lips. I ask myself what I always do. If this were my last moment alive, how would I want it to be? My eyes flutter shut, and I suck in a deep breath, like that might help me grow some extra patience to deal with the big asshole bull rider assigned to me. Because in my last moments, I’d want to feel happy. If I step out of this car and get run down, I want to go out feeling good, not pissed off at some long-haired, broad-shouldered, round-assed cowboy. That is not how Summer Hamilton goes. Not today, Satan. Then my door is wrenched open. “Are you having a stroke?” Rhett peers down at me, lips
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