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I grimace at his retreating form. Goodness, he really shouldn’t be moving around like that…
A little over five weeks after surgery and you’d think Rhett Jameson has been given the all clear for full-weight bearing on his leg. But I know for a fact that’s not the case. I talked to his doctor last night. And he confirmed what I already knew—all this activity he keeps doing was not approved in his surgical discharge instructions. Not to mention, he should still be slowly transitioning from crutches.
I shudder to think about the last time he even used crutches to get around.
Or iced his knee.
Or stretched his knee.
Or took a fucking ibuprofen.
From the looks of his current activity mind-set, this cantankerous man is a poster child for everything you’re not supposed to do after a major orthopedic surgery.
Eventually, when I realize he’s almost out of my viewpoint, I follow his retreating form.
No way in hell I’m going to let this man out of my sight after everything I’ve been through to track him down. I woke up at four in the morning just to get him in my freaking sights, for fuck’s sake.
Half expecting that I’m going to have to resort to actually chasing him, I’m shocked when I find him grabbing a duffel bag out of the bed of his truck and turning back around to meet my gaze.
“Let’s go,” he says, but when I don’t respond, he smirks. “We got a long day ahead of us, and you’re driving.”
I almost ask him what the day actually entails but bite my tongue in the name of keeping the peace. I mean, he’s actually choosing to go wherever he wants to go in the same vehicle as me. That certainly feels like a monumental victory.
I’ll figure out the details of the day as they come.
“Looks like Tex gave you something more reliable to drive,” he notes when we reach the F-150.
“Yeah, though, I’m assuming it was more out of pressure from your mom than anything else.”
“I’d say that’s an accurate assumption,” he comments and opens the passenger door. “She’s about the only one who can pressure that hardheaded bastard into doing anything that isn’t his idea.” A sigh leaves his throat, and his voice is laced with just enough frustration that I know to stay far away from this line of conversation.
Rhett and his dad are on shaky ground at best, and I’d prefer not to add that to the mix of my already challenging task of convincing this stubborn cowboy grouch to let me help him rehab his knee.
Don’t forget, insanely hot cowboy.
I roll my eyes at myself. At this point, Rhett Jameson’s looks don’t mean shit to me. All I’m focused on is doing the job I was hired to do.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
I shake myself out of my stupid, pointless thoughts and open the driver’s side door.
“So, uh, where we headed?” I ask once we’re both inside the cab and buckled into our seats.
“To enjoy the simple pleasures of ranch life.” He smirks over at me, but it’s not a pleasant smirk. Or even a friendly smirk. It’s more of an “I can’t wait to be an even bigger pain in your ass” kind of smirk.
Okayyy…whatever that means…
I start up the engine, and he proceeds to play navigator, giving me succinct directions to wherever it is we’re headed. Take a left at the bottom of the hill, veer to the right at the fork in the road, follow the path for another mile. That sort of thing.
Other than Rhett’s occasional instructions and the truck’s tires crunching on gravel and rocks, the cab is completely silent as we head down a long and winding path.
“Take a right here,” he says, and I follow his directives dutifully, turning onto a road that opens up to a big, gorgeous meadow with pretty yellow flowers.
It’s all so beautiful it takes a Herculean effort to keep my eyes focused on the road and not let them wander over the breathtaking view.
“The barn and stalls are just down there on your left,” Rhett says and points an index finger forward.
I nod and, eventually, pull us to a stop in front of an impressive-looking structure that is the barn and stalls. I know this because I already stopped by a few of the barns and stalls on this ranch during last week’s never-ending quest to find this cowboy bastard.
I cut the engine and turn a little in my seat to face him. “So, uh, now what do we do?”
“It’s feedin’ time.”
“We’re eating breakfast here?” I ask, scrunching my nose up in confusion.
I mean, considering I’ve only had some coffee, I could definitely use sustenance, but this doesn’t seem like the greatest place to dine.
“We’re not eatin’, darlin’.” He smirks and points toward a small, gated area where a few horses roam about. “They are.”
