Page 4 of A Game of Ruck (Carolina Rugby #2)

The jet is sleek, white, and way too luxurious for something that’s about to cart me and a literal Adonis to a wedding where I will, without a doubt, be emotionally carpet-bombed by my family.

My heels clack too loud on the steps as I board, my palms are clammy, and my brain is just not okay.

Who thought this was a good idea?

Oh right—me. And Daniela. And possibly a bottle of wine.

Inside, Luca is already lounging like he owns the damn jet.

And he looks good there. Like he’s used to it. To money.

I mean, yeah, he is a professional athlete, so that makes sense.

But I have to admit. I’m curious about him.

Legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of the buttery leather seat, sunglasses perched on his face like this is Miami Vice and not a midnight private flight to Mexico.

Sunglasses. Indoors. At night. Like he’s trying to protect the world from the full cosmic force of his jawline.

Honestly? Rude.

He’s so hot it’s almost offensive.

The kind of hot that makes your thighs clench and your brain short-circuit.

The kind that makes you want to both strangle him and lick his abs like an ice cream cone.

I think I hate him.

We made one stop at his place, where he packed in less time than it takes me to find matching socks, and now we’re here.

Sitting in a billionaire’s wet dream, headed straight for Playa de Sol, where I have to pretend this walking sex fantasy is my boyfriend.

What is my life?

I slip into the seat across from him and buckle up like that’ll somehow tether me to reality.

“Luca?” I ask.

“Yeah?” he says, not even bothering to look up.

Of course. Too busy with his aura of cool indifference.

Until he lowers his sunglasses with two fingers and bam—those piercing blue eyes hit me full force like a sucker punch to the libido.

I swear my uterus tries to do a backflip.

“Um. Thanks,” I manage, barely. “For coming. I mean—for doing this. With me.”

He shrugs, lazy and maddeningly confident, like agreeing to fake-date a plus-sized stranger for a weekend is just his usual Thursday night social calendar.

Then he takes the sunglasses off entirely and smirks.

“You had a private jet on standby, Angel. Promised me beachfront accommodations. Plus, we haven’t even negotiated payment terms yet.” His voice drops a little, sinful and teasing. “But let’s be real—I’d have to be clinically dead to say no.”

I narrow my eyes. “So, you’re just here for the perks, huh?”

“Oh, definitely.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed right on me. “Has nothing to do with the gorgeous woman flying me there. The one with eyes that throw lightning and a mouth that looks like sin.”

My breath catches.

He winks.

Like a devil who knows he’s going to ruin you and is already planning the encore.

“Strictly business, Angel.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s mostly to distract from the fact that my whole body is currently short-circuiting.

This is fine. Totally manageable.

He’s a flirt. A showman. A professional player—in every sense.

This is pretend. All of it. A temporary arrangement.

So why does it already feel dangerously real?

God help me, he’s too charming.

I feel it like an itch under my skin, a hum in the air between us.

And worse, I’m starting to relax.

Joke. Flirt back.

This is how people get in trouble.

Because with the way he’s looking at me now— like I’m not just the decoy date but the whole damn prize —I could almost believe it’s real.

And that is dangerous. Because it’s not.

It’s fake.

It’s a fantasy wrapped in abs and a smirk and zero long-term viability.

So I cross my legs, sit back, and smile just as sweetly as I can manage.

“Just so we’re clear, this whole thing is fake. I’m not looking to fall in love on an airplane ride to the beach just to have my heart broken after, okay?”

Luca leans forward, eyes glinting.

“Good. Because if you were, we’d have to talk about your timing. I usually like to at least hit cruising altitude before I start making plans to fall in love.”

I choke on a laugh.

Oh no. He’s really quick and funny.

This is going to be very not easy.

“So,” Luca says, popping open a bottle of sparkling water like he’s done it a hundred times.

Probably has.

He’s the kind of man who makes economy seating spontaneously combust on sight.

Besides, professional athletes have their own planes, don’t they?

“Not us. We’ve been doing a bus caravan type thing. Anyway, so,” he says, and damn it, I must have said some of that out loud.

“So,” I echo, trying not to stare at his stupid, perfect hands.

“What exactly are we walking into here, Angel?” he drawls, eyes skating over me with lazy curiosity.

I arch a brow. “My name’s Annabeth.”

“I know.”

“So, why the whole Angel thing?”

His brows furrow.

I want to smooth them with my finger.

Want to kiss that confused expression right off his too sexy face.

“You don’t like it?” Luca asks.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then that’s settled.” He grins. “So tell me—how awful is your family? On a scale from harmless teasing to full-blown Succession cosplay?”

I snort. “Imagine a group of genetically blessed size-two piranhas in pastel sundresses who view emotional warfare as a sport. That’s my cousins.”

“Ah,” he says. “Shark week in heels.”

“Exactly.”

He leans back, one leg stretching out into the space between our seats, brushing mine— accidentally, probably, but my body doesn’t know that .

My body thinks we’re on our honeymoon and is preparing the appropriate hormones.

“So, do they always pick on you?”

I shrug and look out the window.

“It’s not ever blatant. My father is the head of Martinez Global Industries, and most of my family works for him. So, are they outright nasty? No. Nothing too obvious that would get them blacklisted from my Dad.”

“So, he’s a good father?”

“Yeah, he is. Or he tries to be. I mean, Dad loves me. I know that. He’s just a very important man with a very busy schedule.”

“I see,” Luca whispers, and something about the way he says it tells me he does.

Curiouser and curiouser.

“Anyway,” I say, swirling the condensation on my glass with a fingertip, “I don’t even really blame my cousins. I’m just not the traditional Martinez daughter. I don’t look like them. I didn’t go into tech?—”

“No?” Luca interrupts, brow raised. “What did you study in school?”

“You’re gonna laugh.”

“Will not,” he says, full lips twitching like he already knows I’m about to test him.

“Fine. I studied literature.”

“Ahhh,” he grins, tilting his head. “A romantic.”

I narrow my eyes at him, suspicious. “That was very judge-y, Luca.”

“I meant it as a compliment.” He leans in like he’s letting me in on a secret. “Explains the big eyes and the tragic sighs.”

I swat at his arm, laughing despite myself.

“I do not sigh tragically.”

“You do, Angel. I’ve seen it. Just now when you said, ‘traditional Martinez daughter,’ I felt like I was watching the heroine of a forbidden love story.”

“Oh my God,” I groan, hiding my face behind my hands. “Why are you like this?”

“Gifted,” he says with a wink. “Cursed with charisma.”

I laugh, but there’s a little twist in my gut, too. Because for once, someone’s teasing me without making me feel like the butt of the joke.

“Anyway,” I continue, “after college I started an online magazine.”

“Really?”

He sounds surprised. But not condescending. Curious.

“Yeah. It’s for plus-size women. I wanted to create a space that promotes body positivity, talks about things like fashion, health, and nutrition—without all the toxic thinspiration crap. Because fat doesn’t always mean lazy or unhealthy or whatever people assume when they look at me.”

His face softens.

“First, I don’t think you have any idea what most people think when they look at you, Angel. Second, you don’t have to tell me about the misgivings normal people have about health and exercise and how that translates to the way a person looks.”

His voice is quieter now, more serious.

“I mean, I’m an athlete. I’ve seen teammates with six-packs who can’t jog a mile without gasping. And I’ve seen guys with bulkier builds, true dad bods , outrun half the team. Health doesn’t come in a single size.”

I blink. Because no one’s ever said that to me.

Not like this. Not a hot-as-sin rugby player with arms like carved granite and eyes that make me forget how to breathe.

“I suppose you would know,” I say softly.

“I do.”

He nudges my foot, playful again, but something in his expression is still tender.

“And for the record, I think what you’re doing? It’s badass. You built something to help other people, to give them a safe space to communicate and just be who they are. That’s more than most people ever do.”

A flush creeps up my cheeks.

Not from embarrassment—no, this is something warmer.

He sees me. Not just my curves or my last name. Me.

“Thank you,” I whisper, not sure what else to say.

He tips his head. “You’re welcome.”

Then, of course, he smirks.

“But just so we’re clear—you do sigh dramatically.”

I snort. “And you definitely are judging me.”

“Only for liking sad books where everyone dies in the rain. Wuthering Heights damn near killed me in high school.”

“Those are classics!” I gasp with mock outrage.

“They’re depressing,” he replies easily.

“And yet, you’re still here.”

He grins. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

And suddenly, I’m not worried about this whole fake date thing.

Because with Luca Warden sitting across from me, smiling like I’m the only thing he wants to look at, it doesn’t feel fake at all.

“How else are you different from your cousins?”

“Well, I didn’t marry a hedge fund manager or one of the executives working under my Dad. But mainly I think they don’t like me because I didn’t get abs in the womb and I don’t kiss my father’s ass to get a seat at the table, so to speak. So yeah, I’m basically a walking scandal.”

“Okay, so they don’t like that you’re different?”

“They don’t like that I don’t pretend to want what they want.”

He goes quiet for a second, and when I glance at him, his face is unreadable.

“If you’re not like them and you don’t care what they think, Angel, why are you doing this? Bringing a fake date to this wedding?”

“Well, I do care in a way. I mean, no one likes to be gossiped about, right? Anyway, I guess I just got tired of being the punchline,” I add, softer. “This time, I want to walk into the party with someone who makes them shut up.”

“So, you’re just using me for my looks,” he says, and I frown.

“No! I mean, yes, I suppose that’s why I bid on you,” I stammer. “Shit. Am I that shallow? I’m so sorry, Luca, if you want me to, I can tell the pilot to turn this plane around?—”

The jet hums around us, smooth and quiet.

“Not a chance, Angel.”

“You sure?” I whisper.

Then Luca leans forward, his gaze serious for the first time since we took off.

“I said I’ll do it, Annabeth. And I meant it. Now, you want them to think you’re the queen of the goddamn beach? Done. I’ll worship the ground you walk on. I’ll kiss your hand, your cheek, maybe even that cute little spot behind your ear if we’re really selling it?—”

“That spot is off-limits,” I say, but my voice is breathless, and he knows it.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, his smirk returning. “If I’m going to be your fake date, let’s do it right. I might as well be the best damn fantasy they’ve ever seen.”

I bite my lip.

“You’re awfully confident.”

He shrugs one muscled shoulder.

“Angel, if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s make stuck-up rich people uncomfortable by looking way too good next to their insecurities.”

“Oh, so we’re both going to be walking middle fingers?”

“Hell yeah we are.”

And just like that, the tension breaks again, replaced with laughter and the kind of buzz that no champagne could replicate.

But deep down, I know I need to remember something very important.

This isn’t real.

Even if it’s starting to feel that way.