“Not likethat.” I wave her off, only partially sure she’s not going to impale me on the piece of cutlery. “Things like…” I tap my chin, frantically trying to come up with something to make her smile. “She wears her scrum cap to bed in case of dreams with poor form. Or… she once played a whole match with a broken toe and didn’t tell anyone until after the win.”
She’s giving me another eye roll with a shake of her head, but she’s smiling. She orders Rožata, Dubrovnik’s signature dessert, similar to crème caramel but flavored with rose liqueur. And I order Dubrovacka torta, which is a rich cake made with ground almonds, chocolate, and candied orange peel.
“How about, she’s so good at rugby she was offered a spot on the men’s team… twice?”
She purses her lips, but there’s amusement bubbling in her eyes.
“The national coach changed the game schedule around her availability.”
Her nostrils flare, and she pins the corner of her lip between her teeth.
“She trained in a thunderstorm once because ‘it felt cinematic.’?”
She grins. “I do love a good thunderstorm.”
“She once corrected a commentator while playing—and was right. She designs her own training drills, and half the squad follows them. Or what about, she taught herself Welsh and French and Italian just to trash talk better during test matches?”
She’s holding her side, her shoulders shaking with quiet giggles while the waiter brings our desserts. “Oh my God, don’t you dare. I don’t know a single word of Welsh.”
“That’s fine. I’ll just make up a few phrases and attribute them to you in my next article. ‘Rhiannon Morrigan calls English winger a turnip.’?” I flash her a wicked grin. “It makes the threats sound way more impressive. ‘You’re a goat in trousers!’—total mystery, instant intimidation.” I flick my wrist. “Just say the word. I have a litany of hype stories ready to go.”
“I see that.”
“I think you’d sound seriously sexy threatening to break someone’s kneecaps in French.”
A faint blush blooms in her cheeks, and it takes all my self-control not to reach out and skim her warming skin with my fingers. There’s a flash of white outside the window of the restaurant. “Rhiannon?”
She looks up from her dessert, seemingly almost irked that I dared try to take her attention away from the sweet treat.
“Wasn’t one of the things on yourEat, Pray, Lovelist to gate-crash a wedding?”
Her brows furrow as she frowns. “It is indeed. Why?”
I hook a thumb toward the woman in white still passing the restaurant. “I think it’s our lucky day. Let’s go crash a wedding!”
CHAPTER 20
Robert
Finding secluded, beautiful places in Croatia is easier than I expected, but calling them beautiful feels like an insult. The landscape is breathtaking. The view fades from pale, morning-blue sky to the deep, blue-green shimmer of the Adriatic, divided by sharp white limestone cliffs that glow in the sun.
We’ve taken a small boat out to a hidden cove, one of the perks of the resort. But the best view isn’t the sea or the cliffs—it’s Rhiannon, lounging on the deck in a royal-blue bikini that should be illegal in at least four countries.
There’s a stark white line where her rugby shirt and shorts finish and her tan starts.
Am I staring?
Do bears shit in the fucking woods?
She’s a goddess. That body should be in a museum, studied by scientists, and be the epitome of what people are striving to achieve when they think “perfect body.” She’s toned, fit, and thicc in all the right places.
The blue fabric provides the perfect contrast for her broad shoulders and strong thighs, drawing my attention to all theright places. Or wrong places, since my swim shorts have a very hard and painful dick pitching a tent in them.
But it’s her energy that’s the most beautiful part of this morning. The casual way her shoulders relax, the easy, languid smile teasing her lips under the wide-brimmed hat, and how even her breathing is, slow, steady, deep.
I haven’t taken my leg off yet; I’m not sure I’m going to. Despite being so isolated out here in the middle of nowhere, I don’t know the person sailing the boat, and he’s already spent an inordinate amount of time staring. I’d rather not give him something else to look at.
Rhiannon even caught him staring once, and when her eyes met mine, they softened, quiet support being shared without words. Then she stared at the captain until he caught her attention, and she glared at him with wide, angry eyes until he blushed.
