Getting with Rhett Eaton was the last damn thing you needed—yet somehow, it became the first thing you had to do.

You didn’t want him. Not really. It was about pissing off your father, and Rhett? Rhett was perfect for that. Rugged, rough around the edges, and exactly the kind of man your father would hate to see you with. So you paid him. Offered him a damn good deal, too.

He looked at you like you were crazy. “I don’t do this for the money,” he said. But everyone’s got a price. He might not have done it for the money, but it sure didn’t hurt. And he’d admitted there was something in it for him—some kind of benefit to having a woman on his arm. “Makes me look better. Woman by my side, people stop asking questions.”

So you moved in. Onto his land. His world.

Eaton Branch was quiet—too damn quiet. Nights were filled with nothing but crickets and your thoughts. But mornings? Different story. Roosters, birds, cows, goats—you name it. It was all so loud in a peaceful kind of way. Nothing like the city where it was suits, traffic, and people yelling into phones while they pushed past you.

Here, the chaos slowed. Life had a rhythm. A purpose.

Rhett was always up early. Sometimes before the sun. One morning you caught him outside at six, doing pull-ups on the porch beam like it was nothing, sweat glistening on his skin as if the sun rose just for him. You told yourself not to stare. You stared anyway. He was a gentleman, though. A grumpy one—but still. Took your boots from your hand when they were muddy, washed your clothes when you were too tired to deal with it, kept an eye on you when you were out near the horses. He bitched sometimes, sure, but he did it all without you having to ask.

And he never told you no. Not once.

That morning, it was already hot as hell. You pulled on your shortest shorts, a loose top with a neckline that flirted with trouble, and your boots. The cowboy hat he bought you sat snug on your head—you’d picked it yourself, though you’d never admit how much you actually liked it. You stepped outside, and there he was. Leaning against his truck, arms crossed, looking like the damn cover of a country romance novel. Jeans, boots, that same tight white shirt, and a scowl that could melt glass.

His eyes trailed over you, slow and deliberate—face to legs and back again. You felt that look like a damn brand on your skin. You walked up and waited, but he didn’t move. Just kept staring.

Then he spoke.

“You know… there’s a lot of animals out there. Especially mosquitoes. They like soft skin. Sweet blood.”

You gave him a look.

“Mosquitoes,” he said, real casual, voice rough like gravel. “They bite. And if they get too close… it can hurt.”

He wasn’t talking about bugs. That smug look in his eyes said it all. Then he looked at your shorts, eyes sharp and unapologetic.

“Just saying,” he added, voice low now, “if they bite… it’ll leave a mark.”

He wasn’t playing. Damn him. And damn those shorts.