Page 63 of The Love Rematch
Her heart sinks.
He doesn’t seem bothered. Ethan takes his feet from the stirrups, still focused on the dummy, and throws himself to the side.
He’s airborne.
He’s a human cannon.
He hits the dummy at full speed. They both fall to the ground and roll. A second passes. Then two. They’re so still it’s hard to tell beneath all that armor who’s alive and who’s made of straw.
“Ethan!” Emily shouts, fear shooting up her throat. She takes off across the field, skirts billowing behind as she lifts them to run.
“A medic!” one of the crew shouts. “Get a medic!”
Emily drops to her knees by his side. The dummy is on top, and she pushes the stupid thing out of the way. Ethan is still. She gently tugs off his helmet.
“Ethan? Ethan!”
His black hair is in disarray. A bead of blood trickles down his forehead. She cups his cheek, relieved to find his skin is still warm.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Talk to me, Ethan. Say something!”
His bright green eyes pop open. A dimple digs into his cheek. He says two words. “I won.”
Then he reaches up, grabs the back of her head, and pulls her down into a searing kiss. Relief more than anything else makes her laugh against his lips.
“You’re an idiot,” she whispers.
“You’re worth it.”
The words make her light up inside. He always manages to say the right thing, the perfect thing. The kiss goes on longer than it should. The cameras suck in every moment.
It’s television gold.
And the look in Ethan’s eyes as he finally lets her go makes it clear that he knows it—knows his scene will be the one to make the promos, to tug on the heartstrings of millions of women across the country. He got exactly what he wanted.
She did, too.
Across the field, Jake scowls. Storm clouds practically thunder around his head.
I’m not yours, Emily thinks.Not anymore.
Two of the next four suitors win kisses. Emily happily grants each one, her ex watching on with an increasingly ominous expression. She can practically hear her sister chanting in the back of her mind.
Revenge.
Revenge.
Cooper is the last to go. He’s a cowboy in every sense of the word. At home on his horse. Not bothering to use the reins but guiding the animal with his legs alone. The lance fits naturally in his hand as if it takes no effort to hold. With a click of his tongue and kick of his heels, he takes off at a thunderous gallop down the line. Dust gathers in his wake. He’s a renaissance fantasy come to life. Hell, the tights only highlight the bulging muscles in his legs as he rises to a crouch. The tip of the weapon doesn’t move. It’s steady, unflinching.
Emily’s jaw falls open as she watches.
I might be drooling.
Her head drops forward, her eyes glued to him.
Shit. I might actually be drooling. On national TV.
It doesn’t even matter. Let the cameras catch her salivating over this god of a man, who cares? Every woman in America will be too—she may as well join them.
