Page 17 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Owen

Jesus fucking H fucking Christ.

Fuck.

Mathias looks like every fantasy I’ve ever had, all rolled into one. I’ve never seen a man look so . . . so edible. I was half expecting him to come round in shorts and a T-shirt like the first night, and I had not sufficiently prepared myself for . . . this onslaught.

He’s unreal—like a fucking desert mirage or something. He smells incredible, and he sounds . . . there’s no other word for it but unngggghhhhhhh.

He’s wearing a crumpled brown linen shirt that appears as though it just fell out of the laundry basket.

The top buttons are open and a shiny silver cross lies against his tanned chest. On the bottom half he wears polished brown brogues and unremarkable black trousers.

Except, on him they’re anything but unremarkable, they’re a gift from the heavens.

I probably have all the same items upstairs in my wardrobe, only they’d never look like that on me.

The way Mathias fits his clothes is something that should be studied in a lab.

Science needs to sit up and pay attention.

He looks like a film star on holiday in the Italian Riviera, or like the guy from a trippy black-and-white perfume ad, or like he’s come over to simply ruin my life. And yeah, I’m okay with that.

His hair has that “just been rolling around in the sheets” vibe, and it’s at once hot as fuck and evoking some other hitherto unknown emotion, which kinda feels eerily similar to jealousy. It’s not, though, because that would be stupid.

Everyone in the pub is enthralled, enamoured, utterly bewitched by him. Eyes barely leave his perfect form to scribble down answers. Even when he’s not speaking, people are staring slack-jawed at him. I cannot blame them. Not one iota.

When the room gets a little noisy, he only has to clear his throat or say, “Okay then, next question,” and silence descends in an instant.

We’re on the film and TV round.

“Question four. In 1949 Lawrence Olivier won a best actor Oscar. He also received a nomination for best director for the same film. What was that film?” Mathias says.

Heads bend together, gossipy whispers bounce around the bar.

“I never realised how sexy the Welsh accent is until now,” Tom says to me as I fill up another two pints for him and Bryn.

“Your husband is Welsh,” I remind him.

“My point still stands,” he replies. “Mathias is a lovely Argentinian name, no?”

Tomas Bianchi pronounces Mathias’s name as though it doesn’t have an H.

Matt-ee-ass. He’s Argentinian, moved here around the same time Kirsty and I split up.

He now lives in rural Wiltshire with his husband, a trans Welshman named Bryn Morgan, and their two kids, Rafael and Isabel.

There’s a cat or two thrown into the mix somewhere, but I always forget that thing’s name.

Tom and Bryn run the eponymous homeware shop in Hookborough, Morgan he can handle that much richness for one night.

I think back to all the things I used to eat when I was playing at pro levels.

I would have given him a run for his money.

“In that case, I’ll try Ruckin’ ’Ell,” he says, glancing at the tap with an illustration of four crimson-skinned demons in a scrum.

“Don’t fancy Loosehead’s Load?” I tease.

“Not if it’s anything like Hooker’s Dribble.”

At the beginning of the night, Mathias decided he needed Dutch courage to get on the mic.

He then decided that he wanted to try all the hipster beers we have on tap at The Little Thatch.

But of course he’s a big lad, so he’s been Noah’s arking his drinks—two by two.

Currently, four rounds into the quiz he’s sampled the lager, Old Boy’s Tackle, the stout, Ball Smasher, and the IPA, Hooker’s Dribble, which he dismissed immediately saying, “It tastes like it’s been filtered through a cum sock.

” But he still downed both pints regardless.

Ruckin’ ’Ell is a golden ale, and one of my favourites of the rugby-themed indie brews, but I have no idea if it’ll live up to Mathias’s standards. I’m coming to realise the fly-half regards every aspect of his life with the same astronomically high benchmarks.

I pour him two pints. He starts on the first before I’ve finished the second, bringing the glass to his lips and tilting his head back.

Half the pint is gone in one swig. He’s on his seventh drink and still not showing any signs of inebriation.

Not slurring his words or swaying or unfocusing his eyes.

He does seem to be opening up a little, though, and offering smiles to a few other people besides myself. With the exception of one patron.

“Who’s the twat in the corner that’s been heckling me all night?” Mathias asks, his voice hushed, but not hushed enough for half the pub not to hear.

“That’s Rodge. Just . . . ignore him, he’s a .

. .” I puff out a breath, trying to think of the most applicable term for Roger.

The word menace feels as though it’s making light of him.

Pain in the ass, maybe? Sometimes he can be a little loutish, or like that one uncle everyone dreads seeing at family gatherings.

“I’m the village cunt,” Roger supplies from his corner post. The entire pub laughs, with the exception of Ange, Roger’s wife, and Mathias.

I shrug. “Very succinctly summarised there, Rodge.” I turn to Mathias but don’t bother to lower my voice.

In fact, I raise it so Roger and Ange—the only person who ever seems to have any influence on the guy—can hear.

“If his comments are bothering you, Mathias, I’ll throw the bastard out.

Not the first time I’ve evicted him, and definitely won’t be the last either. ”

“Message received, loud and clear,” Roger says, turning away to his sheet of paper nestled on the table between him and his wife.

Mathias downs the rest of his pint. “This tastes like those verruca foot baths you have to walk through before you get to the main swimming pool, by the way.”

I snort my laughter out, and I swear Mathias’s eyes twinkle. “Ah, a step up from cum sock at least,” I reply.

I catch his forearm in my fist as he grabs the second pint of golden ale, and even though there’s a sleeve of fabric between us, heat licks up my skin, and I almost forget what I’d planned to say.

I don’t, though, because if I’ve learned anything in the few hours I’ve spent in Mathias’s company, it’s that the man thrives on affirmation, and I really, really want to give him that little boost.

“You’re doing great, by the way. You’re a natural at this.” This time I whisper so the words are only for him, not the gaggle of patrons who seem to be watching the Mathias soap opera instead of participating in tonight’s quiz.