A Small Town Enemies to Lovers Romance
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The rules were simple.
Keep my hands off his daughter and stay out of trouble.
But now I'm stuck with her.
There's only one bed.
And well, rule...
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Dad: Is he being a dick?
Summer: No.
Dad: Would you tell me if he was?
Summer: Also no.
Dad: Summer, if you need backup, just tell me. I can send Gabriel.
Summer: That's not even his name. Plus, I grew up around you. I can handle dicks.
Summer: Fuck my life. Forget I said that.
Dad: Already deleted.
I sleep like shit. All the witty comebacks I wish I'd said to Rhett last night run through my head like the ticker on the bottom of a news channel.
He agitated me. I let him get under my skin, and I shouldn't have. I walked away like the bigger person, even though what I wanted to do was kick him in the shins. Which would have hurt like hell because everything about Rhett Eaton is hard, toned, and cut.
He's not bulky, but he's fit. A swimmer's build. Strong enough to stay on, but not cumbersome.
And maybe that's why I'm agitated. Staring at a magazine ad of Rhett in Wranglers with hearts in my eyes as a teenager is funny, but seeing him stripped down as an adult is not.
It's frustrating. Something I need to work off, which is why I'm pulling on my Lululemon leggings, sports bra, and an old oversized t-shirt. A quick search on my phone brought up one option in town for a gym, and that's where I'm headed.
I march down the hallway, ponytail swinging behind me as I strut into the kitchen with my head held high, trying not to remember the way the light played off every ridge on Rhett's body last night--the shadows between every defined ab, the dip at the hollow of his throat, that perfect v heading toward the other head.
What a fucking dick.
And that dick's dad is already sitting at the table, sipping a coffee, and reading the newspaper.
"Good morning." Harvey smiles at me. "Early riser, huh?"
"Yeah." I reach for a mug and pour myself a coffee, making myself at home because, right now, I desperately need some caffeine. "Always have been."
"Me too," he tells me.
As I pass the fridge with my coffee in hand, I catch sight of a photo there, held up by a magnet in the shape of a horse's head. A petite blonde woman beams at the camera beside the shiniest black horse I've ever seen. She's wearing black and gold jockey silks and the horse has a blanket of roses draped over him.
"Who's this?" I ask Harvey curiously.
His responding smile is immediate. Deep and genuine. "That's my little girl. Violet. She's a championship race-horse jockey. Lives over near Vancouver with her husband and my other grand babies."
