Hot Rival Summer (Hot Summer #4)

Chapter 1

Jett

"How are you feeling?"

I snap my head to Wilkin, sitting beside me in the back seat of the SUV. "Fuck off."

"Right. Okay."

His lips shift into that smug smile I've had to contend with my entire life as I've watched Wilkin Hurst snatch every opportunity, every job, everything I've ever wanted, away from me.

And now, because we both witnessed a violent altercation involving one of the producers on Keeping Up With the Veterinarians, the reality TV show we work on, we've been forced into a temporary protective relocation for our own safety until the trial.

Just. Fucking. Dandy.

Spending summer stuck with the guy I hate most in the world in a town with the worst name in the world.

Cumcircle.

Is this seriously my life?

Wilkin's gone back to staring out the window, his jaw set tight with thought, his golden-blond hair a little longer on top than he normally has it.

To make matters even worse, we get mistaken for being related all the frigging time. Growing up in the same small town, everyone assumed we were cousins. Although that may have had something to do with the fact we both grew up poor as dirt in the same trailer park.

But even as adults, when I first started on KUWTV, everyone came up to me and asked if we were connected.

We're not.

Never have been. Never will be.

In any way.

Because while we may look similar, we are complete opposites in every other way. He gets all the breaks. The recognition. The success. I'm stuck with whatever paltry leftovers remain.

He's calm, methodical, and thinks before he speaks whereas I fly off the handle way too easily and mouth off way too much.

Do I like being like this? No. But when life gives you no other choice, what else can you do but develop armor and fight and claw for every little thing?

I fold my arms and stare out the window. Sweeping meadows shimmer in the early summer heat, and hydrangeas burst blue and pink against gray, cedar-shingled cottages. Where are we even staying? Wherever it is, I hope the place is big enough that we won't have to see each other.

Mr. Perfect exhales through his perfect nose and angles his perfect head to me. "You sure you don't want to talk about what we saw back in LA? It was pretty traumatic."

Seeing someone getting the crap beaten out of them isn't like it is in the movies or on TV shows. In real life, it's horrifying and brutal and really fucking scary.

But Wilkin is the last person in the world I want to talk to about it.

Or anything, for that matter.

"Fuck off," I spit out and turn back to the open fields.

This is going to be the worst summer ever.