An all-new hilarious, enemies-to-lovers RomCom is out this week from Max Monroe, and I have a sneak peek for you.
Gravel crunches under my shoes as I stomp away from Rhett, and I don’t stop my fast pace until I reach the truck.
“The fucking nerve of him,” I mutter to myself.
I was going to fucking do it!
I could’ve easily done it, but then Rhett decided to step in and stop me before I could even get started.
Seriously, what the hell is his problem?
It’s like he wants to make everything as difficult and exasperating as possible for me.
I roll my eyes and swing open the driver’s side door of the loaned F-150. Once I hop inside, I slam my hands against the steering wheel and let out a harsh exhale while I mentally curse Rhett Jameson.
Broody, asshole cowboy.
If he isn’t acting like a pompous ass about his beloved ranch and all the responsibilities that come with it, he’s acting like he went to fucking medical school and knows how to handle his own knee injury.
God, he’s infuriating.
Maybe the most infuriating man I’ve ever met in my life.
Which, considering my dad is a real piece of selfish, irresponsible work, I would’ve thought no one would be able to take his coveted top spot.
Apparently, though, I was completely wrong.
Rhett Jameson is—
“Rhett Jameson is what?”
The deep, husky voice startles me, and I look to my right to find the cowboy-devil himself standing there, the passenger side door wide open and his eyes directed at me.
I have no idea how long he’s been standing there or how long I’ve been verbalizing my inner monologue out loud. Shit.
“Go on,” he continues, and I don’t miss the way his lips crest up into a knowing, confident smirk. “Finish what you were saying, darlin’. I mean, with all that passion you had backing up them words of yours, it sounds like it’s somethin’ you need to get off your chest.”
“No, that’s okay,” I retort and narrow my eyes toward him. “I’m going to keep my thoughts to myself.”
“It’s a little late for that, wouldn’t you say?” he tosses back, and that stupid smirk only grows wider. “So, go on. Tell me how you really feel.”
I glower at him, and he just continues to stare back at me, far too relaxed and amused for my liking. I should probably feel like a kid who just got caught with their hand in the cookie jar, but if anything, I just feel more pissed.
Like, infuriatingly pissed.
The kind of anger that makes your blood boil and your reactions occur before your brain even has time to contemplate them.
“I’m waitin’,” he says, crossing his muscular arms over his chest.
The combination of those two words and his smug expression is what pushes me over the edge.
“Fine,” I spit, my words completely fueled by emotion rather than actual logic. “You want to know how I really feel?”
“I’m all ears, darlin’.”
“I think you’re being a real asshole, Rhett Jameson. And you’ve been nothing but a pompous, know-it-all prick to me since I stepped foot on this ranch,” I proclaim, and his response is the opposite of what I’d expect.
Instead of getting offended or mad, he simply chuckles. “Considering I think you’re a real pain in my ass, then I’d say we’re pretty much even, wouldn’t you?”
“I’m a pain in your ass?” I question and scrunch up my nose in annoyance. “Pretty sure it’s the other way around.”
He eases himself into the passenger seat and shuts the door. “You remember how to get back to the lodge from here?” he asks, but I’m not ready to leave yet. Oh no. Pandora’s box of bullshit has been opened, and I have more to say.