Chapter 1
Colin
I SHOULD LEAVE.
That’s the first thing I think when the woman slides onto the stool to my right, taking the last open seat.
I should definitely leave. Especially with the way she caught my attention in under a millisecond as she waltzed my way, her reflection holding me captive in the bar’s mirrors.
Long blond hair swishing as she walks, chin up, one hundred percent confidence with a touch of don’t fuck with me attitude.
She’s not looking for anything, not interested in anyone.
And it’s exactly why I should be grateful she’s sitting next to me. Because I’m not interested in anyone either.
I’m here to relax. That’s it. To take time for myself and just be. Which my sister thought was hilarious, and precisely why I came by myself. I have seventy-two hours before my life completely changes. Why not spend a couple of days doing something I’ve never done?
“Sure, Colin,” my sister had laughed. “Take your controlling self to Las Vegas. Let’s hope you’re not eaten alive.”
The scent of something woodsy and feminine drifts toward me as I tip my tequila back, and I palm the bar to hold myself together.
This woman has not so much as looked at me, but it doesn’t matter.
There is no world in which I could ignore her.
No world in which I’d want to, despite every rule I have.
I set the glass down, my jaw tightening.
The bartender is in front of her almost instantly, ignoring the other patrons and offering a friendly grin that says he’s more than happy to provide her with anything she wants. Anything. I’ve been a coach for far too long not to recognize that look in all its various forms.
“Do you have any Australian wines?” she asks above the din, her accent immediately placing her from the very country she’s asking about.
He nods, and she orders a Chardonnay before shifting in her seat. She pulls a book out of her tote, and the signal is plenty loud: Don’t engage.
I keep my attention on the wall of televisions looming behind the bar, their screens giving me glimpses at current and older games of just about every sport I can imagine: baseball, golf, boxing, Formula 1, football, even cricket.
The screen with the one sport I want to watch, rugby, is way over at the other end of the bar, and the entire place is packed.
Never mind that this is one of countless bars in this hotel, or that there are at least a hundred more just like it along the Strip.
There’s no moving. Besides, I can see the screen well enough if I angle my head just right.
I squint. Looks like a rerun of Ireland playing the All Blacks last year, over in Chicago.
Great game. What I’d give to have that level of talent to choose from.
But here in the U.S., football gets most of it.
Still, I’m on the cusp of signing to coach the Atlanta Granite, one of our pro league teams, and that means I finally get my chance to make a real impact.
Years of hard work and sacrifice have led me to this point.
Years of effort, all with the singular goal of supporting my family.
I promised my grandfather I’d take care of my mom and sister, and I always keep my promises.
And now I’m here, so close to having everything in my grasp.
All I have to do is keep my head down and stay focused.
On the screen, Ireland’s eighth man sprints down the pitch at Soldier Field, tossing the ball behind him with barely a glance.
Number seven, the openside flanker, grabs and tosses it in one smooth motion back to the eighth man while the All Blacks surround them, tightening and pressing in.
The game moves incredibly fast, but if you’ve played and coached as long as I have, it’s like watching a ballet with dancers at the height of their careers.
It’s fluid and beautiful, with an element of elegance even as the guys dive and tackle, ruck and maul.
There’s a level of respect and etiquette on the pitch that you don’t get in any other sport.
Well, usually. Sometimes you really do just want to beat the shit out of the other team with zero mercy.
But most of the time the sport truly adheres to the old saying: rugby is a hooligan’s game played by gentlemen.
The bartender brings her the wine and she hands over her card. “Open tab?” he asks, and she shakes her head.
“One drink only.” She glances at me in the mirror as the bartender moves away, her expression neutral, assessing.
All I do is dip my chin in return. A silent confirmation that I see her, I see her book, and I don’t plan on talking if she doesn’t. Do I think she’s going to be left alone? No. But will I be the person to bother her? Absolutely not.
Sure enough, she’s not turned two pages of her book before some asshole in a too-tight button-down and eye-watering amounts of cologne is bending into her space on the other side, leering down her shirt before attempting to make eye contact. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge him.
He keeps standing there, clearly wanting her to engage.
She doesn’t. Instead, she turns the page and takes a sip of wine. All without looking up.
My lips quirk.
“You here alone?” the guy finally asks.
It’s all I need to fully turn my attention to the two of them.
She flips another page and deigns to glance at him before looking right back at her book. “Yes. And it’s going to stay that way.”
His eyebrows crash down, as if he can’t quite believe what she said. “You don’t really mean that,” he cajoles. “Pretty girl like you at a bar in Vegas?”
With a sigh, she closes the paperback and gives him her undivided attention.
“First of all, I just told you that I planned on staying alone all night. That should have been enough for your tiny brain to process, but perhaps it wasn’t.
So I’ll be more blunt, and I’ll use small words to be sure you understand.
I. Am. Not. Interested in you. You have already gotten an eyeful of my tits, ignored my own words, and attempted to tell me what I want.
Meanwhile, you are a walking cliché of a boy who’s probably here on his daddy’s money and has a three-inch dick who hasn’t given a woman an orgasm in his entire life. Leave. Me. Alone.”
His mouth opens and closes as she speaks, a fish out of water. The guy may honestly have never had someone talk to him like this, and watching him try to process her words is like having my own personal comedy show.
I burst out laughing.
His face darkens as he looks at me. “Hey man, stay the fuck out of this.”
All his reaction does is make me laugh harder, and when I meet the woman’s eyes and find them filled with mirth, I let out a full-on guffaw, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. It’s honestly the most fun I’ve had in ages.
She starts giggling, too, turning her whole body toward me.
The guy mutters something under his breath and leaves, and I grab my drink and lift it in a toast to her. “Thanks for the show. That was incredible.”
She smiles, and the vision of her nearly knocks me on my ass. Fuck me, she is beautiful. There’s a tiny gap between her two front teeth, and with that and the way her ice-blue eyes shine, I’m rendered utterly speechless.
“No worries,” she answers. “And thanks for diffusing the situation.”
I shrug, trying mightily to remain casual as I scramble for mental purchase.
I never let women throw me for a loop like this, so why does a random Australian at a bar in Las Vegas have me so twisted up?
Lock in, Thicke. “It wasn’t on purpose – you were handling yourself just fine.
But the look on his face was priceless,” I grin.
She winks. “It was better once you started laughing at him.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
She hums and flips her book back open, so I reluctantly search out the rugby match again.
Up on the screen, Ireland’s winger dives toward the try line, the ball gripped hard in his hand, his arm outstretched.
All Blacks players pile on him as the camera zooms in.
The try is good, putting five more points on the board for Ireland.
“Yes,” I mutter. I know how the game turns out, but it doesn’t stop me from rooting for the men in green.
She turns, attempting to follow my gaze, but there are far too many screens for that.
And I’m not inclined to discuss rugby right now.
As an Australian, she’s likely got a better working knowledge than the average American, so it would probably be a decent conversation.
Way better than the usual explanations I have to give on why the players aren’t wearing protective gear and what a try is, never mind attempting to describe a ruck or maul or why two men are lifting a third so high into the air that his butt cheeks are exposed.
The thought of a knowledgeable talk about rugby with this woman makes me jittery for reasons I can’t quite explain.
Thankfully, the bartender comes back and nods at my empty glass, interrupting any question she might have had.
I hesitate. I’m a two drinks maximum kind of guy, and I’ve just finished my second round of incredibly tasty tequila. “Water for now.”
He nods as he pours the water and slides it in front of me, then keeps moving.
“Rules?” she asks.
I raise a brow.
She nods at the glass. “The water. Do you have rules like me?”
Rules like her.
Fuck me. This is exactly why I should have left.
And it’s exactly why I should leave now.
Pay the tab, shut this conversation down, and leave.
But the other part of me – the stupid, impulsive part that I’ve spent my life stomping down – is racing down the pitch, rugby ball gripped against my chest, laughing hysterically at the slew of players at his back.
This, ironically, is one of my rules: don’t get involved.
Ever. Feelings are messy and rarely controlled.
But then she smiles, unknowingly delivering a fatal blow, and I fold.
“Something like that. What are your rules?”
Her eyes shimmer. “Don’t talk to men in bars.”
I bark out a laugh, surprise flaring through me. “I don’t think you’re off to a good start on that one.”
She raises her glass of wine in acknowledgment, then takes a sip. “The other rule – my biggest one – is that I’m only allowed one drink. Any more than that and things get…dicey.”
Well, now I’m curious. “Dicey?”
“Let’s say that I tend to misbehave. Not anything illegal,” she hurries to say as I snort a laugh, “but more like, mischievous.”
“Mischievous?” I repeat.
“Trouble seems to find me when I drink, so I shouldn’t do it. Except I do love a glass of wine, so…” She shrugs. “Thus, the one-drink rule was born.”
“Fair enough,” I concede. “And, yeah, I’m usually a two-drink guy.”
“We’re a couple of cheap dates,” she teases.
“At a hotel bar on the Strip in Vegas,” I finish.
“Yeah. But that just means we’re multi-faceted, right?”
I grin. “Right.”
“I’m Sam,” she says, leaning into my space as she speaks.
“Matthew.” My middle name comes out on instinct, because I never use my first name when I’m traveling. Another rule.
“Nice to meet you, Matthew.”
My name sounds equal parts right and wrong coming out of her mouth, and I want to take it back. Tell her my real name. Ask her to say it. Listen to how it would sound in her accent.
Instead, I jerk my chin toward her book. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“It’s a prop,” she says.
Another laugh bursts out of me. When was the last time I had this much fun? “You’re lying.”
She smiles again, that tiny gap showing and taking another swing at my dwindling willpower. “I’m not. I bought it at the airport before I boarded the plane. Seemed like something I should have.”
I finally read the title, and yet another amused chuckle leaves my lips. “The Miracle of Flight: 100 Deadly Crashes? You really thought it was a good idea to buy a book on plane crashes before you get on a flight?”
“Not my finest moment,” she admits. “I don’t usually have time to read, and this was in the clearance bin.”
“Can’t imagine why,” I deadpan.
“Do you read?”
“Not much. Usually too busy with my…” I hesitate. Don’t get involved. “Work stuff,” I finish.
The bartender reappears. “Another round?” he asks.
We look at each other. She bites her lower lip, those ice-blue eyes of hers seeming to issue a dare.
Fuck it.
“I’ve got an idea,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my lucky quarter. “We’re in Vegas.”
“That we are.” Her eyes dart to the coin as I let her see both sides. When they meet mine again, it feels like I’m standing in the sunshine.
Sunshine. The word rolls around in my mind as I speak. “Heads, we have another drink. Tails, we call it a night.”
“Mischievous,” she declares, pointing an accusing finger at me.
I lift my shoulders. “Maybe a little.”
She hesitates. “I shouldn’t.”
“I get it,” I tell her, then start to put the quarter away.
“Let’s do it.”
I freeze, and something funny twists in my chest. An instinct. Buried deep, below anyplace I’ve ever reached. I meet her steady gaze and brandish the coin again. “Yeah?”
Pure determination stares back at me. “Flip,” she commands.