Chapter One
SAVANNAH
Masculinity rolls from Ronan Rivers in undulating waves. Watching his taut, tanned torso ripple and glide through the Olympic-sized swimming pool is like watching porn.
Ahem–poetry, I mean.
When he reaches the edge of the pool and stands, tiny beads of water glisten and drip across his exposed flesh. Broad muscular shoulders taper down over a marble-sculpted chest to a narrow waist. A fine smattering of fair hair dusts the smooth skin beneath his belly button before disappearing into fire engine red swim shorts.
What’s he storing down there? Eight, maybe ten inches? It’s hard to tell today, but from the footage I saw from his Olympic days, there was a sizeable package in those budgie smugglers.
It’s just a crying shame the man is a complete wanker.
Well, maybe not technically. I’d be surprised if he had anything left in his balls that he’d need to empty alone. Ronan has been photographed with a ridiculous number of women - but never the same one twice.
But personality wise, he’s an unequivocal wanker.
From the second we laid eyes on each other, he’s done nothing but torment me. I suppose I did accidentally write off his Aston Martin with my Range Rover.
His arrogance knows no bounds. I suppose he does have two Olympic gold medals tucked beneath his belt. Or budgie smugglers.
I shift in the plastic poolside seating and press my thighs together, will my eyes to focus on my twin daughters splashing in the deep end, and not their insanely attractive but infuriating swimming instructor.
I’ve created a multi-million euro blogging empire from my situation as a single mother. I haven’t dated since… since my last boyfriend knocked me up, then knocked me down with three soul-shattering words, ‘I’m actually married.’
But I’m still a red-blooded woman.
‘See something you like?’ Ronan calls from the edge of the pool, raking a hand through his damp, dirty blond hair and shooting me a wink.
If goading me was an Olympic sport, he’d have won a million gold medals.
I peel my eyes from his perfect pecs as a hot flush strikes my cheeks. ‘No. I was merely disapproving of the scratch marks on your chest,’ I lie. Really, I’m wondering about the woman who put them there. Specifically, what he was doing to her to make her claw so crazily.
‘Do you scratch, Sassy Sav?’ He wiggles a pair of thick, fair eyebrows.
Irritation flares my nostrils. He knows well my blog handle is Single Sav, but he’s always called me Sassy Sav.
His thumb roams over his chin thoughtfully. ‘I bet you do. In fact, I bet you claw, and scratch and scream.’
As much as I hate him, what I hate more is that his filthy mouth incites baser feelings in my groin. I cross my denim-clad legs and toss my hair from my shoulder. ‘You’ll never find out.’
‘Never say never, sweetheart.’ His navy eyes twinkle. ‘I’m biding my time until you finally overcome your man-hating ways.’
I’m not a man-hater.
I’ve just been burned.
Badly.
Adopting an air of boredom, I pretend to examine my pink painted nails, even though his filthy mouth sets my heart racing like a wild stallion thundering across an open prairie. ‘Oh, I can safely say I’d rather jump into the middle of the Irish Sea without a life raft than jump into bed with you.’ And I can’t swim.
‘Is that right?’ His plump lips lift into an infuriating smirk. ‘Maybe that will cool your flaming face down.’
‘Is that an appropriate way to speak to the mother of the children you’re being paid to teach to swim?’ I bite out, furious with him for inciting a reaction in me like this, and even more furious with myself for letting him.
‘I’d say it’s about as appropriate as said mother salivating over the man she’s paying to teach said children to swim.’ He folds his powerful arms across the sharp curves of his chest and cocks his head.
I sigh in disgust. ‘In your dreams, dickhead.’
