Page 9 of A Game of Ruck (Carolina Rugby #2)

Waiting to see Annabeth in that slinky red two-piece I picked out at the boutique is making me question every life choice that led me to this exact moment.

She’s in the bathroom changing.

I’m pacing our private beach cabana like I’m about to play in the World Cup final— shirtless, already wearing the matching red trunks I snagged from the same shop.

Yes, I paid for both.

On my own credit card.

She’s covering this insane suite, but I’ll be damned if she pays for anything else.

Told the hotel manager myself— everything gets charged to me.

She doesn’t need to know. I’m just old-fashioned like that.

I scroll my phone, pretending to check my emails.

Practice starts back Monday. That might be a problem.

So I shoot Dane a text letting him know I might roll in late.

I fully expect a profanity-laced reply.

Probably something about professionalism and the integrity of the game.

I don’t care.

I’m here, and if everything goes the way I want, it’ll be more than worth it.

The doorknob rattles.

I freeze.

Then the door creaks open, and holy ever loving hell.

She steps out like a dream and a goddamn nightmare rolled into one—wrapped in a sheer, sparkly cover-up that does absolutely nothing to hide the fire engine red bikini underneath.

It clings to every soft, perfect curve like it was stitched by angels and approved by Satan himself just to torture me.

“Fuck me,” I mutter, unable to stop the words from tumbling out.

Annabeth blinks.

“What? Is it too much? Oh my God, is it bad?”

She clutches the cover-up tighter around her, like she’s expecting me to laugh or bolt or something equally dumb.

I’m across the room in two strides.

“Too much?” I ask, gripping her hips and pulling her against me.

“Angel, you walk out looking like every wet dream I’ve ever had, and you’re worried it’s too much?”

She swallows. Her eyes flick up to mine. “So, it’s okay?”

“Okay? It’s fucking devastating.” I trail a finger along the strap of her bikini top. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

I lower my head, brushing my lips along her bare shoulder.

“Still worried?” I whisper against her skin.

She’s breathing faster now.

Her fingers clutch the edge of my trunks like she doesn’t trust her knees.

“No,” she breathes. “Not anymore.”

“Good,” I grin, stepping back just enough to grab a towel and the bag with the sunscreen. “Because I’m about to be the luckiest man alive on the sand, and I plan on rubbing this in every single smug fucking face I see.”

She laughs, soft and disbelieving.

But I can see it.

She’s glowing.

And damn if I don’t want to spend the rest of my life making her feel that way.

“Okay, then let’s do this,” she says, offering her hand.

I take it.

Fuck yes, I take it.

We head through the lobby, toward the beach entrance, and I’m so caught up in the sway of her hips in that sheer cover-up I don’t see the ambush coming until it’s too late.

“Annabeth!” Lisa’s voice drips with faux surprise, syrupy sweet and about as genuine as her knockoff Chanel earrings.

“Oh, good—we caught you!”

And there they are.

The Brat Brigade.

Lisa and her three clone-like bridesmaids in matching pink bikinis and smug expressions.

Boyfriends loiter nearby like human accessories with towels slung over their shoulders.

“We decided to move our little pool day to the beach instead,” Lisa says, eyes flicking between me and Annabeth with shark-like precision.

“Hope that’s okay?”

“Of course it is, Lisa,” Annabeth replies smoothly, like a seasoned diplomat at a hostage negotiation. “It’s your wedding party, after all.”

Grace under fire. That’s my girl .

“Catch, bro!” David, the groom-to-be and certified dickhead, tosses a football at me without warning.

Like the rugby player can’t play American football.

I catch it with one hand, mostly out of spite.

My smile is tight and not nice. “Cool,” I say flatly.

We walk to the resort’s private beach. There are chairs and umbrellas closer to the water and big, wooden cabanas with gauzy white fabric stretched over the top all set up.

One has a reserved sign with my name on it—the one I had them put aside for us, and Lisa is already taking prime position on the lounge chair.

“You don’t mind if we squeeze in here with you, do you?” Lisa asks, all smiles.

Teeth like a shark.

“Sure. Of course,” Annabeth says and steps forward, slipping out of her cover-up like it’s no big deal, except it is.

It really fucking is.

Because the second she reveals that red bikini, the temperature spikes ten degrees and my blood pressure right along with it.

She looks incredible.

The crimson material molds to her breasts, lifting the luscious globes like the tempting offerings they are.

She is curvy, radiant, confident—even if I see her shoulders twitch just the tiniest bit.

Then she turns around and I notice the cheeky bottoms clinging to her—gifting me, and everyone else in the vicinity with a spectacular view of her perfect ass.

You know, the kind women pay good money to try to replicate with silicone or cement or God only knows what.

David and the others drop their gazes, clearing their throats and openly gawking.

And I just about lose my goddamn mind.

Lisa’s jaw twitches. And her other cousins exchange side-eyes.

But Annabeth? She is oblivious to it all.

She just walks straight to the shoreline like she owns it, hair blowing behind her, hips swaying like a slow, sexy metronome.

I don’t know what they expected from her, but this?

This clearly wasn’t it.

I throw the football I’m still holding for some fucking reason— and I throw it hard —at one of the boyfriends, who yelps and fumbles it.

“Sorry, boys,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ve got better things to do than toss a ball with you.”

Brittany— I think it’s Brittany —tries to intercept me, grabbing my wrist with a flirty little giggle.

“Don’t you wanna stay here in the shallows?” she purrs, arching her back like a yoga instructor in heat.

“Not even a little bit.” I peel her fingers off my arm gently but firmly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Annabeth glance back.

And fuck me—the flicker of hurt in her eyes?

It wrecks me.

I storm past Brittany and plunge into the surf, pushing hard through the water like it’s done me personal harm.

When I reach her, I don’t say a word.

Just wrap an arm around her waist, pull her close, and murmur for her ears only, because everyone else here? They don’t fucking matter.

Only she does.

“There’s only one woman I want to swim with, Angel.”

She blinks up at me, startled.

And then she smiles.

Not the forced one she’s been wearing for days, but the real one— the one that knocks the breath from my lungs and makes me forget this whole thing is supposed to be fake.

I brush my lips across her temple.

“And just so we’re clear, I don’t give a damn what any of them think. You’re the most beautiful woman on this beach.”

Her eyes widen, and for a second, I swear she forgets to breathe.

So do I.

But if there’s one thing I know right now—it’s this.

I’ve got no interest in playing pretend anymore.

Not when the real thing feels this damn good.