Chapter 3 Rhett
RHETT
It’s the annual Thornwood summer kick-off bonfire.
Half of Cedarbrook is here, sprawled across the yard by the main house in lawn chairs and truck beds. Coolers are nestled in the grass, and kids are shrieking as they chase fireflies near the tree line.
Molly is tucked against my side, her hand resting on my chest. She smells like vanilla, and is dressed in a yellow sundress that probably took her an hour to pick out.
She’s pretty—objectively pretty. The kind of pretty that looks good in photos and makes sense on paper.
I know I should want to slide my hand higher on her waist, pull her closer, and lean down to kiss her neck the way Cash is always saying I should.
But I don’t want to.
Three months of dating the sweetest girl in Cedarbrook, and I still can’t make myself care enough to do more than go through the motions.
It’s not like I don’t like girls. I do. I watch porn like any other guy, and I’ve had girlfriends before Molly—even slept with a few of them.
Got a decent body count for twenty-three, if I’m being honest. But every time, it feels like I’m just doing what I’m supposed to do—what everyone expects.
Like I’m following a script everyone else got that makes sense to them but just seems… boring, to me.
Cash never has this problem. He moves through girls like they’re revolving doors—easy and confident, genuinely excited about every new conquest. And Dawson’s got that swagger that makes most girls hang on his every word.
Even Tommy Peterson, who’s dumber than a bag of rocks, seems to actually enjoy this whole dance.
But me? I’m twenty-three years old and every interaction with Molly feels forced. Like I’m checking boxes on a list. Date the right girl. Kiss her at the right moments. Say the right things. It all just feels like work.
“You okay?” she asks, tilting her head up to look at me.
“Yeah, just tired,” I lie, forcing a smile.
She frowns slightly, that little crease forming between her eyebrows. “You’re always tired lately.”
She deserves better than this. Better than a boyfriend who tenses up every time she touches him, who makes excuses to avoid being alone with her, who kisses her with only half interest.
Before I can dig myself deeper into this hole, Cash appears with two beers, shoving one into my free hand hard enough that it sloshes. “Loosen the fuck up, big brother. You look like someone died.”
Molly laughs. “I keep telling him the same thing.”
Cash winks at her, shameless. “See? Even your girl knows you need to relax.” He takes a long pull from his beer, then scans the crowd with that restless energy he always carries.
“Dawson’s over by the trucks, talking horses with the Martin girl.
Probably trying to get into her pants. Good luck to him, that girl’s pussy is tighter than Fort Knox. ”
“Cash,” I mutter, glancing at Molly. Heat crawls up my neck, even though she doesn’t seem bothered.
A shit-eating grin spreads across his face. “What? It’s true. Remember when Tommy tried last summer? Poor bastard struck out so hard he didn’t come to The Bar for a month.” He shakes his head, laughing. “Had to go three towns over just to show his face at a bar again.”
“There’s Miss Tee!“ Molly waves, and sure enough, Mom is making her way through the crowd with her phone out, that gleam in her eye that means she’s in content-creation mode.
“Oh, Christ,” Cash mutters under his breath. “Here we go.”
“Boys!” she calls out. “Come on, let’s get a quick video—summer bonfire vibes, wholesome family fun. Rhett, put your arm around Molly properly. Cash, stop slouching and try to look like you weren’t just talking about something inappropriate.”
Cash shoots me a look that says busted, and I bite back a laugh.
I do as I’m told, pulling Molly closer. She melts into me, all soft curves and easy affection, and I feel my body lock up like a rusted gate. Every muscle goes rigid—my jaw clenches, and my hand sits stiff and awkward on her waist.
All the while, Mom’s recording, talking about Thornwood family traditions, summer in Cedarbrook, and how grateful we are to have this community.
“Perfect!” Mom chirps when she’s done, already reviewing the footage. “Molly, sweetheart, you look beautiful. Rhett, try to look like you’re enjoying yourself. And, Cash, fix your hat, you look like a delinquent.”
“I am a delinquent,” Cash says, but he adjusts his hat anyway. We all dance to Mom’s tune … eventually.
Suddenly, there’s a commotion near the beer coolers—some sort of loud laughter. All of us turn to look, and my stomach drops.
Colton Dawson.
He’s leaning against someone’s truck, all dark curls and ink-covered arms, a beer dangling from his fingers like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
He’s laughing at something one of the guys said and the sound of it cuts straight through the noise of the party like it always has.
Ever since high school, he’s never worried about being too loud.
He came out during freshman year of high school.
It’s a small town—didn’t take much for the news to spread quickly.
And when it did, people judged, talked, twisted their nose up at it.
But Colt never flinched. He just kept showing up, exactly as he was, until, eventually, the town ran out of things to say about it.
Until it just became a part of who he was, the same way the ranch was part of who I was.
Most people made their peace with it, and I never understood the ones who didn’t. What was spreading shit about it ever going to accomplish? Bully a man into the closet? Hope he changed his mind? I never understood the friends who wanted to belittle him for it.
But I wanted nothing to do with him, either. Even with my mother and his aunt as close as they were. After he came out, I kept my distance, told myself it was easier that way. Told myself it had nothing to do with me.
I got real good at telling myself things back then.
I look away before he can catch me staring.
“Is that Colton Dawson?” Molly asks, following my gaze. Her voice has that careful curiosity that means she’s heard stories, even though she was probably a sophomore when we were seniors. “I heard he was back in town.”
“Yeah.” Cash takes another drink. “Played pool with him last night. Dude’s still a smartass, but he’s alright. He’s working at the ranch this summer.”
The beer turns to ash in my mouth. “What?”
Cash shrugs. “Mom set it up with Aunt Aria. Some vet tech experience thing for his degree or whatever. Thought you knew.”
I didn’t know. Nobody told me.
“You two have history, don’t you?” Molly asks carefully.
“Ancient history. Not worth talking about,” I mutter, taking another drink.
He’s dressed in a tight black T-shirt and jeans with rips at the knees and a chain around his neck. He turns then, like he can feel me staring at him, and our eyes lock across the fire.
Fuck.
He pushes off the truck and starts walking toward us.
“Rhett Thornwood,” he drawls when he’s close enough. His voice is rough, like gravel and smoke, and it does something to the air between us. Makes it feel heavier—harder to breathe.
I force my face into neutrality. “Colton.”
“Colt,” he corrects as his eyes flick to Molly, dragging over her with casual assessment before returning to me. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
Molly extends her hand. “Molly Whitmore. Nice to meet you.”
Colt takes her hand, but his eyes never leave mine. “Lucky guy.”
“We’re very happy,” Molly says, squeezing my arm.
“I’m sure you are.” Colt takes a drink, his gaze dragging over me. “Rhett always did like to do what he was supposed to.”
Cash clears his throat, clearly sensing the tension, but he’s grinning like this is entertainment. “So, Colt, you sticking around all summer? Or you gonna bail like last time?”
“Nah, I’m here for the long haul. Like you said, good for my degree—I’ll get hands-on work experience. Learn from the best.” His eyes cut to me. “Right, Rhett?”
Before I can tell him to fuck off, Dawson appears at my elbow, oblivious to the tension. “Hey, Colt! Good to see you, man.”
The shift in Colt is immediate and jarring. His smile becomes genuine, his posture relaxing, like someone flipped a switch. “Dawson, how’s that colt doing? Still giving you hell?”
Dawson laughs. “Growing like a weed. You should come and see him. He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s got personality.”
“Runs in the family,” Colt says, and Dawson grins like it’s a compliment.
They fall into easy conversation about horses—feed schedules, training techniques, and some foal Dawson’s been working with. Cash jumps in with some story about Dawson getting kicked last month, complete with a dramatic reenactment.
I stand there, feeling like an outsider in my own life, watching my brothers laugh with him like he’s one of them. Like there isn’t history. Like senior year never happened. Like he didn’t say those things to me that I’ve spent five years trying to forget.
Molly chatters with some girls who’ve wandered over, pulled into their orbit, and I’m left standing there with a beer I don’t want, watching Colt fit seamlessly into my family like he belongs here.
Like I’m the one who doesn’t fit.
“Yo, Rhett,” Cash says, nudging me with his elbow hard enough to slosh my beer. “You good? You’re being weird.”
“I’m fine. Just gonna get another beer.”
I escape toward the coolers before anyone can follow.
The night air is lighter away from the fire, and I take a moment to breathe—to let my shoulders drop, to stop performing for five goddamn seconds.
I grab a beer from the cooler, the ice-cold water numbing my fingers, and press the bottle against my forehead, trying to clear my head. Trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me, and why Colton Dawson showing up has me this rattled.
“Running away?”
The voice comes from behind me, and I know who it is before I turn around.