I don’t trust a man who can’t tell the difference betweenyourandyou’reto accurately convey how “good he’ll make it.”
Also—and I can’t believe I have to say this—the number of limbs a person has doesn’t determine how good they are in bed. Who knew?
Every message in that inbox is some variation of vulgar, brash, or “I’ll destroy you with my cock.” It’s like the collective IQ of male rugby fans took a nosedive the second my name hit the news.
Robert’s knee bounces next to mine as he scrolls on his phone. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and I’ve got to say, the scruff is working for him. “You need anything?” He turns his head to look at me.
“Me? No. Why?”
“You were burning a hole in the side of my face with your glower.”
“Sorry, I just think this is mad craic.”
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Running away from our problems to a five-star resort in Croatia? Or that you’re using commercial air travel like a mere mortal?” He folds his arms. “I suppose, if the flight’s delayed, you can just summon your dragon, right? I assume it’s parked next to your ego.”
“Careful. He’s hungry, doesn’t carry dead weight, and he prefers pompous journalists.”
He goes quiet, but there’s something in his eyes that tells me he enjoyed that little exchange. Truth be told, so did I. Banter is the official second language of Northern Ireland. In love? Banter. Mortal enemies? Banter. We can’t turn itoff.
He nudges me. “You strike me as the type who loves a dramatic entrance—smoke, fire, terrified villagers.”
“And you strike me as the type who’d run away screaming before the smoke even clears.”
He winces like I slapped him across the face, and a sting of guilt crawls along my skin. What nerve did I hit, there?
After what feels like a long, punishing moment of awkward silence between us, he clears his throat. “Why would you think that’s mad craic? Sure, it’s not like we’re strangers or anything.” He purses his lips. “You know, you’re right. It is utterly wild, but it’ll give everyone time to calm the fuck down, clear their heads, and it’ll give us some quality time to get to know each other for real so we can fake it with conviction.”
His hand covers mine stopping me from plucking the jagged piece of skin down the side of my nail, his thumb sweeping back and forth over my fingers. “Plus, Clíodhna is right, what better way to honor your whole ‘Hot Girl Healing… Find yourself before turning thirty because of a public betrayal by your ex-fiancé and best friend that shattered your identity and left you questioning who you are outside of rugby and relationships—’?” He sucks in an audible breath. “You need to work on a snappier title. That one’s just far too long.”
I groan. “You heard that?”
“Rhiannon, I was sitting at the bar in the Anchor, not outer space. The Morrigan sisters don’t exactly do quiet.”
I smile because he’s not wrong. “Taking some time for a reset is never a bad thing, especially when your whole world came apart at the seams.” He hasn’t stopped caressing my hand, which has stopped me from making my fingertip bleed. Again.
“This is unsanctioned contact, Mr. McAllister.”
“I’ve noticed, when you’re agitated or anxious, you pick atthe skin around your nails. You’re going to make yourself bleed again, and airport plasters cost a fortune. If you say you’ll stop, I’ll stop.”
Am I that easy to read? I’ve picked at my cuticles since I was a little girl, but I thought I was subtle about it. As a kid, Mum told me not to fidget, to sit on my hands if I couldn’t sit still. Back then, we didn’t really understand what anxiety was or how it manifested in a physical way. “Ants in your pants,” they said. So, I found something distracting to help, though it did sometimes end in a stinging, bloody mess.
“And I’ve noticed you sometimes rub your thigh.” I point at his other hand on his leg. “Is that an idle rubbing, or because it hurts?”
He tips his head to the side. “You looked me up?”
My cheeks heat. “Know thine enemy.”
“Hopefully you didn’t dig too deep.” His voice is strained. It’s like he’s trying to be funny, but there’s an underlying tension I can’t figure out.
He gives me a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Something flickers beneath the joke—too quick to name, but sharp enough to cut, just like my quip about the smoke clearing. I want to ask, but I don’t. It’s on the tip of my tongue to press him on whatever it is, but someone shuffles in front of us, dragging a small suitcase behind them. It rolls over the loafer on his prosthetic foot.
“Ow,” he exclaims loudly enough for the person to hear.
“Sorry,” comes the grumbled reply.
I nudge Robert. “That didn’t even hurt you!”
He grins at me. “Yes, but it could have. If it put pressure on my leg at the wrong angle, it could have been painful. Even though it wasn’t, that doesn’t mean people can get away with being careless. Anyway, stop changing the subject; you looked me up.”
