Page 6 of A Game of Ruck (Carolina Rugby #2)

“Okay, well, I can see this is going to be super fun,” the bride-to-be says just as I end my kiss with Annabeth. Reluctantly.

“The first thing on our itinerary is a boat excursion, and it leaves in ten minutes. Annabeth?”

“What?” my girl replies, breathless and staring at me like she can’t believe what I just did.

“You don’t still get seasick, do you?” mean girl number two asks.

“Um, I-I don’t know,” she responds.

“No worries, Angel. I got you,” I murmur and squeeze her shoulders before we follow her cousins and their dates to the dock.

I don’t really want to go for a boat ride.

I want to stake my claim so thoroughly this Lisa chick and every other backhanded bridesmaid here forgets they ever doubted she could pull a man who looks like me.

It’s fucking ludicrous. Annabeth is a knockout, but even if she wasn’t, so what? Looks aren’t everything.

I could be a total asshole. In fact, I’m sure I have been once or twice.

Annabeth falters a step, and I wrap my arm around her waist.

“You okay?”

“Um, yeah, I just. I wasn’t prepared for that,” she whispers for my ears only.

“Don’t overthink it, Angel.”

“You two coming?” Lisa’s voice slices through the tension like a cheese knife at a vegan charcuterie board. “The boat’s already boarding. It’s super exclusive.”

I want to ask if the boat comes with flotation devices for egos, but Annabeth tugs on my hand before I can open my mouth.

“We’re coming,” she says, too cheerfully.

“Do we have to?” I murmur as we follow the herd toward the private marina.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she mutters back. “Lisa planned a whole breakfast cruise. Welcome cocktails. Hashtags. Matching towels. You know. The full Bridezilla package.”

“Charming.”

She glances at me, her lips twitching. “You’re really not used to this level of drama, are you?”

“Sweetheart, I’m Italian. I was raised on drama. I just prefer mine with fewer hashtags and more pasta.”

She laughs— actually laughs —and I swear I’d wade through a thousand bridal itineraries to hear it again.

When we reach the boat, I help her on board like a gentleman, which earns me a few surprised glances from the peanut gallery.

We’re handed drinks within seconds— champagne mimosas for her, some fruity nonalcoholic bullshit for me —and directed toward the bow where white loungers and cushions practically scream Instagram this .

Annabeth perches on one, tucking her legs under her like a goddamn goddess in a sundress.

I sit beside her, close enough to feel her warmth but not enough to spook her.

Not yet.

“You good?” I ask quietly.

She sips her champagne. Nods. Then whispers, “I didn’t think they’d actually talk to me.”

I stare at her. “They’re your family.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Family doesn’t always mean welcome. Trust me.”

And damn it if that doesn’t jab me in the gut.

Before I can come up with something meaningful to say, one of the bridesmaids—not Lisa, but another size-zero sparkle goblin—comes teetering over.

“Annabeth, you should come take pictures with the girls!”

Annabeth stiffens. I can feel her debating it, already rehearsing excuses.

So I lean forward and grin, all teeth and menace. “Actually, she promised me the next fifteen minutes. We’ve got some talking to do. Raincheck?”

The bridesmaid blinks, clearly confused that I’d choose conversation over filtered candids, then scurries away with a pout.

Annabeth turns to me, wide-eyed. “Did you just rescue me?”

I shrug. “You looked like you needed it.”

She softens, her lips curving. “You’re full of surprises, Luca.”

“You have no idea, Angel.”

And as the sun dips lower and the boat glides over turquoise water, I let myself imagine— for just a second —that this isn't pretend.

That I really am her date.

That maybe this weekend won’t end the way I planned.

That maybe it won’t end at all.