Flawless (Chestnut Springs, #1)

by Elsie Silver

I look down and stop one side of my mouth from hitching up. She was so busy talking to me that she failed to notice the seat on the bike she chose was way too high for someone as short as her and tipped forward when she reached for the pedal.

Her cheeks are all pink like she’s embarrassed. I try to focus on the fact that she appears to be hilariously off balance rather than gawking at how insanely good she looks in gym clothes. The way they hug her curves could almost make a guy jealous. “Should I ask if they have any child-sized bikes you can ride?” “Very funny.” She hops off and eyes the bike like it’s personally offended her somehow. “I hate cardio.”

Her arms cross. “I’m perfectly capable of adjusting the seat on my own bike.” “Could have fooled me,” I mumble as I rotate the knob to loosen the post and drop it down. I raise an eyebrow at her to see if she plans on stepping closer so I can measure the seat for her, but she just continues to mean-mug me. So, I eyeball the height, shrug when it looks good enough, and then hop back onto my bike and start the warmup program.

Eventually, she reaches out and readjusts the seat. Up. Down. And then settles on the exact same spot I had it in the first place. Stubborn. “Ah, yes. That looks so much better,” I huff out while keeping my eyes trained on the road out front. I don’t need to turn my gaze on her to know she’s scowling at me. “Like I said, I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself. Especially if you’re going to be a snarky prick about helping me. What if I’d been injured?” I shake my head and bite back a smile. “Are you injured, Princess?” “No,” she grumbles as she hops back on and pedals. “But you are.” “I’m not. I’m fine.” “You’re a terrible liar.” Now it’s her turn to shake her head at me, but she doesn’t push it any further.

And she works hard. Harder than me. Because I’m too busy stealing glances at her and trying not to get caught.

But the way sweat shimmers on her skin is fucking distracting. The way her chest heaves and the pulse point in her neck flutters. It’s almost annoying. That I can’t stop stealing glances. That I’m so painfully aware of her right next to me. But the most annoying thing of all is that she doesn’t pay me any attention at all. And after twenty minutes, she hops off her bike, wipes it down, and walks away—giving me the most glorious view of her pert ass—without saying a goddamn word to me.

I’m fairly certain Shirley at the front desk sees me staring at Summer’s ass while she walks across the gym toward a squat rack. She raises her eyebrows at me and smiles knowingly, erasing any questions about whether she saw me.

I peek over at Summer again. She’s seated on the ground with her back pressed against a bench and a long barbell resting across her waist. When my gaze traces down to the end of it, my eyes bulge. The number of plates she has stacked there seems, well, almost impossible for a woman her size. But then her hips thrust up, and she lifts the bar with the strength of her . . . I don’t even know. Her ass? The way it’s clenching, the way her lips part on a heavy breath. It’s all just confirmation that I’m a fucking pervert. Just perverted enough to ditch my bike and wander over for a closer look. I don’t have to like Summer to be impressed by her, right? “What’s this one called?” I ask as I approach. “Hip thrust. Want to try?” Do I ever.

The way she’s staring up at me right now makes my dick twitch. She points down at the bar, though, and my hip spasms just looking at it. “No, thanks.” “Is it because you’re injured?” She gives me a flat, snarky little smile. I don’t think I’m fooling her at all.

She just sighs. “Okay. You’re not injured. But . . .” She rolls the bar off herself and pushes to stand before me. I watch a bead of perspiration roll down her chest, through the valley between her breasts, and straight into her hot pink sports bra. “Pretend a bull rider was injured.” Summer flips a palm in my direction and widens her eyes slightly. “What would be a common injury for him to deal with?” I regard her, seeing what she’s doing here and trying to decide if I want to trust her enough to go with it. “Hands and shoulders,” I blurt. She nods as my eyes drop to the bar she was hip thrusting. “And sometimes hips.”

I feel some of my tension seep out. I feel relief that this hasn’t turned into a scolding or a conversation about how reckless I am. And with my hands propped on my hips, I offer her a stiff nod. One she returns before putting me to work until my abs burn. Twenty minutes later, I wheeze, “I’m tapping out.” I flop back on the mat, absolutely brutalized by the petite powerhouse who just tried to murder me with her “specialized workout.” Specialized to kill me. “Okay, let’s stretch,” is how she responds as she tosses a mat down and kneels beside me. When I glance up at her, a faint smile touches her lips, and her eyes dart around my face. “Why do you look so pleased with yourself? I can see that evil little smile,” I pant out, still trying and failing to catch my breath.

“You like to torture men for kicks. Got it.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Only the ones who deserve it.” I huff out a laugh. Because I probably do deserve it.

I’m pushed up to sitting before she even finishes her sentence and find myself face-to-face with her. Closer than I should be, eyes glued to the way her lips move and the flashes of white teeth behind them as she chatters away. She has no idea how distracting she is.

Tiktok

the floor.” I missed most of what she was saying, but she’s oblivious.

middle of my chest and presses me back down to the floor. I think about how bad a chicken farm smells to keep from getting hard. And once I’m lying flat, spine propped over the rounded foam piece, I force myself to focus on the banks of lights above me and the clanking of machinery around me rather than the way she looks hovering over me and the quiet way she murmurs, “Good job.” She counts under her breath, and I let my eyes close, trying to relax onto the roller, letting myself soften into the stretch across my back and chest. The pain slowly easing when her touch moves to the front of my shoulder, gently pressing down, deepening the stretch. “How does that feel?” Summer’s voice is curious. I peer up at her, taking in the earnest expression on her face. The damp hairs at the base of her neck just below her ear. She really is fucking lovely. And all her attention is on me. “Really good,” I reply, my voice all gravel. Then I risk looking her in the eye as I husk a deep, “Thank you.”

She brightens, a soft, satisfied smile gracing her features. “You’re welcome. Any time.” And just like that, I think I have my first gym crush.

Awwwwww

Dad: Both. We could have him go out and order a glass of milk and call someone to snap photos. Summer: No. We’re not doing that. Don’t even suggest it. Dad: Why? Summer: Because he doesn’t like it.

I resolve not to mention that I almost climbed on top of him at the gym yesterday. That he looked good enough to eat and that he finally treated me like he might not totally hate me. “Huh. And he’s staying out of trouble?”

I’m not going to ride his ass unnecessarily.” She hums suggestively. “But would you let him ride yours?” “Okay, it’s been nice chatting! Bye!” “Prude,” she mutters.

I drag my bag down the hallway and meet Rhett at the front door to leave for the airport. He holds a fist over his mouth for a moment to stifle a laugh. I suppose laughing at me is preferable to the scowling we started with. “Is Kip hiding in that suitcase?” My lips twitch. “Shut up.” He doesn’t shut up. He says, “You know we’re gone for four days, right?” But he smiles at me. And it stuns me. All masculine confidence and playful allure.

I think it might be the sexiest smile anyone has ever given me.

Even the incessant texts from my dad about how things are going, what we’re doing, and is he keeping his hands to himself. Those parts have my eyes rolling, because even if Rhett and I are on friendly-ish terms, he would never be interested in someone like me. He’s made that abundantly clear. And that’s fine because I can’t take another heartbreak. My ex, Rob, put my heart back together and then tore it to shreds. I wish I could say I hate him. I should hate him. But it’s hard to extricate myself from him. There’s something intensely personal about letting someone inside your body that way. But right now, my heart feels just fine. Aside from the fact that it’s pounding as I look out into the dirt ring.

It’s obvious to me that he’s in pain. And I tell myself that’s why I’m nervous right now. The knee I have crossed over my leg is still bouncing as I click off my phone, but it doesn’t stop me from rapping my fingers anxiously against the screen.

Rhett told me earlier that he drew a good bull, and when I asked what that means, a slightly psychotic expression came over his face as his lips stretched into a toothy grin. “It means he’s going to want to kill me, Princess.” Princess. The fifteen-year-old in me fainted on the spot, because this time it didn’t have the bite of an insult. But the twenty-five-year-old me lifted a finger at him and said, “Don’t princess me, Eaton.” He chuckled and swaggered away to the locker rooms where all the riders get ready, not looking concerned at all. And I left him. Despite what Kip thinks I should do, I’m not barging into his dressing room to follow him around. We all have lines, and that’s mine.

Especially not when I catch sight of Rhett climbing onto the top of the fence. My heart stutter-steps. Yeah, I watched him on YouTube, but seeing it in real life is different. There’s something about a man who is damn good at what he does that holds an appeal for me. Every step is sure. Practiced. Full of confidence.

“Now the skirt makes sense,” she says kindly, eyeing my outfit. I don’t particularly care if I appear out of place. I feel good in skirts. Look good, feel good. And after years of not feeling good, wearing pretty clothes makes me feel good. So, I do it. Even if I look overdressed.

It’s downright hypnotic. Soothing. “That boy thinks he’s God’s gift to this sport,” the woman beside me says. Her statement has me sitting up a little taller, pinching my shoulder blades together, and tipping my chin up. Am I Rhett’s number one fan? No. But after spending a week with the guy, after seeing how hard he’s taking this whole thing—how vulnerable he was at the kitchen table that morning—my protective streak is fired up and ready to burn. I bite my tongue and turn my body away. If these were my last moments alive, I’d rather spend them enjoying the thrill of watching Rhett ride than mouthing off to some snarky super fan.

It has me audibly gasping and pressing a hand against my chest to push away the ball of tension building there. Rhett is poetry in motion. He doesn’t fight the bull, it’s like he becomes an extension of it. One hand up high, body swaying naturally, never losing balance. I check the clock, and somehow this ride feels much longer. It feels like he’s going to get killed before the buzzer sounds.

And when the buzzer finally sounds, all the noise and movement come rushing back in, everything in hyper focus as Rhett yanks at his hand. It’s not coming loose, he’s struggling, and suddenly I’m up on my feet, watching with bated breath.

The crowd cheers, but it’s not nearly as loud it was for Theo. In fact, it’s borderline quiet. Rhett stands in the middle of the ring, his shoulders drooping and his chin tipping down to his chest. His hand held protectively against his torso. He stares down at the toes of his boots, an almost-smile touching his lips, and I swear my heart breaks for him in that moment. Over a decade of putting his life on the line to entertain these people, and this is what he gets? So, I guess that’s why I put two fingers in my mouth and pull out the most useless skill I’ve ever learned. One I’ve mastered. I whistle so loud that you can hear it over everything. I whistle so loud that Rhett’s head snaps up in my direction. And when he sees me in the crowd,

grinning back at him, the sad look on his face washes away. Replaced by one of surprise. Our eyes lock, and for one moment, we trace each other’s features. Then, almost like that moment never happened, he shakes his head, chuckles under his breath, and limps out of the ring, the fringes on his chaps swinging as he goes. I gather my things to go meet him back in the staging area. I want to high-five him. Or give him a thumbs up. Or do some other equally professional celebration with him. But not before I bend down to the woman beside me who just told me he thinks he’s God’s gift to this sport and say, “Maybe he is.”

ALCHEMY

Kip: Just do what Summer says, you’ll be fine. Don’t stress. We got this. Rhett: Stop being nice to me. It’s fucking weird. And your daughter is a pain in my ass. Kip: Don’t be such a pussy, Eaton. Rhett: Better. Thank you.

Except for Summer. That woman surprises me at every turn. I can’t figure out what to make of her.

princess, but I’m second-guessing that assessment more every day. “Rhett!” I start at the voice, and wince when pain shoots down from my shoulder. I said I wouldn’t stop, but I’ll stop for Summer. I stop because there’s no avoiding her. She’s relentless, and she’s really fucking nice. Which makes me feel like a total dick for being growly at her. Turning stiffly, I see her petite form striding toward me like a splash of color in a sea of concrete, dirt, and brown fence panels. She’s paired her dark yellow sweater with a flowing skirt covered in some sort of flower print and a pair of high-heeled boots. Her leather jacket and purse are slung over her arm, and her heels click against the concrete, drawing attention from all sides. She carries herself like royalty, oblivious to the side-eye she’s getting from the people back here. Especially the buckle bunnies hanging around by the gates. “That was . . .” Her dark eyes go wide, sparkling like stars, and those cherry lips pop open wordlessly. “Just incredible. I think my heart is still racing.” Her excitement over my ride is real—not at all forced. The skin beneath the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks is a soft pink, and she sounds out of breath. Her encouragement shouldn’t feel this good. I shouldn’t like that she’s excited. So, I just say, “Welcome to the wild side, Princess.”

I wave her along but suck in a breath as I do. Pain lances up into my neck. I hear the clicking of her heels behind me, and then her hand slips over my elbow, dainty fingers splayed over the joint as she leans close and whispers, “Did you make it worse?”

Her fingers rub gently, making the fabric of my shirt rasp against my skin. Heat blooms through the joint in an unfamiliar way before she pulls away with a stiff nod.

And we stare. Actually, I glare. But this girl doesn’t back down. My eyes on her don’t make her nervous, and she just stares right back. Not saying a goddamn thing. Like she can read the thoughts running through my head. “Staring is rude, Summer.” She doesn’t smile. “Running yourself into the ground when you’re already injured is stupid. You need to take care of yourself.”

I cross my arms tighter across my body and clamp my molars together. “You going to play nursemaid now too? Go all Mary Poppins on my ass?” She sighs deeply, shoulders drooping as she does. “Do you remember the part where she daydreamed about holding one of those kids down and gagging them with a spoon full of sugar?” I go back to glaring now.

When the doors slide open, I storm out, leaving her behind. And I feel like shit about not letting the lady go first the entire way to the door of my room and into the scalding hot shower. The guilt almost outweighs the pain of removing all my clothes with a mangled shoulder.

“No!” I bark toward the door. These fucking buckle bunnies are relentless. It wouldn’t be the first time one followed me back to my hotel. But I don’t want that right now. And even if I did, I’m too sore to put out tonight. I’m not opening that fucking door for anyone. “Yes!” Summer barks back, banging again. “Open up.” Except maybe Summer.

Summer shoots me a dirty look and barges past me—without being invited in—toward the desk near the window overlooking the parking lot. She plunks a plastic bag on top of it and starts pulling out small boxes and tubes of cream. “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, taking another sip. “Taking care of you,” she mumbles, unboxing a bottle of pills with jerky movements.

“Why?” “Because you’re too dumb to take care of yourself. I went and bought some stuff at the pharmacy across the parking lot so we can try to patch you up.” “I don’t need your help.” She makes this adorable little growling noise that sounds like an angry kitten as she props her palms on the desk and drops her head down, staring at the glossy expanse between her hands. “Has anyone ever told you what a massive prick you can be?” I chuckle, kind of enjoying seeing her frustration bubble to the surface. I like our verbal sparring. Summer can keep up. She’s witty, and I like that about her. “Nope. You’re the first. Usually, it’s more about what a massive prick I have.” She huffs out a quiet laugh but doesn’t look up at me. “Nobody is going to care about your cock when you’re too broken to bang them, Eaton. Now put some clothes on.”

The things that come out of those cherry lips. I lift the cup back to my ...

I must really annoy her. And I kind of get off on that. I also get off on the way the word cock sounds on her lips. When she turns her attention back to me, our eyes lock, and for the briefest moment hers trail down my bare chest, landing on the cheap white towel wrapped around my waist. “Was I unclear?”

“Why are you doing this?” “Because it’s my job.” I go quiet because deep down that’s not the answer I was hoping for. “What did you hurt?” My eyes drop to her lips, pursed in displeasure. Need more bourbon.

She jiggles her hand at me. Pushy little thing that she is. I take the pills from her palm and toss them into my mouth, holding her gaze the entire time, even as I chase them with my last sip of bourbon. “Happy?” “Happier.”

And when we get back home, you’re seeing someone to help with this.” “We have a doctor on tour. I’m good, thanks. I’ll do physio once the season is over.” “Then go see the doctor.”

Her cheeks flush. “Why?” I snort because she definitely doesn’t get it. “He’ll tell me not to ride. Everyone tells me not to ride.” Her eyes widen. “Then don’t ride.” “I have to ride.”

With a few steps, I take a seat on the edge of the bed and confess, “Because I’m more myself on the back of a bull than I am any other time. I’ve only ever been a bull rider.” The frustration leeches out of her at that confession, and she regards me with so many questions in her eyes.

My head flips up, the tips of my hair brushing against the top of my shoulders. “You think I’m going to win?” All at once, I feel like the little boy who so badly wants attention, who wished his mom was there to see him do something impressive. The trouble-making shit disturber who didn’t care about getting a scolding because it was still attention. It meant someone cared about me, and as one of four kids with a single dad breaking his back to run a ranch, I sometimes got lost in the shuffle. She blows a raspberry as she moves toward the door. “You’re pure magic up there. Of course, you will. Now put your cream on and go to bed.” My chest warms as she reaches for the knob, and suddenly I don’t want her to leave at all. I want to hear all about how I look to her. It’s fucking lame. I clear my throat and blurt out what I’ve been trying to figure out since she mentioned the cream. “I don’t think I can lift my arm to put the cream on my shoulder.” She freezes, skirt swishing against her knees. On a heavy sigh, she turns back to me with an expression I can’t quite place on her face.