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

This is officially the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

And I say that as someone who once tried to bleach her own eyebrows in eighth grade and ended up looking like Voldemort’s chubby cousin.

But here I am.

At a freaking rugby bachelor auction.

In Consequence, North Carolina.

Because apparently, when your best friend lands a big-deal marketing job for a new professional rugby team, you’re contractually obligated to fly across the country and sit in a room full of screaming women ready to throw down their rent money for a date with a guy who thinks deodorant is optional and ball-handling is a lifestyle.

All this for Daniela.

Who I met in CCD class— like Sunday school for Catholics —before we made our first holy communion back at St. Christopher’s Church in Chester, New Jersey.

Who I love and remain close to, even though she moved to NC later that same year.

Who I would absolutely take a bullet for.

But, dear God , what am I doing here?

I glance down at my auction paddle— number 69.

Because of course it is.

As if I needed another reminder that the universe works in mysterious ways and with the humor of a prepubescent boy.

No. No.

This is fine.

I’m fine.

I am a confident, capable, size-18 woman with a net worth that includes quite a few zeroes and a private jet.

I do not need to have a panic attack because a room full of fitness influencers and human Barbies are looking at me like I wandered into the wrong party.

Spoiler alert: I did.

I’m not the kind of woman athletes tend to go for.

I know this.

I accepted it a long time ago.

I’m short.

I’m curvy in that “needs custom tailoring” kind of way.

And while I could buy a runway model ten times over, money has never made me thin— or interesting to guys like this.

Plus, I don’t know sports. And I mean that to the depths of my marrow.

No matter how I try, I simply don’t understand them.

Especially not rugby.

Like what even is it?

Football with fewer rules and more blood?

I should’ve Googled it.

Or watched a YouTube tutorial.

Or something.

I feel ridiculously unprepared all of a sudden.

But no matter. I’m here now. With my paddle. In the middle of this ridiculous auction, about to throw down actual cash to buy a man like he’s a handbag at an estate sale.

And not just any man.

Him.

Blonde. Beautiful. Built like a Greek statue sculpted by someone horny and drunk on tequila.

And smug in that “yes, I know I’m hot and I’m not even trying” kind of way.

I spotted him the second he stepped onto the stage. And I knew.

I just knew.

That’s the one.

I need him.

No, not for that.

Get your mind out of the gutter, perv!

Plus, I’m not delusional.

The odds of him looking at me and thinking “yes, her, I would like to ravage her under the stars” are about as high as me being cast in the next Victoria’s Secret campaign.

But I have a plan.

It’s dumb. But I have it.

You see, my cousin Lisa— size zero, soul of a succubus —invited me to her destination wedding in Playa de Sol this weekend.

You know how people say your cousins are your first best friends?

Well, not us. Enemies since birth is more like it.

And when she sent the RSVP, she made sure to add a very pointed, “Let us know if you’ll need your plus one or if you’re still flying solo!”

Flying solo.

Like I’m some sad, single pigeon who should just give up and join a convent already.

So, no. I’m not flying solo .

Not this time.

I’m bringing a date.

A hot one.

One who will make Lisa, and all my size-two cousins, clutch their pearls and whisper to each other about how lucky I must be.

That’s where Golden Boy comes in.

Daniela swears the team has the next two weeks off after this.

She says if I win, I can convince whoever I bid on to come with me for the weekend.

All expenses paid.

No funny business.

Just fake dating.

A little light posing.

Maybe one shirtless beach walk. For the optics.

Easy.

What could go wrong?

Just as the auctioneer starts his pitch for Bachelor Number Five— Luca Warden —I feel my cheeks heat and my grip tighten on paddle 69.

This is it.

I’m doing it.

God help me, I’m about to buy a man.

I suck in a breath, raise my paddle like it’s a damn sword in battle, and pray to every deity known to mankind that he’s worth it.

That he’s better than a handbag. Or at least not a total douche canoe.

The auctioneer’s gavel slams down like a gunshot.

“Sold! To bidder number 69!”

Oh my God.

That’s me.

I’m number sixty-freaking-nine.

There’s a split second where my brain short-circuits and I seriously consider pretending I’m just holding the paddle for a friend.

Or faking a fainting spell.

Or literally setting myself on fire to avoid the walk of shame I’m about to endure.

But instead?

I straighten my spine, paste on what I hope is a “cool, rich heiress who buys men all the time” expression, and breathe through the fact that my armpits are now Niagara Falls.

And then he starts walking toward me.

Luca Freaking Warden.

Mr. Tall, Gold, and Gorgeous.

All sun-kissed hair, broad shoulders, and the kind of jawline that should come with a license to kill.

He’s not smiling. Of course he’s not.

Smiling would be too human.

He’s looking at me with this unreadable, slightly raised-eyebrow expression, like this is the strangest part of his day and not, you know, being sold off like a rugby-playing Ken doll to the highest bidder.

“Hi,” he says, his voice low and smooth like aged whiskey. “I’m Luca.”

Oh. Oh no.

His voice is hot, too.

Like, panty-melting hot.

The kind of deep, growly rumble that makes you want to sin and then apologize for it in a confessional while doing it all over again.

I forget how to speak for a moment.

Then my brain kicks in with a firm say something, idiot, and I blurt, “Annabeth Martinez. Nice to meet you. If you come with me, we can get this over with fast.”

Smooth, Annabeth. Really elegant.

He tilts his head, just slightly.

Not rude. Not even surprised. Just evaluating .

Like I’m a spreadsheet. Or a stubborn knot he doesn’t feel like untying.

Still, he nods. “Lead the way.”

So I do.

Because I’ve already made a fool of myself by showing up, bidding, and winning. No point stopping now.

And as we walk, side by side, a hundred pairs of eyes on us like we’re the next royal couple or a particularly juicy scandal waiting to happen, one truth slams into me like a runaway tackle.

I don’t think I’m going to survive this weekend.

Not with this man.

Not without falling headfirst into the fantasy.

And definitely not without making a complete and total ass of myself.

But it’s too late to stop now. So, I do as he says.

I lead the way.