‘Did you consider Ronan Rivers?’ The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. I hope I’m not overstepping.
‘I did.’ Lucas sits back, clasping his fingers together on the table. ‘His success at the Olympics is unrivalled but his weekend rendezvous don’t do him any favours. I don’t want Dublin’s biggest player associated with my campaign.’ His head snaps up. ‘Do you know him?’
‘He’s teaching my children to swim.’ I deliberate adding ‘and me,’ but before I can decide, my phone vibrates in my bag. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say to Lucas. ‘I’ve left the girls with a… friend tonight. I’m keeping an eye on the phone to make sure they’re okay.’
It feels weird to admit Ronan is the friend who’s minding the girls tonight. Especially given I just suggested him as the ambassador for Coral Chic’s male range. It would give Lucas the wrong impression.
Lucas motions at my mobile, encouraging me to check it.
I tap the screen to open a message from Ronan. Instead of the SOS I half expected, it’s a video of him standing between the girls, arms folded, studious expressions on each of their faces. Beyonce’s ‘Who Rules the World’blares out and the three of them burst into uncannily symmetrical dance moves.
Eden is beaming from ear to ear, Isla is crying with laughter, and Ronan… what can I say? His torso ripples as his hips gyrate to the music and instead of looking ridiculous, he looks ridiculously hot. Especially when he looks so overtly masculine, wedged between my two tiny princesses.
Laughter bursts from my mouth.
‘Everything okay?’ Lucas arches an eyebrow.
‘Yes, sorry, it’s the girls and my, err.. friend.’ There’s nothing platonic about the way I feel for Ronan Rivers, the man who Lucas rightly reminded me is Dublin’s biggest player, and not on the pitch.
Which is exactly why, even though I want to ride Ronan like a wild stallion, I shouldn’t.
Lucas is easy company. In other circumstances, I might be attracted to him, but all I can think about is getting out of here and getting home. And not necessarily because of the twins.
When our dinner meeting finally draws to a close, Lucas rises, leans across the table, and presses a kiss to my cheek. His lips linger slightly longer than necessary. ‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you to come for a drink with me?’
‘I’d better get back to the girls.’ And my hot manny.
‘Well, thanks for joining me tonight.’ The scent of his citrus cologne brushes my nose.
‘Thanks for inviting me.’ I stand, grabbing my bag.
His huge eyes fall to my lips. ‘I hope this isn't too forward, but I wondered if you fancied coming out for a drink with me some other time. For pleasure, not for business, obviously.’
I shake my head. ‘Oh, no, I’m afraid I don’t do dates…’
But I have been seriously considering having sex with my swimming instructor.
‘Never?’ He persists, pinning me in a stare with espresso-coloured eyes.
‘No.’ A mild flicker of shame stirs in my stomach, but technically it’s the truth, no matter what I’ve been fantasising.
‘Pity.’ His gaze lingers on my face for a beat. ‘If you ever change your mind…’ He whips out a black business card embellished with gold italics, and slips it into my hand.
Oh god.
I have not one but two gorgeous guys propositioning me.
Someone, somewhere, is seriously testing my commitment to celibacy.
But the biggest test will be if I let Ronan out of my house again tonight, because after a couple of drinks with dinner, and watching his torso rippling to Beyonce, my resolve is considerably weaker than it was four hours ago.
I flag a taxi outside the restaurant and spend the entire ride home, repeating the same phrase over and over in my head.
Ronan Rivers is in my house.
There’s something sublimely satisfying about knowing he’s minding my girls, instead of out on the pull on a Saturday night.
Jesus, the man deserves a shag for that alone. Though that doesn’t necessarily mean I should give it to him. It’s all verywell for Mr-I-Don’t-Want-To-Date-You-I-Just-Want-To-Fuck-You, but that’s easier said than done.
