“So you decided to do it again?” I deadpan.
He looks at me and smiles rather shyly. It makes him better-looking, if that’s possible. “Barmy, eh?”
I stare at him for a second, wondering if that’s good or bad. When he says nothing more, I do what I’ve always done in awkward situations—I smile like a damn fool and say, “Sure.”
“You’ve a lovely smile, Quinn Maxwell.”
Oh shit. I know I’m blushing like a crazy person. “Thanks. What’s your… uh…” Wow, I don’t even know his name.
“Cooke. Cooke Thompson.”
“Ah, that’s why the other guy called you Cooker.”
“My mate. Ian. He’s a daft git.”
I blink again, wishing I had an American-to-British translator app handy. So, what did I do? You guessed it, I smiled like a fool and said, “Sure.”
That must have been the wrong thing to say, or maybe the right thing, because Cooke Thompson throws his head back and laughs heartily. He’s got a contagious laugh. So much so that my own laugh starts off as a giggle but quickly devolves into a cackle and a snort. Not the prettiest laugh, ladies and gents. He must enjoy it, though, because before I know it, he’s backed up a bit with his hand on his flat-as-sin stomach as he slowly bends forward. His phone isn’t moving, so I assume he’s got it on a table or something, because I get to watch the whole thing without interruption. It’s a sight to behold, let me tell you. Not only do I get to see two-thirds of Cooke, but I get to see where he is—in some kind of workout room. There are weight machines to his left and other things like treadmills and ellipticals to his right.
By the time he’s calmed down, I’ve checked out most of Cooke and his surroundings. From the looks of his amazing body, I’d say he’s an athlete of some sort. The large logo of a rose on a shield painted on the wall behind him is a clue too, but I’ve never seen it before, so I’m only guessing.
“What is that sign behind you?” I ask.
He’s stopped laughing enough to tell me, “Team logo.”
“Team? What kind of team?”
“Rugby, love.”
“Oh, right. Rugby,” I repeat.
The look on his face is one of surprise. “You know rugby?”
“Well”—I play with my glasses nervously—“I’ve heard of it.”
For some reason, he thinks that’s funny too, and his laughter starts all over again. “Bloody hell, woman. You’re a cracker.”
Do I even need to tell you what I did? No? Okay.
“Sure.”
And it all begins again. He’s laughing so hard he’s drawn a crowd now. A crowd of men in various stages of undress. So far, no one is completely naked, but they’re pretty close. When one of them sees the phone with me peering back at them, several of them begin to move closer. I spy Ian in the bunch, but it’s still a tad creepy the way they’re staring at me, to be honest. They’re looking at me like they’ve never seen a video phone call before and are trying to figure out if it’s real.
“Oy, is that the lass from the other night?” Ian must be the one to ask. No one else would know me from Eve.
“Bugger off, lads,” snaps Cooke from somewhere in the crowd.
One of the others responds. “We just wanted to see what the fuss was about, Cooker.”
Cooke suddenly sounds angry. “I said feck off.”
“Jesus, okay.” And like they’re being scolded, they all move away from the phone quickly.
Cooke must pick up his device, because now all I see is his pretty face. “Sorry ’bout that, love.”
“No. It’s okay.” I mean, I just saw twenty or so beautiful British men. Why would I be upset about that? “No worries.”
We look at one another for a second or two. “Well, I need to get to sleep. I’ve got class in the morning. A quiz, I’m pretty sure.”
