by proximity. It’s like I never even had a shot.
We walk into the hotel, him just a step or two behind me. We don’t look at each other, we don’t talk, but the most intense sense of anticipation grows in my chest. Expanding, pressing, aching.
I want it to stop and carry on forever all at once. I want to peek at him, but I think if I do, the reality of what we’re about to do might scare me out of whatever trance I’m in. Whatever sense of resolve I’ve come to.
We wait at the bank of elevators with one other person, and when we step into the space, Rhett and I take opposite walls. I cross my arms under my breasts, the cool metal can pressing against my ribs and seeping through my shirt while I stare at him across from me.
The other man takes the space in the middle. He looks tired, ready for bed, not nearly as amped up as Rhett does. Rhett looks like a downed power line sparking in the dark.
And I think I’m about to pick that line up and let the electricity course through me.
When the man realizes he’s standing in the middle of two people eyeing each other like they might set one another on fire with the power of their sight alone, he straightens up. I catch him peeking at us, head swiveling as he peers at each of us.
When we reach his floor, the elevator dings, and I swear he shakes his head as he gets out, like he knows there will be some sort of brawl between us.
When the doors slide shut behind him, my body tingles—the tips of my fingers, up my inner arm, into that dip behind my elbow, before shooting straight into an ache beneath my bra straps.