1
I feltthe glare my best friend shot at me from across the room. Felt it, and ignored it. The pub was relatively quiet. A low hum of the TV showing a sports game no one was paying attention to. There was a soft chatter from the few patrons gathered around drinking, no one having noticed that one of the hottest footballers in the country had just waltzed in and was currently staring at my best friend like he’d just found a fifty-pound note on the street. The best part was he appeared completely unbothered by the sour expression creasing her beautiful face.
I sent her a wink as I circled the pool table, earning me the middle finger. Leaning over the green felt, my drunk brain told me to wiggle my bum a little in the air as I lined up the shot. I wasn’t one to argue with Drunk Rosie. When I got the satisfying sound of a pained grunt behind me, I mentally high-fived my intoxicated self and pulled my cue back, thrusting it sharply at the white ball. Holding my breath, not moving until it knocked the black ball straight into the corner pocket, landing with a rewardingclunk.
Standing and throwing my arms aloft in triumph, Iturned to face my opponent. His baby blue eyes creased in laughter. He tucked his cue under one arm, starting to clap.
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re hustling me, sweetheart?’ He asked in a deep voice that sent shivers racing down my spine.Drunk Rosie was also Horny Rosie.
‘Who me?’ I placed my hand to my chest and fluttered my eyelashes in a show of innocence which only had the sexy lumberjack in front of me chuckling harder. He wasn’t actually a lumberjack; at least from the limited information I’d gleaned since meeting him an hour ago.
However, his checkered flannel shirt and well-worn jeans in combination with the unshaved beard and seemingly untamable hair screamedlumberjack. He was also built like one. Six-foot-four and solid. I found out byaccidentallybumping up against him when I went to take my shot earlier. Granting me another one of those underwear melting growls.
‘Those sexy eyes aren’t fooling me. You’re a pro at this, aren’t you?’
I leaned my butt against the table, casting a quick look over my shoulder to check on Fallon. She’d halted sending daggers my way in favour of talking to the sexy, scandal shrouded footballer, Oliver Blake. Whatever he was saying was making my dearest friend’s cheeks turn the same pink as her hair. I turned to face his brother George and drew my bottom lip into my mouth, lifting my shoulders in a shrug.
‘Is it going to damage your male ego if I say yes?’ I challenged.
Another soft chuckle rumbled out of his throat. ‘I think I can handle it. You’ve kicked my butt, sweetheart.’
I did my best to hide my surprise. A guy who’s okay with losing to a girl was like finding a four-leaf clover.
‘I’ve been playing since I was eight.’ I lifted my shoulder in a small shrug.
He arched a brow. ‘You’ve been playing pool since you were eight?’
My smile faltered. One of the few memories of my dad that didn’t make my blood boil with undiluted rage was him teaching me how to play. He’d take me to a bar late at night, when Mum was asleep, and show me how to play. My stupid pre-teen brain preened under his attention and his rare praise when I lined up a good shot.
I didn’t realise it then, but his desire forbondingwas a ruse to impress the women who draped themselves over him, oohing over him being such a good dad. The women he surrounded himself with didn’t care that his daughter was too young to be in a bar at all. And theydefinitelydidn’t care about the wedding ring on his left hand. He was handsome and rich. That’s all they needed to know.
But at least all of those times of him teaching me had stuck. I was a dab hand at bar games.
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I flashed George a flirty smile. ‘Yeah, so don’t feel bad. You never stood a chance.’
His gaze pierced through me, darkening in a way that had my pulse flickering to life. ‘I’m beginning to see that.’
He took a confident step towards me, bringing with him the rich aroma of soil and pine mingled with the scent of fresh laundry.Holy shit,the intense concoction made me want to bury my face into his shirt and climb him like a fucking tree.
You are not a koala, Rosie.
I didn’t even notice him drop the cue to the table because he was towering over me. That really was the only word for what he was doing.Towering.My 5’7 frame wasn’t short, but compared to this giant, I felt like a garden gnome.
He rested his hands on the table either side of my hips, caging me in. I had to tilt my head back to look into his eyes.It was so unfair that he looked so gorgeous with seemingly no effort. A quick ruffle of his hair and he was ready to go. I spend hours shaving, exfoliating, moisturising, agonising over the perfect outfit. All to do what? Impress a man who threw on yesterday’s outfit and slapped on some deodorant.
It’s not fair.
He frowned. ‘What’s not fair?’ Great. That thought hadn’t stayed in my head after all. George stared down at me, his eyes flitting over my face in an attempt to work me out.Good luck, buddy.
‘Life,’ I said simply.
‘I don’t know. It’s not looking that bad now.’ His eyes dipped down the valley of my chest to my cleavage. God bless push-up bras.
‘You’re staring at my rack. I’m sure life isn’t looking too bad from where you’re standing.’
He didn’t even have the decency to look self-conscious at being called out for staring. His eyes casually trawled back up my body, their slow perusal drawing out a flurry of goosebumps across my skin.
‘I’m staring atyou,sweetheart.’
