Page 12 of A Game of Ruck (Carolina Rugby #2)

Holy. Shit .

Did he just do that?

Did Luca Warden , professional rugby demigod and walking thirst trap, actually hand my snooty cousins their perfectly contoured asses in front of the entire bridal party?

Like did all that really just happen?

Judging by the stunned silence and the way Lisa was blinking like she’d just been slapped with a monogrammed invitation to her own takedown, yes. Yes, he did.

And now he’s looking at me like I hung the moon.

“You ready to go,” he asks, his voice rough velvet, “or do you want to dance, Angel ?”

Angel .

Jesus.

My knees forget their job.

My heart decides it’s a drummer in a rock band.

And my brain? Yeah, she’s busy buffering.

“Um,” I manage, “we should maybe say hello to the rest of my aunts.”

I whisper it, like maybe if I say it too loud, he’ll realize what a hot mess I am and vanish in a puff of cologne and good genetics.

He nods, hand still warm in mine, and together we make the rounds.

My father’s two sisters are as warm as a pair of tax audits—tight smiles and disinterested nods.

I give them my most respectful good evenings because manners are survival in my family.

My uncle's wives, at least, smile politely and compliment my dress, which I suspect is their way of saying we see you trying, and we appreciate the effort.

Luca never lets go of me.

Not once.

Not when Brittany sneers from behind her wine glass.

Not when Lisa flips her hair and pretends, like she wasn’t just verbally eviscerated.

Not even when some older relatives whisper and tilt their heads in our direction like they’re wondering if I’ve been photoshopped into real life.

But eventually, cocktail hour ends, and I make a polite excuse to slip away to the ladies’ room.

I just need a second to breathe.

To recalibrate.

To remind myself that this is fake.

Only, as I exit the stall, I’m startled by a voice I didn’t expect.

“Oh my God! Annabeth! ”

I jump slightly and find Jasmine— sweet, youngest-cousin Jasmine —leaning against the marble counter with wide eyes and a guilty expression.

“Oh. Hi, Jas.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, heart still thudding.

She rushes over, voice low. “Look, I just want to say I’m sorry. Lisa can be, well, just so shitty sometimes. I honestly thought she asked you to be a bridesmaid. That’s what she told me.”

“It’s okay,” I say automatically. “I didn’t expect to be asked.”

Jasmine frowns. “Yeah, but your man sure has your back. That speech? The kiss? Holy crap. I don’t think David would ever stand up for Lisa like that.

Ever. And believe me Bridezilla knows it, too.

That’s the real reason she didn’t want you in her wedding party, I bet.

And David has been looking at you and Luca all night. ”

I blink. “Wait, what?”

She glances toward the door, lowers her voice even more. “OMG! Like you can’t tell? Lisa’s jealous of you. Always has been. I know it sounds insane, but it’s true.”

That does sound insane.

“Why would Lisa be jealous of me?” I ask. “She’s always been the prettiest. The most praised. The golden one. I just wanted her to be nice to me.”

“She’s jealous because Tio Miguel— her dad —doesn’t even notice her. And your dad?” Jasmine shrugs. “He treats you like you matter. Even if he’s busy sometimes, it’s clear he cares. You matter in his world. She’s never had that.”

My throat tightens.

“And as for looks? Luca was right. You’ve always been prettier than the rest of us. With your skin, and that hair, and your smile? I’ve always thought so. But you were never flashy about it. Never a show-off.”

“But I’m fat?—”

“Annabeth, you’re not fat. You have tits for days, and that ass? Lisa couldn’t get her plastic surgeon to recreate it for her no matter how much money she threw at him. You’re gorgeous, cuz. For real.”

My mouth opens, but I can’t make words come out.

“Anyway,” she says, nudging my arm with a warm smile, “I’m glad you have someone in your corner now. That’s awesome. You deserve it.”

Then she’s gone, leaving me stunned in a room full of mirrors that suddenly reflect a girl I don’t entirely recognize.

Because the thing is— do I really have someone in my corner?

Or is this just part of the game?

Is he just really good at playing pretend?

Luca Warden kisses me like he means it.

The way he looks at me sometimes? It’s like I’m responsible for hanging the stars.

And when he holds my hand? It’s like something sacred.

But this is all fake. Right?

Just part of the ruse.

So why does it feel more real than anything I’ve ever known?

I take a good look in the mirror before I exit the restroom, and for the first time in, well, maybe forever , I think I actually see me .

Not the girl trying to make herself smaller to fit someone else’s idea of what pretty looks like.

Not the dutiful daughter or the awkward plus-one, hoping not to be noticed by her cousins’ sneers.

But me. Annabeth freakin’ Martinez.

And damn.

I look good.

My hair is curled and glowing under the soft overhead lights. My skin’s got that lit-from-within thing going on, and my lips?

They look kiss-stung, a little swollen from being absolutely ravished by Luca Warden in front of half my extended family.

And this dress?

God bless the boutique saleswoman who made me try it on and the seamstress who tailored it to my body.

It clings in all the right places— hugs my curves like it was made for them.

My chest looks incredible. And my waist and thighs?

They're not a problem.

They're part of the package.

The whole voluptuous, powerful, I’m-here-so-deal-with-it package.

I used to think being a size 18 meant fading into the background.

Being the funny friend.

The one who didn’t get picked.

The one who should be grateful for scraps.

But maybe that was all a lie.

Maybe it isn’t just wishful thinking that a man like Luca Warden might want me.

Actually want me.

Not as a favor. Not for show. But because he sees me.

Because he wants this.

Maybe I’ve been way too hard on myself. Buying into all that tired bull society and my family spoon-fed me like gospel.

That big girls don’t get the fantasy. That we’re not the love interest. That we’re consolation prizes at best.

But the man waiting outside that door didn’t kiss me like I was a consolation.

He kissed me like I was the damn prize.

And maybe I am.

Maybe it’s time I stopped waiting to be given a happy ending and started writing my own.

Head high, heart pounding, I smooth my hands down my hips, square my shoulders, and walk out of the restroom like I own the place.

And there he is.

Luca Warden.

I swear he looks like something off a men’s underwear ad billboard.

And I almost can’t believe it, but he’s watching the door like he’s been waiting his whole damn life.

For me.

I take him in from head to toe in that moment, just appreciating how goddamn hot he really is.

Leaning against the opposite wall like sin incarnate in a tailored blazer and an open collar that shows the edge of his tattoo.

One ankle crossed over the other, arms folded across his broad chest, a lazy grin playing on his lips when he finally sees me.

Like he knows every fantasy I’ve ever had and is strongly considering making them all come true.

God help me.

Please let him be thinking about that.

“You okay?” he asks, gaze tracking my every movement.

I pause in front of him, my heels suddenly feeling too high, my stomach too full of butterflies.

“I don’t know,” I say, exhaling.

He straightens a little. “Did something happen?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I mean—yes. I mean,” I blink up at him. “What are you doing?”

He lifts a brow. “Standing here. Waiting for you.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head again, this time more emphatically. “I mean this. You . Us. That kiss. That speech. The way you keep touching me like it means something. What are you doing, Luca? Because I need to know if this is still part of the act.”

His expression sobers immediately.

The teasing drops away like a costume he no longer needs.

“I’m not acting,” he says simply.

My chest squeezes.

“You expect me to believe that?” I whisper.

He takes a step closer, then another, until I’m backed up against the marble wall, heat radiating from him like a furnace set to ruin me.

“I dare you to,” he says, voice low and deadly serious.

My breath catches.

“I dare you to believe that I meant every word I said out there,” he continues. “I dare you to believe that I kissed you because I wanted to. Because I couldn’t not kiss you. That I’d do it again in a heartbeat. That this thing between us? It’s not pretend for me. Not anymore.”

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“I’m not playing, Annabeth,” he says, reaching up to cup my cheek.

His thumb brushes just below my eye, soft as a prayer.

“But if you want me to back off, say the word and I will. If you need this to stay fake, I’ll fake it like a fucking Oscar-winner.

But if there’s even a small part of you that’s wondering what this could be? ”

His lips hover a breath from mine.

“Then I dare you to find out.”

Silence stretches between us, electric and heavy.

My heart’s thundering so loud I’m sure he can hear it.

Because he’s not acting.

And suddenly, I don’t want to either.