I want to pinch this man’s cheeks. I know I’m supposed to hate him, I know I’m supposed to hold on to the same anger Dad and Taranis have no problem gripping with both hands and throwing petrol on every time they see him, but the more I get to know this man, the more those hate-built walls are crumbling.
Last night after dinner, he stood up for me in a way that no one ever has, in a way I never thought I needed. But the relief in my lungs and in my shoulders as he squared off to Dad was overwhelming. I’m choking up at the thought, but there’s another knock that sends the would-be tears scampering from my eyes in another wave of panic.
“Just a sec!” I holler at the door before looking back at the man still lying on the sofa with a determination to help etched in his handsome features and a lazy half smile playing on his kissable lips. “If I let them in, can you buy me ten minutes? For me to get camera ready, pretty please?” I flash him a pleading smile because his reaction to my question looks like I asked if I could piss in his Rice Krispies, then spoon-feed them to him.
The reticence is temporary; he purses his lips and gives me a firm nod. “I’ve got you.”
Something about how he says those words hits me in the chest like a dump tackle and those tears that were threatening, come back with a vengeance. I stab my bottom lip with my teeth as I shake it off and rush upstairs to the sound ofRobert grunting his way off the couch and answering the door.
His adorable, mussed-up hair will look much cuter than my slept-on-his-chest bed head. “Hey, Rhiannon’s running a little bit behind this morning. Come in and get set up while I stick the kettle on.” He sounds so at ease despite the fact he’s now in yesterday’s clothes and we just woke up, so comfortable in my space when I know the last thing he wants right now is to talk to, or be anywhere near, other reporters.
By the time I’ve thrown on some clean clothes, swept some mascara over my eyelashes, and brushed my teeth, Robert has helped the three-person crew downstairs set up the in-home recording studio and made tea and coffee for all of us.
“Morning. Sorry I’m a few minutes late.” The clock tells me I’m fifteen minutes late. “I slept in.”
Laura, the podcast creator, wiggles her eyebrows. “I would too if I hadhimin bed with me.” She winks at him.
Robert doesn’t say anything, but his adorableness only multiplies when a blush stains his cheeks, even though there’s a storm brewing behind his eyes at her words. He hands me a bowl of Coco Pops, earning an “aww” from the all-womenRuck Offteam.
He hooks a thumb at the door. “I’m going to leave you to it, okay?” He leans over and presses a painfully gentle kiss to my forehead, but Laura dives into the doorway blocking his exit.
“We’d love for you to stay and contribute to the interview.” She bats her lashes at him, but her smile is wolfish and calculating. She seems to have caught the scent of vulnerability in the air, and she’s going to capitalize on having both of us here at the same time. She doesn’t expect him to rock the boat and leave, but honestly, having seen how he reacted to Dad last night, this could go either way.
Instead of addressing Laura’s request, he turns to me. “Doyou want me to stay? I don’t want to take away from your interview.” The considerate way he asks what I want from the situation makes one of the techs swoon, like audibly, and frankly, my insides are swooning as well.
Why is this a fake relationship again?
This is why we have rules, Rhiannon. No sleepovers, remember? Ugh. Dumbass. We broke rule number four, and now I get to feel a persistent flutter in my stomach at his early morning cuteness and overwhelming guilt that he slept with his prosthesis on, and his hand keeps drifting to his thigh. That can’t have been comfortable at all.
Your own bed, every time.
I suppose the rules didn’t say anything about accidentally falling asleep together on the sofa after watching Julia Roberts, but that doesn’t do anything to quell the guilt in my gut and the pulsing ache between my thighs.
I didnotmiss the morning wood tenting his trousers, poking at me for attention before the door got railed on like the cops were out there.
I blink through the ovarian fog that makes me want to climb the gorgeous man like a tree and thank him for his kindness by fucking him senseless until we don’t remember our own names.
“Rhiannon.” He touches the back of his hand to my forehead, concern carved into the lines on his forehead and around his eyes. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “Yes, I’m fine.” And I’m a big baby, so I’d love to have some moral support, please don’t leave. I don’t say any of that out loud, of course, instead I simply keep nodding. “You can stay.”
I hope I don’t sound as afraid as I am, and that my outsides don’t look as shaky as my insides feel. The pressure to put the best foot forward for the team, the sport, and, asalways, my family is crippling every time I open my mouth to a member of the press.
Once we’re all settled in the living room, Laura does a sound check and makes sure that both she and I are visible on the screen. Robert opts to sit on a dining chair in the doorway, rather than next to me on the sofa—while they were finishing the set-up, he whispered that he’s not going to muscle in on my interview or make it about him and me.
Then he squeezed my hand and told me he’s simply here for moral support all while kicking another brick in my “Keep Robert Out” wall that’s crumbling in my chest by the day. How can such a heart-squeezingly nice guy be such a Rottweiler in the press? It doesn’t add up, and I can’t figure out the missing link.
Laura explains that she’ll do an intro and add the podcast’s intro music in editing before she beams at me from one end of the couch. “Let’s start off easy. What’s your pre-match hype song?”
That oneiseasy. “‘I Came to Move Mountains’ by Red Means Run.” I stare around the living room I spent years in with George. It’s bland, it’s dated, and there’s a near hysterical part of my brain screaming at me to start coloring the white walls in with some lipstick or something.
The more I look back over our relationship, the more I wonder if Isla was ever interested in being my friend, or if she was just with me to be close to him. A splinter needles into the wall of my heart as I try to push her out of my mind. She doesn’t deserve to live rent free in my mind. She’s not important, and she’s unworthy of my time.
I shift in my seat, the leather sofa my ex convinced me that we wanted making a squeaking sound as I do.
Laura hums like she’s never heard of the song before but makes a note in her notebook that I can’t read from here. There’s a heaviness in the air that I hate, a tightness in mychest that makes me want to claw at my throat or rip off my shirt. I fight a smile. That’d give them something to talk about at any rate.
I suppose so would coloring in the blank canvas of a wall behind her. At least there are two big windows, with natural light coming in every morning, but even the curtains are… boring.
