Flawless (Chestnut Springs, #1)(4)

When my vintage truck comes into view in the covered parking garage, I breathe out a sigh of relief. Is it a practical vehicle? Maybe not. But my mom gave it to my dad as a gift, and I love it for that alone. Even though it’s currently got rust spots and is painted with mismatched grays.

I have big plans for having it restored. A treat to myself. I want to paint it blue.

I don’t remember my mom, but in pictures her eyes were a steely color, and that’s what I want. A little nod to the woman I never really got to know.

Just need to find the time first.

Bag in hand, I hop into my truck. Cracked brown leather seats creaking slightly as I heave my tired body into place behind the wheel. It fires up to life, billowing a bit of dark exhaust as I pull out onto the freeway, heading straight to the city center. My eyes are on the road, but my head is somewhere else.

When my phone rings I take my eyes off the road only momentarily. I see my sister’s name flashing on the screen and can’t help but smile. Violet never fails to make me smile, even when everything around me is total shit. She’s calling me before I even had the chance to dial her.

Stopped at a red light, I slide the button to answer and tap for speaker phone. This truck definitely isn’t equipped with Bluetooth.

“Hey, Vi,” I answer, almost shouting to project my voice at the phone on the seat next to me.

“Hi.” Her voice overflows with concern. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine, I guess. Heading in to Kip’s office right now to find out what sort of damage I’ve done.”

“Yeah. Get ready. He’s worked up,” she mutters.

“How do you know?”

“I’m your emergency contact on file. He’s been blowing up my phone about you ignoring him.” Now she’s laughing. “I don’t even live there anymore. You need to update that.”

I smirk as I merge onto the highway. “Yeah, but you’re the only one who approves of my career and won’t show up to lecture me about quitting if something goes wrong. Basically, you’re stuck with the job.”

“So, I’ll have to leave my husband and kids to hop on a plane and sit at a hospital with you?”

Now that takes me back. Every time I got hurt as a teenager or young adult, it was Violet who took care of me. “You’re just so good at it. But fair point. I think Cole might kill me if I take you away from him.”

I’m poking fun. I like her husband a lot, which is saying something because I never thought she’d meet someone good enough for her. But Cole is. He’s also ex-military and kind of terrifying. I wouldn’t want to piss him off.

My sister just giggles now. Still fucking giddy over the guy, and I couldn’t be happier for her. “He would be fine. I could send him out your way if you need a bodyguard?”

“And leave his girls behind? He would never.”

She doesn’t laugh now. Instead, she makes a quiet grunting noise. “You know if you need me, I’m there, right? I know the others don’t understand. But I do. I can be there for you if you need it.”

And this is the thing with my little sister. She gets me. She’s a bit of a daredevil herself. She doesn’t condemn my career the way the rest of our family does. But she has her own life now. I don’t need her coddling me. She’s got her own kids to coddle.

“I’m good, Vi. Come for a visit with the whole family soon though, yeah? Or at the end of the season, I’ll drag my sorry ass out to you. Race you on a fancy racehorse. Kick your ass.” I try to joke, but I’m not sure my tone is all that convincing.

“Yeah,” she replies. And I swear I can see her chewing on her lip the way she does, about to say something but stopping herself. “I’ll probably just let you win because I feel so bad for you.”

“Hey. A win is a win,” I chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.

And all she responds with is, “I love you, Rhett. Be safe. But more than that, be yourself. You’re very loveable when you stay true to who you are.”

She’s always reminding me of this. To be Rhett Eaton, boy from a small town. Not Rhett Eaton, cocky bull rider extraordinaire.

I usually roll my eyes, but deep down, I know it’s good advice. One is the real me, the other is for show.

The problem is, not very many people know the real me anymore.

“Love you too, sis,” I say before hanging up and getting lost in my head as I cruise down the highway toward the city.

When I pull up at Hamilton Elite and nab an unusual street parking spot, I realize I’ve been so lost in my thoughts that I barely remember the drive. I tip my head back against the seat. Again. And take a deep breath. It’s hard to say for sure how much trouble I’m in, but based on how that woman scolded me publicly on the airplane, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess a fair bit of hot water.

But I know the people in this area. They’re hard-working. They’re proud. And they’ve got a chip on their shoulders from thinking that people from other walks of life don’t understand their struggle.

And maybe they’re right. Maybe the average Canadian doesn’t truly understand the backbreaking work that goes into farming. Into stocking our grocery store shelves.

But me? I do.

I just fucking hate milk. The whole thing is so bizarre that it’s almost funny.