“You mean soccer?”
We should probably get inside, but I’m having too much fun learning about Layla. Poking and prodding to get a rise out of her.
“Football, love,” I correct, “and the best team is Arsenal.”
“You’re right. I don’t watchyourfootball. My football team? Mountain Lions, no question.”
I knew that without her having to tell me since her brother played for them.
“Looks like we can cheer for each other’s teams then.”
“Is that enough to get us through tonight?” She voices the question that I know is still plaguing her.
I hop out and circle around to Layla’s side of the truck. Opening her door, she spins to face me. Her black shorts ride up her legs. All that exposed skin plays havoc with my mind, wondering what they’d feel like wrapped around me.
“Simon?” Layla snaps her fingers in front of me, a knowing look on her face.
“Right. You want me to tell them how you bite down on your lip when you’re sewing? Or how you try to quirk up this eyebrow”—I rub a finger over her right one—“when you’re annoyed, but you can’t actually do it?”
“I don’t do that,” she protests.
“Sure you don’t.”
Like she’s trying to do right now.
Pushing me back, Layla steps out of the truck, wearing heels that put her eye to eye with me.
“Another thing I know about you?”
“What’s that?” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“That no matter where you go, you’re always dressed to impress.”
My eyes rake over her, from head to toe. From her perfectly made-up face, long blonde locks curling past her shoulders, and the light green top that hugs her curves.
Layla is a bombshell.
I don’t know how else to put it.
Every man in this town is an idiot. Who wouldn’t want to be with Layla?
I’m a right lucky bastard. Even if this is pretend. Getting to be in her world for a few weeks is better than not at all.
“Alright. Maybe we can pull this off.” Layla links hands with me and pulls me behind her.
Soft murmurs of the gathering crowd inside the lodge can be heard with the doors thrown open. Her hand tightens around mine as we walk into the open lobby.
Giving her a squeeze of reassurance back, I lean in closer to her. “Champagne to take the nerves off?”
She nods. “Please.”
A bartender I haven’t met yet—but have a full dossier on—is serving drinks.
“Pint of the lager and a glass of champagne, please.”
“Coming right up.”
“Simon. I didn’t think you’d be here tonight.” Sean comes up on my left, resting his elbow on the bar.
