She gives a nervous giggle before shaking her head. “Necessary contact, so I don’t end up in a hospital here for sunstroke.” She pulls her hair around to one side of her neck, tilting her head so she’s exposed to me. I suck in a slow breath through my nose, holding it for a moment before I release.
Because I’m not a creepy man who perves on women, I apply the suncream to all the visible skin on her back. But, because I’m a red-blooded man who is insanely attracted to the woman he’s sharing a room with for a week, by the time I’m done, my cock is so excruciatingly hard, I might pass out.
As she’s passing my leg propped up against the wall, she pauses. “Would you like this over?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She simply plucks it up and sets it on the bed next to me. “Don’t feel like you need to put it on all the time. I imagine it’s much more comfortable to not have it on at all.”
I nod. “Thanks.” My hand absently travels to my thigh where I give it a comforting rub. “Rhiannon?”
She pauses.
“While that was a fairly innocent action, some people do feel pretty anxious about other people moving their mobility aids without permission.”
Her stoic mask falls, and her eyes fill with guilt as redsplodges fill her cheeks.
“It can make you feel a bit trapped.”
“Understandably.” She hums, eyes fixed on the prosthesis sitting next to me on the bed. “I’m sorry. That was careless of me. I should have waited for you to answer.”
“It’s okay. I know you were trying to be helpful.”
She nods slowly. “We should probably talk more about it at some point.” She stops, shakes her head, then wets her lips. “Nothing you don’t want to share, obviously. I mean, you know I looked you up online, so I know some things. But as your fake girlfriend-slash-wife, I should probably know more about you than simply what I read on the internet. We all know how reliable that can be.”
She’s not wrong, but trust is a two-way street, and there’s no way she’s going to trust me with any of her personal information, at least not yet, so I give her a non-committal “hm” in response. She doesn’t press the issue, gives my fake leg what looks like a reassuring pat, and then makes her way out of the room.
Drawn to her like bees to honey, I ignore the pulsing ache in my crotch and pick up my prosthesis. I’ve packed folding crutches in my luggage, but I didn’t get them out of the bag before heading to bed. I’ll use them when we’re here in the suite, so I don’t have to attach my limb every day. Usually, in strange company, I’d make an effort, but for a whole week? Hell no. My lower pain tolerance post amputation makes it uncomfortable to wear for any length of time.
Having to wear it around war zones was part of the reason I ended up coming home. I just couldn’t keep up anymore.
When I make it into the living space, she’s already leaning over the railing outside. “It’s so nice out here.” She tips her head back and sucks in a deep breath. It’s as though every rope of tension holding her body hostage is fraying one at a time the longer we’re away from home. “The sun is rising over this side. We can sunbathe on the balcony; we don’t even need toleave until the afternoon. Assuming we even want more sun by then.”
I nod and make “mmhmm” noises like all the blood in my body hasn’t abandoned my brain and isn’t making my dick stand up like a fucking flagpole. Her arse is perfectly cupped by that taut, green fabric.
“I feel you staring.” There’s laughter in her voice, but her words are hard.
“You’re an easy woman to stare at, Rhiannon Morrigan. I can’t help it.”
She turns to look at me, an expression I can’t read painted across her delicate features. “Let me throw on a dress, and we can have breakfast. Then I have a date with some tan lines.”
“What about matching tattoos?” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know it’s not going to fly. We’re out on our private terrace after having enjoyed the delicious breakfast buffet downstairs. It was every bit as sumptuous as the pamphlet promised it would be. We even shared a snap of us enjoying mimosas on Rhiannon’s social media pages. She instantly got a bunch of likes and comments.
I didn’t scroll for long; I don’t like giving space to the haters. But Ididpuff out my chest a little at one in particular that said I am so much hotter than her piece of shit ex.
Score one for the fake boyfriend. Never been called hot in my life, but I’ll take it. Especially when it’s said in the same sentence as Rhiannon. Her beauty is unparalleled. So, to think she’s stuck spending so much time with a “bridge troll” like me—as my sister likes to say—has been playing on my mind. I’m no TV action star, but I’ll take “better looking than George” as a solid win.
We’re discussing rule number twenty, trying to come up with three inside jokes or habits to convince people back home that we’re really falling in love.
“Tempting. But I don’t do permanent reminders of temporary arseholes.” Rhiannon plucks the end of her wide-brimmed hat up high enough for her to give me an incredulous look. “You first. I’ll make sure it’s spelled wrong just to keep it authentic.”
She’s not wrong that it’s a bit permanent, but I’ve always wanted a tattoo. At least this would mean I’d have to take a crap or get off the pot, and it’s more likely to mean something than the “live, laugh, love” our Emma jokes I should get tattooed on Ghosty, my stub.
“What? You don’t want to be reminded of our time together for all eternity?” I take a sip of my ice-cold water. “Kinda heartbroken, RhiRhi.” I cover my forehead with the back of my hand. “Don’t think I’ll ever recover. Guess I’ll light a candle for what we could’ve been.”
“Better make it a bonfire. You’ve got a lot of delusions to burn.” She throws her head back and laughs. It’s light, carefree, and sounds so goddamnnicethat I want to make her do it again. “Also, we aren’t in public, no pet names.” She scolds me, though her voice is light and her face isn’t stern enough to deter me from making her cheeks go pink.
We’ve been in Dubrovnik for less than twenty-four hours, and in spite of her determination to keep me at arm’s length, the change in this woman is astounding. She’s visibly more relaxed, her shoulders are no longer bracketing her jaws, her worry lines have smoothed out, and dare I say it, she’s smiling more.
All it took was fifteen hundred miles, no reporters, no family or friends, twenty-five-degree heat, and a five-star resort. She must be so stressed out. She’s gone from being rugby’sperfectly behaved princess to the talk of the fucking town in less than a fortnight.
As she sunbathes, I try not to stare at her, but I wasn’t lying; she’s easy to stare at.
