My heart skips a beat and my nipples tighten and the rest of me lets out a silent howl ofwhhhhyyyyyy?
Why does he have to be arugbyplayer?
Why can’t he just be a guy who works security? Just a normal, muscular, scruffy-faced security guy with a chiseled jaw?
Dammit.
Realizing he’s off-limits has made it clear just how bad I have it.
I unclip Jessica to distract myself. “Who wants a treat?”
She spins in three circles and barks happily.
“Have to go in the backyard.”
She grins.
I have no idea how a dog that stout loves the heat so much, but she does.
And that’s when I look up and spot the sign hanging over the entrance to the kitchen.
It’s homemade—three poster boards taped together, withSORRY I DIDN’T TELL YOU I PLAY RUGBY written in large black, purple, and blue letters.
There’s also a messy ball in one corner—round, not oblong like the balls the guys were holding in their team pictures—and a square with hash marks in another corner.
“Fletcher helped Goldie and me make it. He did the sloppy letters. And the mascots.” Holt shoves up from the couch and onto his crutches. “We didn’t have time to get a professional one made, and even if we had, that might’ve gotten back to the office and prompted questions.”
He made a sign.
This is—hilarious and sweet and very forward-thinking of him.
Why didn’t you tell me Brydie was confused and you play rugby?was definitely going to be my first question.
This is like coming home from a long trip and being greeted by your family at the airport with signs that say things like “Sorry I broke your blender while you were gone” and “Your boyfriend ran away to the Caribbean but you can do better.”
Neither of which has happened to me but did happen to friends and crewmates on various ships that I worked on over the years.
I think I won this game.
Not that it’s a contest, buthe made me a sign.
With a big SORRY on it and everything, even though he’s definitely not the only one who needs to be sorry here.
Yep.
I’m deceased. Completely dead with how much harder I’m crushing on him right now.
“I really didn’t think it mattered,” he adds. “If the sign wasprofessional or…this. And that’s a waffle. In the corner. Fletcher wants the team mascot to be waffles.”
Jessica slides him a look and makes a noise like she wants to throw up.
I eyeball her. “Be nice.” He’s rambly. And it’s freaking adorable.
Jessica stares back at me like sheisbeing nice, he isneveradorable, and she would like her treat now.
No manners from this dog today.
That’s probably my mother’s fault.
