Flawless (Chestnut Springs, #1)(3)

“Yeah, Summer. That’s exactly what he needs. And I know the perfect person for the job.”

And based on the way he’s looking at me right now, I think Rhett Eaton’s new babysitter just might be me.





2





Rhett





Kip: Pick up your phone, you pretty motherfucker.

Rhett: You think I’m pretty?

Kip: I think you picking that one specific detail out of my text means you’re an idiot.

Rhett: But a pretty one?

Kip: Answer. Your. Fucking. Phone.

Kip: Or be here at two p.m. so I can shake you in person.





The plane touches down at the Calgary airport, and I’m relieved to be home.

Especially after the clusterfuck that was the last couple of days.

The guy I punched isn’t pressing charges, but I’m not sure how much money my agent, Kip, offered him to make that happen. It doesn’t matter. If anyone can make this all go away, it’s Kip.

He’s been trying to call me, which is a clue he’s losing his mind because we have more of a texting relationship. Which is why when I power my phone up before I’m supposed to, I’m not surprised to see his name lighting up my screen.

Again.

I haven’t answered because I’m not in the mood for listening to him yell at me. I want to hide. I want silence. Birds. A hot shower. Some Tylenol. And a date with my hand to ease some tension.

Not necessarily in that order.

That’s what I need to get my head back in the game. A quiet break at home while this blows over. The older I get, the longer the season seems, and somehow, at only thirty-two years old, I feel old as balls.

My body hurts, my mind is overfull, and I’m craving the quiet of my family ranch. Sure, my brothers are going to annoy the fuck out of me, and my dad is going to talk to me about when I’m planning on quitting, but that’s family. That’s home.

I suppose there’s a reason us boys keep coming back. We’re co-dependent in a way our little sister isn’t. She took one look at a bunch of grown-ass men living on a farm together and got the hell outta dodge.

I make a mental note to call Violet and check up on her all the same.

My head tips back against the cramped seat while the plane rolls to a stop on the runway. “Welcome to beautiful Calgary, Alberta.” The cabin fills with the flight attendant’s voice and the loud clicking of people undoing their seatbelts before they’re supposed to.

I follow suit. Eager to get out of the small seat and stretch my limbs.

“If Calgary is home for you, welcome home . . .”

You’d think that after over a decade of playing this game, I’d be better at booking my flights and hotels. Instead, I’m constantly scrambling to grab a last-minute spot, which suits me just fine. Even though I’m feeling a little claustrophobic.

When the person beside me files out into the aisle, a sigh of relief whooshes from my lungs. I can’t let myself sink into that intense tiredness yet. I still have to grab my truck and drive an hour outside the city to Chestnut Springs.

“Please remember that smoking is not permitted inside the terminal. . .”

And before that, I have to go meet with my pit bull of an agent. He’s been barking at me since last night about not answering my phone.

Now, I’m going to have to face the music for my poor behavior.

I groan inwardly as I reach up to grab my duffel bag from the overhead compartment.

Kip Hamilton is the man I have to thank for my current financial situation. Truth be told, I like him a lot. He’s been with me for ten years, and I almost consider him a friend. I also dream about punching his clean-shaven face pretty regularly. A double-edged sword, that one.

He reminds me of an older, more debonaire version of Ari Gold from Entourage, and I fucking love that show.

“Thank you for flying Air Acadia. We look forward to hosting you again.”

The line of people finally starts to move toward the exit, and I shuffle toward the aisle of the plane, only to feel a firm poke in the middle of my chest.

When I peer down the bridge of my nose, I’m met with furious blue eyes and a pinched brow on a short frame. A woman well into her sixties glares up at me.

“You should be ashamed of yourself. Insulting your roots that way. Insulting us all who work so hard to put food on the tables of our fellow Canadians. And then assaulting a man. How dare you?”

This part of the country prides itself on farming and rural life. Calgary is home to one of the biggest rodeos in the world. Hell, some people call the city Cowtown for how tightly tied the ranching and farming community is to the city.

I grew up on a massive cattle ranch, I should know. I just never knew not liking milk was a crime.

But I give her a solemn nod anyhow. “No insult intended, ma’am. We both know the farming community is the backbone of our fine province.”

She holds my eyes as she rolls her shoulders back and sniffs a little. “You’d do well to remember that, Rhett Eaton.”

All I offer back is a tight smile. “Of course,” I say, and then I trudge through the airport with my head down. Hoping to avoid any more run-ins with offended fans.

The interaction sticks with me throughout baggage claim and out to my pickup truck. I don’t feel bad about punching that guy—he deserved it—but a spark of guilt flicks in my chest for potentially hurting my hard-working fans. That’s something I hadn’t considered. Instead, I’ve spent the last several days rolling my eyes over my milk hatred making the news.