Flawless (Chestnut Springs, #1)(5)
I walk into the opulent building. Everything is shiny. The floor. The windows. The stainless-steel elevator doors. It makes me want to go smudge my hands all over them just to mess things up.
The security guard gives me a nod on the way past, and I step into the elevator with a bunch of well-dressed people. I roll my lips together to smother the smirk when one woman glares at me with barely restrained judgment.
Worn cowboy boots. Wouldn’t surprise me if there was still cow shit on the sole. Perfectly broken-in jeans topped off with a brown shearling jacket. My hair is long, just how I like it.
Wild and unruly. Just like me.
But not how this woman likes it. In fact, the repulsion painted on her face is clear as day.
So, I wink at her and give her a way over the top, “Howdy, ma’am.” Alberta boys don’t have twangy accents, but when you spend your life at rodeos with guys who do, it’s pretty easy to imitate. I only wish I had a cowboy hat with me to complete the picture.
The woman rolls her eyes and then jams a finger at the button that reads CLOSE DOOR. The next time the doors glide open, she storms through them without a backwards glance.
I’m still chuckling about it when I get to the floor that is home to Hamilton Elite, and based on the way the receptionist’s eyes light when I walk in, she doesn’t share the elevator woman’s perception of me.
Truthfully, most women don’t. Buckle bunnies, city girls, country girls. I’ve always been equal-opportunity, and I do love women. Less so relationships.
A walk on the wild side is what one woman recently called me after we spent a full day locked up in a hotel room celebrating my win in a way that was fun in the moment but left me feeling a little hollow at the end.
“Rhett!” Kip’s voice booms across the foyer before I even have a chance to chat up the girl at the front desk.
Total cock blocker.
“Thanks for coming straight here.” He strides toward me and shoves a hand in my direction before shaking mine so hard that it’s almost painful. This handshake is his way of taking out some aggression on me for whatever pickle I’ve gotten myself into. The fake, pinched smile on his face is proof of that. The owner of this agency doesn’t make a habit of greeting his clients at reception, which means I’ve definitely stepped in it.
“Not a problem, Kip. I pay you the big bucks so that you can boss me around, right?”
We both laugh, but we also both know I just reminded him I’m the one paying him here. Not the other way around.
He claps me on the back, and my teeth shake. He’s a big man. “Follow me. Let’s chat in the conference room. Congratulations on your win this weekend. You’re going on quite the streak this year.”
I have no business winning as many events as I have been this season at my age. I should be on the downhill slide of my career, but the stars are aligning right now. And Three-Time World Champion sounds a lot better than Two-Time World Champion. And three gold buckles on my shelf would look better than two.
“Sometimes the stars align.” I grin at him as he ushers me into a room that holds a long table surrounded by generic-looking black office chairs with a generic-looking man sitting in one. Brownish, close-cut hair. Brownish eyes. Gray suit. Bored expression. Manicured nails. Soft hands. City boy.
Next to him is a woman who is anything but generic. Deep brown hair that shines an almost mahogany color when the sun hits where it’s twisted into a tight bun on the crown of her head. Her black-rimmed glasses are a smidge too strong on her dainty, doll-like face, but her almost overfull lips painted a deep, warm pink somehow balance them out.
The ivory dress shirt she’s wearing buttons all the way up, lace trim wrapped tight around her throat. There’s a slightly bemused twist to her mouth, but her arms are crossed protectively across her chest and sparkling chocolate eyes give nothing away as she sizes me up from above the top rim of her glasses.
I know better than to judge a book by its cover. But the word uptight flits across my mind while I assess her all the same.
“Take a seat, Rhett.” Kip pulls out a chair directly across from the woman and smoothly folds himself into the seat beside me before steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
I flop down and push away from the table, crossing a booted foot over my knee. “Alright. Give me my spanking so I can go home, Kip. I’m tired.”
My agent quirks a brow and regards me carefully. “I don’t need to give you a spanking. You’ve officially lost the Dairy King sponsorship, and I think that’s probably bad enough.”
I rear back, and my neck flushes. That same sensation of getting in trouble as a child. Missed curfew. Jumped off the bridge with the big kids when I wasn’t supposed to. Trespassed on the Jansens’ farm. There was always something. I was never not in trouble. But this is different. This isn’t childhood fun and games. This is my livelihood. “You have to be kidding me.”
“I wouldn’t kid about this, Rhett.” His lips flatten, and he shrugs. The look says I’m not mad, I’m disappointed. And I hate that distinction, because deep down, I hate failing people. When they’re mad, it means they care about you. They want better for you. They know you’re capable of better. When they’re indifferent like this, it’s almost like they expected you to blow it.
It’s why I’ve always said I don’t care what people think of me. Then they don’t have the power to make me feel like this—clearly, it’s not working.