Champion

- Summer -

Dad: How'd the interviews go?

Summer: Good.

Dad: That's all I get? Did he behave himself?

Summer: He gave excellent interviews. The picture of professionalism. Unlike the way you talk about him, Kip. He's not a dog, you know.

Dad: Are you scolding your boss?

Summer: No. I'm scolding my dad. Unless you still haven't figured out your new employee's name. Then I might scold my boss.

Dad: Poor, poor Geronimo.

This is not a normal level of excitement for a person who is supposed to be doing a job. Watching Rhett ride a bull is a thrill I've never experienced. It's like the ultimate show of masculinity. Crazy enough to climb up on an animal that wants to kill you. Strong enough to stay on. And accomplished enough to look good doing it.

Pretty sure the throbbing between my legs means I'm a buckle bunny now.

I laugh inwardly at the thought as I dart down the stands toward the back staging area, flashing my lanyard pass at security as I go.

Excitement over his ride mixes in my gut with concern that he's making his injury worse by continuing to ride when what he needs is medical attention. But that's not my job.

My job is helping Rhett maintain his image. Taking care of him.

Or at least that's what I keep telling myself, even though I'm pretty sure Kip hasn't taken a road trip with any of the athletes he represents or spent an evening rubbing their muscular shoulders.

"Hey, Doll." Some Ken-Barbie looking cowboy is leaned up against the wall when I round the corner.

He reaches for my arm in a way that I don't appreciate, but I slink past--avoiding his touch--and brush him off with a forced smile and, "The name is Summer."

The guy smiles back, but it doesn't touch his eyes. Which is right when a leather glove wraps around my elbow followed by a deep, raspy, "Hey."

Rhett doesn't have to pull me hard. My body moves toward him like butter melts onto hot toast.

I turn my back on the other guy and look up at Rhett's stubbled, rugged face. Fuck. He really is hot. I've been trying so hard not to admit that to myself. But every now and then, just a glimpse of him hits me in the gut.

His hair is loose around his shoulders and he's still wearing the vest covered in sponsor logos over a button down shirt. A warm gray one this time, unbuttoned just enough for me to see the sprinkling of hair across what I already know is a perfectly toned chest.

I swallow, attempting to move my suddenly dry throat. "I don't even know what your score was," I blurt out stupidly. "But you were amazing."

His whiskey eyes go from pinched in the other guy's direction to warm and bright.