Page 7 of A Game of Ruck (Carolina Rugby #2)

He kissed me.

Like really kissed me.

Hot shot rugby forward, Luca freaking Warden, full-on lip-locked me right there in the middle of the Playa de Sol resort lobby.

And he did it in front of my four couture-wrapped, viper-mouthed cousins and their protein-shake-for-brains dates.

Like we were in a Hallmark movie.

Or a steamy TikTok thirst trap.

Holy. Freaking. What the actual hell just happened?

My lips are still tingling.

My brain’s still trying to reboot.

And my heart? Yeah, that thing is off somewhere doing cartwheels in the sand wearing a “Team Luca” T-shirt and shouting we’re in love!

Which is ridiculous.

Because this? This isn’t real.

None of it is.

Not the kiss.

Not the way his fingers curled around my waist like I belonged to him.

Not the way he looked at me like I was something special—not just the awkward, plus-size tech heiress tagging along like an extra in someone else’s romance novel.

Now we’re on our way to board a boat. With them.

The bridal vipers. Lisa and her minions, Brittany, Courtney, and Jasmine.

Who all witnessed the kiss and are now pretending they don’t care while simultaneously dying to dissect every second of it in their group chat called Family First or Martinez Royalty or whatever dumb name they picked this week.

And I?

I wish we weren’t doing any of this.

I wish we were back in our ridiculously nice hotel room with the ocean view and the soft lighting and the bed that I know— know —would be a hundred times more exciting if Luca and I weren’t pretending.

I wish we were staying behind so we could take that kiss a step further.

Or maybe ten steps further.

Because something happened.

I don’t know what, but that wasn’t pretend.

At least it didn’t feel like pretend.

And now I’m spiraling.

Because if I’m catching feelings for the man I bought at an auction and asked to fake-date me for a weekend, I might actually be the dumbest smart girl in the hemisphere.

I sneak a glance at him as he chats casually with one of the groomsmen.

Effortlessly cool. Slightly smug. Maddeningly handsome.

He looks like he belongs here.

Like he’s having fun.

Meanwhile, I’m internally screaming and trying not to replay the kiss like I’m analyzing game footage.

Focus, Annabeth.

This is all just theater.

A perfect performance.

He’s a hot guy doing his job.

I’m not falling for him.

I’m not.

Right?

Right.

God, I’m so screwed.

Okay, focus on anything else.

The boat is sleek, massive, and stupidly white—like the kind of yacht you’d see in a music video where someone pops champagne and falls overboard in slow motion.

It’s docked just off the resort’s private beach, and somehow, despite my entire body screaming abort mission , I’m already wanting to kick off my sandals.

My pause has me almost falling headfirst as I step out onto the sunny deck where there’s a perfectly round swimming pool I hadn’t even noticed.

But there’s Luca, already in place, steadying me with one large, warm hand before I can make a mess of myself.

“Easy there, Angel,” he murmurs close to my ear. “Wouldn’t want you making a splash before the party even starts.”

“Ha. Hilarious.”

My voice is dry, my heart beating at an entirely illegal pace.

Because his hand stays on my waist a second too long.

Because his sunglasses are perched low on that ridiculously perfect nose.

Because I’m still reeling from the moment he pulled me against him in the lobby like I was his.

Like he might actually be into me.

“Don’t look now,” he says, his breath tickling the shell of my ear, “but everyone is already watching us.”

“Oh my God.” I try not to look. I fail.

Sure enough, half the bridal party— including Lisa, who is now sipping something blue and obnoxious from a coconut —are definitely watching us.

“I told you. They were going to stare. I don’t fit in here,” I explain.

“You’re right, you don’t fit in,” he repeats, and dammit, it hurts to hear him say that.

But then he lifts my chin with two fingers and cups my cheek, arching a brow as he steps in front of me, blocking everyone else out.

“They’re staring because they think you’re the surprise,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. “Like they can’t believe someone like you walked in here with a guy like me.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Well, that’s flattering.”

He steps in closer, so close I can feel the heat of his body and the sincerity in his voice as he lowers it just for me. “No, what’s really got them gawking is how the hell I got this lucky.”

I blink.

“I mean it, Angel,” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear like he has every right. “You’re the most stunning woman on this boat. The most interesting person I’ve met in a long time. And without a doubt—the realest thing I’ve seen in a world full of filters and fake smiles.”

Just like that, my breath catches. My knees wobble. My heart? Yeah, she’s full-on gone rogue.

And Luca Warden?

He’s absolutely not playing fair.

And the cocky bastard knows it.

He seals his point with a slow, open-mouthed kiss—lazy, delicious, and laced with just enough tongue to make my toes curl in my sandals.

I’m still recovering from the heat of it when he pulls back and grins like he didn’t just melt my brain into pudding.

“Come on,” he murmurs, brushing his lips across my cheek like we’ve done this a thousand times.

“I’m starving. And you didn’t eat this morning either, remember? We can’t have you fainting in my arms. Yet.”

“Yet?” I echo, heart thumping as he leads me toward the bow, where the brunch spread looks like it was pulled straight from an influencer’s Pinterest board.

Fresh fruit glistens beside golden mini quiches and fried delicacies along with a delicate tower of steamed vegetables.

Everything smells faintly of cilantro, citrus, and danger.

Luca grabs two bottles of water, shoves one into my hand with a wink, then stacks a plate with generous bites of everything.

I try to help— really —but he swats my hand away.

“Relax, Angel. Let me take care of you.”

I should argue. I don’t.

He guides me to one of the padded benches and sits, only he doesn’t sit next to me.

Nope.

Luca straddles the bench next to me like he owns the space—and maybe me, too.

His solid thighs bracket my butt on one side and my knees on the other, and his chest brushes my body with every breath he takes.

Warm. Steady. Infuriatingly smug.

First, he lifts a strawberry to my lips, and I freeze.

“Open,” he says, voice all velvet command.

I do.

Because of course I do. Would you say no?

The fruit touches my tongue, and I moan— quietly, I hope —and his grin grows cocky enough to deserve a smack.

He feeds me next a bite of quiche, then a slice of peach.

Some grilled zucchini.

A chunk of melon.

Every time, I open my mouth, and he watches.

Like he’s cataloging reactions.

Like he’s savoring me.

He doesn’t eat until I’ve had my fill, and even then, he keeps one arm around my waist, the other lazily poking at the plate like feeding me was the whole point.

He’s wrapped around me now, legs spread wide, torso warm against my back, his chin occasionally brushing my shoulder as he leans in to murmur something ridiculous and infuriatingly sexy.

“So what’s the plan, Angel? Do we make a grand gesture? Or do I feed you one more berry, then kiss you until your cousin spills her mimosa and falls into the Gulf?”

I nearly choke on a grape.

“You’re terrible.”

“Terribly charming, you said so,” he corrects, dropping his hand low on my thigh and squeezing just enough to make my breath hitch. “And shockingly available to make out with you until this whole boat thinks we can’t breathe without each other.”

“Not sure we’d be faking it at that point,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

He pauses.

Then leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“Good. Because I’m getting real damn tired of pretending.”

My heartbeat stutters so hard I practically forget how to chew.

This man is dangerous.

And I’m not sure I want to be saved.

I choke on my sip of water.

“You’re diabolical.”

“Me?” He grins. “I’m a team player , Angel. Just following your lead.”

“Well, don’t follow too closely. I’m pretty sure I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I like that about you.”

“You like that I’m a mess?”

He shrugs. “I like that you’re real.”

And for a moment, I forget the wedding, the weird tension, the pitying glances.

For a moment, it’s just us.

The breeze, the water, and Luca Warden looking at me like I’m not some girl in hiding—but someone worth seeing.

“ Mira, tortolitos! ” someone calls, using the Spanish vernacular for ‘hey, lovebirds.’

“We’re going to anchor here for a little pre-wedding photoshoot of the bridal party!”

Lisa, of course.

Because of course it’s Lisa.

Her voice slices through the boat like a bad remix of Clueless and Mean Girls, all sugar-spiked venom and fake cheer.

I stiffen where I sit beside Luca, and he shifts closer instinctively, like he can feel me start to fold in on myself.

The four of them— the perfect Brittany, Courtney, Jasmine and Lisa —along with their dates, the groom and his groomsmen , move to the front of the boat.

Duck faces, pouty smiles, and perfectly rehearsed candid poses abound.

I didn’t even notice the photographer until he rose like a sea creature from the deep with a camera the size of my self-esteem— it’s small .

The sun is relentless, beating down on the deck, and I can see a few of the guys starting to sweat through their shirts.

Thankfully, Lisa’s reign of photogenic terror doesn’t last long.

“Just a few more— okay, hold the pose —David, chin up! No, not that far!”

I sit frozen, plastered smile on my face, heart rattling against my ribs like it’s trying to escape the sinking ship of my pride.

I should be used to this.

The exclusion.

The casual cruelty.

The way Lisa makes me feel like a stowaway on her perfectly curated life.

But having Luca next to me— warm and close and occasionally brushing his hand against mine like he wants to —it throws everything off-balance.