Page 5 of A Game of Ruck (Carolina Rugby #2)

The hotel lobby smells like money.

Sea salt, jasmine, and polished marble.

The kind of scent that says please don’t touch anything unless your last name is printed on a yacht.

Everything gleams. The walls are probably lined with crushed hopes and AMEX black cards.

Annabeth’s beside me, fidgeting with her phone like it’s her emotional support squirrel.

Her fingers are moving fast— maybe texting, maybe playing Candy Crush, maybe typing a detailed escape plan.

Honestly? Can’t blame her.

We got in late last night and were herded to our suite with the kind of efficiency that makes you wonder if the hotel is secretly run by ex–CIA operatives.

The room? Big. Fancy. One bed.

Naturally, I offered to be the gentleman about it.

So we both slept in the bed.

And I slept better than I have in years.

Didn’t even wake up with a crick in my neck or a boot in my ribs.

Just the soft weight of her leg accidentally tossed over mine and the sweet little snore that nearly sent me into cardiac arrest because it was cute.

And now I’m spiraling.

This curvy little goddess has me rethinking a lot of my life’s choices.

Like, all of them.

The commitment issues.

This whole fake dating arrangement.

The idea that I’d stay single, travel light, and never get emotionally entangled again.

Oops.

Turns out emotional entanglement smells like coconut-shea body lotion with a hint of cinnamon and makes adorable sounds in her sleep.

Right now, we’re waiting in the lobby to pick up our day’s itinerary—which is apparently a thing.

Her cousin has planned out our every waking hour like we’re about to be deployed in a wedding-themed military operation.

Pretentious much? Yes.

But I’ve got two cousins back in Brooklyn who would make this event look like child’s play.

They once had a christening catered by Gordon Ramsay and a fire-breather. Inside a church.

I’m no stranger to spoiled brats, and I don’t need to meet Annabeth’s extended family to know that’s exactly what we’re dealing with.

But I’m not thinking about them.

I’m thinking about her .

Which is a problem .

Because linen pants don’t offer much in the way of camouflage.

And this morning? My cock has been standing at attention since the second she walked out of the bathroom wearing that off-the-shoulder floral dress that hugs every delicious curve like it was tailored by a team of angels— or maybe devils.

And don’t get me started on her lip biting.

Jesus Christ.

If she bites that bottom lip again, I’m going to end up excusing myself to go meditate with the ice machine.

I shift my weight. Subtly. Sort of. Okay, I lean behind a potted plant.

Because here’s the truth I’m not ready to admit out loud.

I want her.

Not just in that vague, hey-she’s-hot kind of way.

Not even in the I’d-like-to-ruin-you-on-every-flat-surface-in-this-hotel kind of way (although that’s a definite yes ).

I want her in my bed, yeah, but I also want her in my life.

Like, talking to me about weird books and why she loves vintage caftans and whatever quirky shit she’s into.

I want to know what makes her laugh when no one’s around.

What makes her cry.

I want to be the one who fixes whatever those cousins of hers broke in her confidence.

And that’s terrifying.

Because this was supposed to be pretend.

A weekend. A favor. A footnote.

But she’s not a footnote.

She’s the fucking headline. In big, bold print. And me? I’m thinking about getting it tattooed right over my heart.

Fuck.

“Hey,” she says softly, turning those warm brown eyes on me. “You okay?”

I smile like a man who’s definitely not two seconds from declaring his fake love for his fake girlfriend in front of a very real concierge.

“Peachy.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re standing behind a ficus.”

“Strategically,” I say. “It’s part of my pre-breakfast grounding ritual. Very spiritual.”

She laughs, and the sound does dangerous things to my internal organs.

God help me.

I’m completely and absolutely fucked.

And not in the fun way.

Yet.

Fuck. She’s doing that thing again.

The one where she fidgets with the hem of her dress like it’s offending her.

Like if she pulls hard enough, she’ll disappear entirely.

I hate that she feels like that.

She is so damn pretty. So sweet and funny. So damn interesting.

Why can’t she see that?

Why is it that perfect people never seem to know it?

“Do I have something on my face?” she asks, eyes fixed on the floor like it’s more trustworthy than me.

“No,” I say, leaning just a little closer. “You just look like you’re about to sprint out the back door. I thought I was the one being held hostage here.”

“Oh, ha ha. And I’m not nervous,” she snaps a little too fast.

Then immediately winces, like the words betrayed her.

“Sure you’re not,” I say, grinning.

“I’m just recalibrating.”

“Recalibrating,” I echo. “Sounds serious. Are we launching a satellite or are you prepping for a destination wedding with people who low-key don’t like you?”

“Setting expectations,” she mutters under her breath like a spell.

“Expectations for what?”

She finally looks up. Her deadpan expression nearly slays me.

“For faking an entire relationship with a man who looks like he just stepped out of a sex catalog while I just look like me .”

I blink. Then I grin.

“A sex catalog?”

She doesn’t even flinch.

“Don’t act like you don’t know you’re hot. You do. Everyone with eyes knows.”

“Well,” I say, smoothing my jacket with mock arrogance, “I haven’t seen this catalog, but I appreciate the compliment. Do they ship internationally?”

Her cheeks flush, and she mutters something under her breath that sounds dangerously close to stupid charming man .

I reach out and run my finger down her bare arm. It’s a risk, but her skin erupts in goosebumps, and yeah— she feels it .

“Don’t get so flustered, Angel,” I murmur. “I’ll behave. Unless,” I murmur.

Then I take a step closer, lowering my voice to a sinful promise.

“Unless you want me to misbehave.”

She inhales sharply.

“This is pretend,” she whispers. “This is easy. I’ve got this.”

“You keep saying that like you’re trying to convince yourself, Angel.”

But she doesn’t get a chance to respond. Because just then—a high-pitched shriek cuts through the cool, classy quiet of the Playa de Sol lobby.

“ OMG! Annabeth?! Is that YOU? ”

Annabeth freezes beside me like someone just pulled a fire alarm.

Slowly, she turns.

And here comes the chaos.

A tall brunette in a pastel dress that might’ve been sprayed on— teetering like a baby giraffe on heels high enough to qualify as a weapon —barrels across the marble floor with all the subtlety of a flash mob.

And she’s not alone. She’s with a trio of equally waifish, shallow women.

All of whom are giggling and whispering, and I suspect it’s about Annabeth.

So naturally, I hate them on sight.

“Oh my God, what are you doing here?” the lead woman screeches. “I thought for sure you were skipping the festivities since they call for a partner ?—”

“Hello, Lisa,” Annabeth says, voice tight. “Of course, I came?—”

“Damn right you did,” I whisper loud enough for them to hear.

Annabeth’s cheeks go pink, but she doesn’t look at me, and I make a silent promise to turn my uncouth statement from lie to fact as soon as possible.

The four women gasp, but now they’re looking at me, standing close to Annabeth.

“I mean, of course, I’m here for your wedding trip! Besides, I have a partner. This is Luca.”

She grips my hand like it’s a life raft and we’re sinking fast.

“Wait— this guy’s with you ?” Lisa gawks, jaw slack, voice dripping disbelief like she just saw a poodle driving a Porsche.

Annabeth’s smiling.

Barely.

Okay, it’s more grimace than anything else. And I want to fix that.

But before I can swoop in with a clever quip, another figure joins the fray.

A guy—stocky, tan, wearing khakis and a designer tee like he got dressed in the dark at a resort gift shop.

“Annabeth!” he booms. “Hello again. Whoa, shit! That’s Luca Warden! Starting forward for the Carolina Rovers!”

“Guilty,” I say, smiling tightly.

The guy, who I’m now mentally filing under Chad Energy , gives Annabeth a once-over.

Long.

Appreciative.

Too fucking long.

“Damn, Annabeth,” he says. “You know how to hook ’em! And wow! You look amazing.”

And that’s it.

That’s all the provocation my inner caveman needs to show up swinging.

I slide my arm around her waist and tug her flush against me.

“Yeah,” I say, low and sharp. “She sure does.”

Her breath catches. She doesn’t pull away.

She just looks up at me , like she’s not sure what to do with all this me.

But I know exactly what I want to do with her.

Right now? I want to make damn sure the entire wedding party knows she’s taken .

Even if it’s pretend—for now.

Even if it started as a job.

Because pretending with her?

It’s starting to feel dangerously close to real .

So I do what feels natural, I kiss her. For the first time. In front a fucking audience.

But the second my lips touch hers? They all fade to black.

Annabeth is all that matters. And I plan to show her how much.