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“Thank you, Doctor.” I nod and slip out the door.
Rhett isn’t in the waiting room or the hallway. I hope he’s in the parking lot, and sure enough, that’s where I find him.
Leaning against my truck, elbows resting over the bed, he faces away from me. The need to reach out to him, hold him, and comfort him grows stronger by the second, but there are a few things we need to discuss first.
“If you’re going to grill me about quitting, I’d rather not hear it,” he announces.
I rest my hand on his back, hating that he flinches at my touch. “We’re going to talk about this, but not right now. Right now I’m starving, and you promised to feed me.”
Rhett straightens his back and turns to face me. His jaw is set in a firm line, and I reach up and smooth my fingers down the side of his face. The tension eases some; I’ll have to work on the rest.
“I’d rather talk about it now and get it over with.”
I kiss his lips. “And I’m dying for some food. Isn’t your friend Lincoln supposed to have dinner with us before we head home?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I can’t wait to meet him, and I’d rather not be cranky when that happens. If we talk about everything now, that’s likely to happen.”
“I’m not changing my mind on this, Mo. I’m not quitting.”
“I know you’re not.” My hand falls to my side.
Rhett’s phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and answers with a surly, “Hello?” He listens for a moment. “Yeah, we’re heading there now… See you in a few.”
“That was Linc,” he says, stuffing his phone in his pocket. “He’s at The Broken Boot waiting on us.”
Rhett opens my door, shutting it after I’m buckled in, and he climbs into the driver’s seat.
The Broken Boot isn’t far, and within fifteen minutes we’re walking through a set of heavy front doors. The smell of smoke is the first thing I notice; the second is the number of cowboy hats.
“That’s a lot of cowboys.”
“Eyes on me,” Rhett says, taking my hand.
We’re held up three times as we wind through tables and pass the bar. Rhett stops to shake some hands and talk shop. He introduces me to several men whose names I’ll never remember—some are old, some are young, but it’s clear they all share a common love.
Bull riding.
The rodeo is these guys’ life. It’s hanging on the wall, printed on their shirts—it’s playing on the TV.
“You must be Monroe.”
The smooth southern voice startles me, and I turn. I’ve never met Lincoln, but I recognize him from the picture on Rhett’s mantel.
“And you must be Lincoln Bennett.”
I release Rhett’s hand, which he barely seems to notice because he’s sucked into conversation with an older gentleman. Lincoln curls his fingers around mine, and rather than shake my hand, he kisses my knuckles.
“Rhett could be a minute. I’ve got a table for us back here,” he says, leading me to a booth at the back of the place. I tap Rhett’s shoulder on my way past, pointing toward Lincoln, and he nods.
“I’ll be right there,” he says.
Linc and I slide in on opposite sides. He reaches for his beer and takes a drink.
“Rhett has told me so much about you.”
“He has?” That’s surprising, considering he hated me until not that long ago.
