Chapter 17 #2
When I make it into the living space, she’s already leaning over the railing outside.
“It’s so nice out here.” She tips her head back and sucks in a deep breath.
It’s as though every rope of tension holding her body hostage is fraying one at a time the longer we’re away from home.
“The sun is rising over this side. We can sunbathe on the balcony; we don’t even need to leave until the afternoon.
Assuming we even want more sun by then.”
I nod and make “mmhmm” noises like all the blood in my body hasn’t abandoned my brain and isn’t making my dick stand up like a fucking flagpole. Her arse is perfectly cupped by that taut, green fabric.
“I feel you staring.” There’s laughter in her voice, but her words are hard.
“You’re an easy woman to stare at, Rhiannon Morrigan. I can’t help it.”
She turns to look at me, an expression I can’t read painted across her delicate features. “Let me throw on a dress, and we can have breakfast. Then I have a date with some tan lines.”
“What about matching tattoos?” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know it’s not going to fly.
We’re out on our private terrace after having enjoyed the delicious breakfast buffet downstairs.
It was every bit as sumptuous as the pamphlet promised it would be.
We even shared a snap of us enjoying mimosas on Rhiannon’s social media pages.
She instantly got a bunch of likes and comments.
I didn’t scroll for long; I don’t like giving space to the haters. But I did puff out my chest a little at one in particular that said I am so much hotter than her piece of shit ex.
Score one for the fake boyfriend. Never been called hot in my life, but I’ll take it.
Especially when it’s said in the same sentence as Rhiannon.
Her beauty is unparalleled. So, to think she’s stuck spending so much time with a “bridge troll” like me—as my sister likes to say—has been playing on my mind.
I’m no TV action star, but I’ll take “better looking than George” as a solid win.
We’re discussing rule number twenty, trying to come up with three inside jokes or habits to convince people back home that we’re really falling in love.
“Tempting. But I don’t do permanent reminders of temporary arseholes.” Rhiannon plucks the end of her wide-brimmed hat up high enough for her to give me an incredulous look. “You first. I’ll make sure it’s spelled wrong just to keep it authentic.”
She’s not wrong that it’s a bit permanent, but I’ve always wanted a tattoo. At least this would mean I’d have to take a crap or get off the pot, and it’s more likely to mean something than the “live, laugh, love” our Emma jokes I should get tattooed on Ghosty, my stub.
“What? You don’t want to be reminded of our time together for all eternity?” I take a sip of my ice-cold water. “Kinda heartbroken, RhiRhi.” I cover my forehead with the back of my hand. “Don’t think I’ll ever recover. Guess I’ll light a candle for what we could’ve been.”
“Better make it a bonfire. You’ve got a lot of delusions to burn.
” She throws her head back and laughs. It’s light, carefree, and sounds so goddamn nice that I want to make her do it again.
“Also, we aren’t in public, no pet names.
” She scolds me, though her voice is light and her face isn’t stern enough to deter me from making her cheeks go pink.
We’ve been in Dubrovnik for less than twenty-four hours, and in spite of her determination to keep me at arm’s length, the change in this woman is astounding.
She’s visibly more relaxed, her shoulders are no longer bracketing her jaws, her worry lines have smoothed out, and dare I say it, she’s smiling more.
All it took was fifteen hundred miles, no reporters, no family or friends, twenty-five-degree heat, and a five-star resort. She must be so stressed out. She’s gone from being rugby’s perfectly behaved princess to the talk of the fucking town in less than a fortnight.
As she sunbathes, I try not to stare at her, but I wasn’t lying; she’s easy to stare at.
“You’re staring again.”
“I can’t help it; you’re a magnificent woman. If it helps, my dick hasn’t joined the party yet, so you don’t need to fear making eye contact with my trouser snake.”
As I’d hoped, that makes her laugh again.
It’s not the brittle laugh she has been giving the whole week we’ve known each other; it’s warmer, more textured and deeper.
I like this Rhiannon a lot. I need to hold her boundaries with all I have because if I don’t, I can see myself actually liking this woman enough to want to make this fake agreement not so fake.
And we’re in close enough proximity that the opportunity might present itself.
She sweeps an arm toward the view. “All this to look at, and you’re fixated on my bustin’ bake?”
I take a long drink from my glass. “Like I said, you’re a stunning woman.”
“Which one of us has been taking too many hits to the head on the pitch?”
“Ah. You forget I know the game. You’re probably more likely to get whiplash than concussion as a fly-half.”
“True. But I’m targeted because I’m a playmaker,” she counters.
“Which would be more of an issue if you weren’t as quick as a whippet.”
She beams at that, like she’s not used to having her game complimented, so I make a mental note to praise her more when it comes to her love of the sport. “Don’t you have a gossipy toilet-paper story to write instead of lying here ogling me in the sunshine?”
The shot cuts too close to the quick. I do have an article to write, and it’s about her, and her sport, and her friends.
And I haven’t told her that’s the plan, even if I’m not writing a piece of trash and want it to be a real, human-interest story.
She’s not going to feel the same way about it that I do.
An idea hits me like a lightning bolt, so I sidestep the topic of my work.
“What about coordinating outfits? Like matchy-matchy without being completely matching. Like any time we’re in public, we wear things that complement each other, same color palette.
It’s subtle, easy to do, and non-permanent. ”
“That’s not really an inside joke.” She stretches her hands toward her toes, folding her body into a forward bend.
“Could be, if there’s a reason for it. Like maybe the first few times we went on a date it was accidental coordination, but then we clocked it and decided to do it on purpose.”
Someone knocks on the door to our suite, and I move to grab my crutches.
Rhiannon flaps my hand out of the way. “I ordered it, I’ll get it.” She leaps off the lounger, throws her sun cover over her bikini, and heads back inside the room.
“If you keep talking to me like that, I might start to think you care.”
“Only in the way I care about recycling—mildly, and mostly out of guilt.”
I smile to myself as she deals with the room service. She’s a formidable banter opponent. I’m not sure there’s a single woman—or person—in Northern Ireland who doesn’t have a quick-fire banter bone somewhere in their body. But Rhiannon’s is impressive. Her banter boner gives me a real boner.
I shift in my seat, once again muttering to my crotch. This thing is out of fucking control.
When she returns, she’s got a tray full of lite bites, but there’s a notable absence of the orange juice she ordered.
She huffs. “Not to sound like a diva…”
“Buuuuut?”
This is where she is going to sound like a diva. “But how hard is it to bring the fucking juice?”
I snort. The phrase tickling my funny bone. It’s not lost on me that people call anabolic steroids juicing, or that I investigated her family for that very thing, and here she is, calling for the juice. Where I’m from, you either laugh at the darkest thing in the room or let it swallow you whole.
Maybe this is what becomes one of our inside jokes.
“What’s so funny?” Her eyes narrow as my laughter continues.
“I can’t tell if you’re calling for steroids, or for me to big you up. ‘Bring the fucking juice’ sounds like the title track of your first album but also could mean anything from you wanting actual juice, to you needing bigged up because you’re feeling like crap about something.”
She stares at me like she doesn’t get the joke, but she’s clearly tickled that I’m laughing so hard, which only makes me laugh harder. If I stop finding things funny, it means I’ve started feeling it—and that’s worse.
“That’s it. That’s our first official in-joke.” I pause to catch my breath. “Any time you say that, I’m going to rub your shoulders like a boxer at the edge of the ring and tell you how fucking amazing you are.”
She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t say no. It’s a little on the nose, a little over the line considering our history, but that’s exactly how our humor is here in Northern Ireland. Hashtag Banter Boner.
“Why’d you do it?” She’s giving me whiplash at the change of direction, glancing over her shoulder like she’s willing the door to go again so she can get her beloved, freshly pressed orange juice.
“Hm?”
“Was the money really that good?” There’s a bitterness to her tone that tells me she’s back to the core issue, the reason she’s so angry at me, the fact I overturned the privacy wall between her family and the public.
It’s like she can’t rectify the two versions of me: the one she’s created in her head surrounding the drug investigation in her sport and the one making her laugh about orange juice on her would-be honeymoon.
And she won’t let herself think about actually liking me while this giant elephant in the room lodges itself between us.
The money wasn’t actually that good, no. But that’s besides the point. I’m not telling her my reasons until we’re a little further down the line.
I hold my hand up. “How about this? How about you give me the benefit of the doubt for the duration of our public, fake relationship, and I’ll tell you my motivations for writing the article in a few weeks?”
“The benefit of the doubt,” she repeats the words, but from the hesitation in her voice, she’s saying them to herself. “That’s rich, coming from the man who makes a living twisting people’s truths for clicks.”
Ouch. I resist the urge to cover my heart with both hands to protect myself from her barbed words.
I drove my car off a cliff and survived.
I know real pain. My leg wasn’t the only injury I came away with.
All of those wounds have healed over time, but somehow, the words she spits at me fucking hurt like a raw sore.
I open my mouth, but she’s already pressing forward.
“Tell me, Robert. Do you even remember the names of the people you hurt last time you told a story? Or did you just file them under necessary collateral and move on?”
Wow. She’s off to the races now, isn’t she? So glad I asked for an armistice. The Good Friday Agreement went down better at the peace talks than my idea for her to give me the benefit of the doubt for a week.
The air crackles between us. I flinch before I can stop myself.
Her chest rises and falls, too fast, and for a heartbeat she looks almost shocked at herself—then angry that she is.
When I say nothing, she scoffs, a brittle sound. “Didn’t think so.”
“Careful, sweetheart. You’re not the first person to think you have me all figured out.” In reality, it’s worse than she can imagine based on what she knows.
I heave out a sigh. It seems I still have a ways to go before I gain the trust of my beloved rugby princess.