Page 3 of A Game of Ruck (Carolina Rugby #2)

She doesn’t say anything for the first few steps, just marches ahead like a woman on a mission.

It’s oddly hot.

Especially since this vantage point gives me a perfect view of her gorgeous peach of an ass.

I follow slightly behind, hands in my pockets, trying not to grin like a lunatic.

I don’t know what I expected when I saw paddle #69 shoot up— and yeah, you know I clocked that, too —but it wasn’t her.

Curvy as fuck.

Gorgeous eyes.

They’re the exact same color as my favorite blend of espresso beans.

She’s got this shoulder length riot of curls that some might call brown, but I can see about ten different shades from bronze to almost black throughout that perfect mane.

And her mouth? Fuck me.

She’s got a mouth that looks like it says whatever it wants and a smirk that says even more.

She’s nervous, though.

I can feel it radiating off her like steam.

The kind of tight, brittle energy you get before a big game.

Why so frazzled, Angel? Something or someone bothering you?

I want to ask, but I bide my time. Besides, I should probably take a moment to figure out why I’m so bothered by the idea that this beauty might have demons haunting her.

“So,” I say once we’re semi-alone in one of the side rooms of the event center, “this the part where I find out you’re a serial killer or a bored billionaire with a yacht full of unpaid interns?”

I mean it as an icebreaker, and I’m pleased when she receives it as such.

She snorts. Like actually snorts. And I file that cute as fuck sound away immediately.

I want to hear it again.

“No yachts. No unpaid interns. But kind of yes to the rest,” she says, clicking away on her phone.

“Yes, to what rest? You a bored billionaire, Angel?”

“Technically, Daddy is the billionaire. But yep, you got me. I’m just a desperate heiress with a destination wedding to get to and a serious problem you might be able to help me with.”

That grabs my attention.

She turns to me then, cheeks flushed, gaze direct.

“Look, you’re gonna have to explain that—” I say before she lifts a hand to stop me.

I rub the back of my neck a little on edge now— because what the heck is going on?

Then she hits me with it.

“Okay, I’ll just get this out of the way.

Look here, Luca, I’m not trying to trap you into anything weird.

I don’t want your number. I don’t want your DNA.

Don’t want to take pictures of you wearing my underwear.

I just need you to pretend to be my doting boyfriend for one weekend at a destination wedding for my obnoxious cousin.

You know. Play the part. Smile for pictures.

Pull out my chair. Dance with me a few times.

Maybe glare at my cousin’s fiancé once or twice for good measure. ”

I raise a brow. “So you mean, like a fake date situation?”

“Yes.”

“To a wedding?”

“Yes. At a beach resort in Playa de Sol that my uncle owns.”

“Playa de Sol?”

“Yes.”

“Soooo, you planning to murder me in Mexico?”

“I mean, I considered it, but it’s just not worth the risk.”

She’s funny.

And nervous.

And possibly unraveling before my eyes.

I give her a second, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed.

“So, why me, exactly?”

Her jaw tightens. “Because you were up there.”

“Right. But so were like eight guys before me. And I’m pretty sure there’s like six left.”

“Fine, it’s because you look like you could bench press a yacht, so that’s bound to make Lisa, and the rest of my perfectly proportioned cousins, crap themselves with envy. And you’re a natural blond. They like blonds.”

“Lisa?”

“The bride. My first cousin. And the devil incarnate.”

Ah.

I nod, taking her in.

She’s standing with her arms crossed under her chest, which only pushes those curves up higher.

And she’s pissed.

Not at me, not really.

At herself maybe.

Or the situation.

And I get it. I’ve been there.

I tap my fingers on the wall behind me.

“Alright, let me guess. They think you won’t show up with a date. Or if you do, it’ll be a safe, non-threatening best friend type who can braid hair and fetch drinks.”

She throws up her hands.

“Yes! God, yes. They literally asked me if I’d be needing a ‘plus one’ or a ‘plus sympathy vote.’ I mean, seriously, who says that?! Just because I’m fat?—”

Her voice cracks.

I don’t move.

Not yet.

I know this feeling.

That moment where the words come out too loud and too raw, and then you’re exposed. And embarrassed. And angry about being both.

“I’m just?—”

She waves a hand like she can erase what she said, but I need to hear her say this just so I can understand and maybe banish it from her mind.

“I’m just fat, okay? And I’m awkward with guys and, oh my God, I am so sorry I asked you to do this.

I don’t know anything about sports. I never attend charity events.

This whole thing is ridiculous! I should have stayed home with my edible cookie dough and my damn cat.

I’m going to kill Daniela,” she snaps that last bit.

I exhale slowly and push off the wall.

These are all big feelings she’s having, and I feel equally shocked and thrilled that I’m here to witness them. There’s just something about this woman.

I can’t shake the feeling like I’m supposed to be here, you know? With her. Right now. At this very moment.

Then I play back what she just said.

“Daniela? Works with Finley?”

I recognize the name of Finley’s Assistant. Nice woman. Does her job well.

“Yeah. She’s been my best friend since we were kids and when I told her about my problem, well, this was all her suggestion,” she says and winces.

Fuck. That expression? This woman is so goddamn cute.

“Okay, let me get this straight. Your best friend told you to go bid on a stranger at a charity gala so you could proposition him to be your fake date for a destination wedding?”

“Yup. And when you say it like that it makes me really wish a black hole would just open up and swallow me right about now,” she mumbles.

I move in closer.

Close enough to catch her scent— sweet and warm, like cinnamon and vanilla sugar —like she walked straight out of a bakery and into my life to tempt me to ruin.

Close enough to see the way her lashes flutter when she glances up at me, unsure if she should hold her ground or bolt.

Close enough to notice the little dimple that appears just at the corner of her mouth when she tries not to smile.

And hell, I want to taste it.

That dimple. That smile. The nerves clinging to her like perfume.

She’s not like any woman I’ve ever been around.

Not polished or pretentious.

Just real.

And right now, real is the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.

“Don’t worry, Angel,” I say softly. “I got you.”

She blinks up at me, cheeks blotchy, lip wobbling just a little, and I know right then I’m fucked.

Because I want to kiss her.

I want to hold her.

I want to shove every one of her stupid, cruel cousins’ insults down their designer-throated necks.

“What?” she whispers.

“I’m saying, yes, I’ll go. I’ll charm the devil bride. I’ll flex. I’ll glower. I’ll even learn to dance if you ask really nice.”

A beat passes, and it’s so damn ripe with potential, then she grins, and I swear to God I forget how to breathe.

“Do you not know how to dance?”

“Absolutely not.”

She laughs. And God, it’s the best sound I’ve heard all night.

“Alright, Luca Warden,” she says.

I wince at the name she uses, but it’s not like she knows my other name. I thought I buried that part.

My ties to the Moretti family, but there is this small piece of me that’s always been pissed about having to lie about who I am.

It’s better that way, of course.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

But shielding this beautiful creature from the ugly past of my family? Well, it’s the least I’d do for her. And that scares me.

Annabeth Martinez shouldn’t mean anything to me. She’s a stranger, but somehow, she feels familiar.

Then she holds out her hand like we’re striking a deal.

“You’re hired.”

“Hired? All right, we’ll have to discuss wages later,” I tease.

I take her hand, not giving her a chance to respond. And I shake it.

“Alright, and don’t worry,” she adds, eyes gleaming, “you’re totally gonna be better than a handbag.”