16. Ruby
Ruby
Apiercing scream wakes me.
Flinging back the covers, I sprint toward the sound—which, judging by the direction, is definitely Miles’s room—and when I burst through the door, I find him standing in the middle of his bedroom.
No one’s been murdered.
There’s no intruder.
And for the life of me, I cannot figure out what he’s doing.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” I snap. “It’s six in the morning.”
“There was a spider.”
I blink slowly, trying to gather my thoughts, because there’s absolutely no way I’ve just been yanked out of my dreams by a six-foot-three Englishman because he’s afraid of a spider.
“I’m sorry,” I say carefully. “What did you just say?”
“Spider,” he repeats gravely. “There’s a spider.”
He points toward the floor. I step closer and squint.
Sure enough, a tiny spider is beneath the chair, minding its own business. Frankly, I wish I were doing the same thing right now. Better yet, I wish I were still asleep. I should still be asleep, especially as Miles promised we didn’t have to start so early today, after the tournament yesterday.
“A leisurely morning,” is what he said.
I turn back to him.
“You mean this spider? This one right here?”
“Exactly that one,” he says immediately. “It was on my pillow. I woke up, and it was staring at me.”
“Okay . . .” I stare at him. “If I get rid of it, will you go back to sleep? More importantly, will you let me go back to sleep?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” Crouching down, I coax the spider gently onto my hand and cup it carefully.
“Don’t you come anywhere near me with that.”
I bite down on a laugh as I stand, lifting my hand slightly. “You mean this spider?” I ask innocently.
“Ruby, I’m serious.”
He takes a step backward, colliding with the bed before scrambling fully onto the mattress. And suddenly, Miles Burlington is standing in the middle of his bed wearing a pair of very white boxer briefs that leave little to the imagination.
Literally nothing whatsoever.
My eyes pore over him before I can stop myself—broad shoulders, thick muscle, a sculpted torso tapering down to a narrow waist, deep lines carved into either side of his hips, and because he’s a polo player, thighs that could crush walnuts.
His thick curls are mussed from sleep, and he looks so damn good it should be illegal.
Then my eyes drop, and my mouth dries.
He—it—is directly in my eyeline.
His muscles aren’t the only thing that’s thick. I’m staring right at the very generous outline of his dick . . . too much to process for so early in the morning.
How would you even fit that?
The sound of him clearing his throat breaks my focus, and I become painfully aware that Miles is staring at me too. Staring at me, staring at him, but also staring at me.
Because I’m not exactly dressed for company either. In my defense, I wasn’t expecting to wake up and rescue someone from an eight-legged creature the size of my fingernail. I didn’t have time to cover up my crop top and panties.
“You’re lucky you’re holding a spider right now, Ruby.”
I’m not about to ask him what he means, I know. It’s in the gruffness of his tone, in the heat of his stare. The way his lips are parted.
Slowly, I back toward the doorway.
“I’m putting him outside,” I tell Miles, holding up the spider. I don’t know if it’s more to show him or to protect me. “And then I’m going back to sleep.”
I pause. I don’t think it’s my imagination that Miles’s boxer briefs look tighter.
“I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Good morning.”
I already know Miles will be in the kitchen.
I didn’t make it back to sleep. From the looks of it, neither did he. His lips have a distinct blue tinge. At least he has more clothes on, even if it is just a pair of obscenely low-slung pajamas and a T-shirt.
Once I get a coffee in me, I’ll be okay.
“Good morning,” I reply, as his eyes follow me to the coffee machine.
“Ruby—” Turning around, he pushes a full steaming mug toward me.
“Is that for me?”
“Yep. Milk and two sugars—”
“You remember my coffee order?”
“I’ve watched you make it every morning for the past month, so I think I can manage to remember it.”
There’s a bite to his tone, and I know it has everything to do with the spider incident, because I feel it too. Like I’m teetering on a knife-edge. Racing heart, visions of his abs swim behind my eyes, and an undeniable ache sits low in my belly that forces me to press my thighs together.
Four weeks in and another God knows how many to go.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. How are you feeling after yesterday?”
Yesterday? Yesterday feels like a million years ago. But it’s also clear that we’re going to pretend this morning never happened. Fine by me. It’s easier anyway.
But I can play this game, and honestly, I’m thankful for it, because my response is the God's honest truth.
“Awesome. I’ve never experienced anything like it . . . the crowds, the speed of the match . . . And I’m so proud of Mav.”
Miles genuinely grins at that, because it’s true.
Maverick had a great day yesterday. He was part of a winning team as Miles kept reminding me on the way home.
The whole day might have gone by in a blur, and we drank a lot of champagne, but that’s one thing I didn’t forget.
Because every time Miles told me, he’d finish the sentence with “and you’re part of my team, Ruby. ”
But it's like I’m back in high school, the morning after kissing my first crush. Except I live with him, and this morning, I saw the very impressive outline of his dick.
“I thought we could go for a gentle ride today. The boys won’t be at the yard, but we can check the ponies over then head out.” He picks up his coffee, peering at me over the rim of the mug. “Unless you need more sleep.”
“Nope. I don’t need more sleep.” My eyes narrow. “Do you?”
He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”
“Okay then. Leave in twenty?”
“I’ll meet you by the car.”
“Great.”
Grabbing my coffee, I run back upstairs, putting some much-needed distance between us, and take a leaf out of Miles’s book by stepping into a cold shower.
“Ready?”
He’s waiting by the front door when I return, dressed in what I’ve come to know as his signature look: navy shirt, jeans, and a navy Foxleigh Park baseball cap—bearing a tiny emblem of a polo mallet, with the letters F and P intertwined slightly off-center.
It’s chic and cute. And before I can ask for one, he holds another out to me, silently placing it on my head.
His eyes drop much like they did this morning, heating my body just as effectively, including and especially his infuriating smirk. Stepping in, his hand grips my jaw, and his mouth finds mine before I can blink twice.
His tongue is hot and insistent, pushing between my lips, taking control. I breathe in that cedar and sandalwood scent of him, and taste a faint hint of mint.
There’s nothing gentle about the way his tongue sweeps along mine. It’s a claim. An “I need you now” type kiss. There’s no one around to see it, and it’s not for the benefit of keeping up pretenses. It’s private. For us. And it’s so fucking sexy.
I groan embarrassingly loudly. His fist grips harder on my jaw, I’m wedged between the wall and Miles’s solid body, yet I pull him futher into me. I need him closer. Any second now and I’ll be climbing him like a tree.
I don’t know how, but it deepens. My fingers push into the soft curls along his nape, our tongues sweeping together, and I swear he moans my name.
I’ve never experienced a kiss like this. Not one where my knees almost buckle, my heart is bashing against my ribs, and my panties are soaked.
It ends just as quickly when he steps back, his eyes brazenly scouring my face, fully aware he just melted me from the inside out. It’s only a small consolation that I could feel his dick rubbing against my hip.
With a smirk, he straightens the hat, pulling it down my brow, and tugs my braid out of the way, placing it with incredible care and attention on my shoulder.
“Now we can go.”
Opening the front door for me, he guides me out, his hand pressing into the small of my back. I should walk faster, but I don’t. And when we reach the car, he opens the door for me there too.
We drive in silence, zooming along the country lane. I force myself to look out the window so I’m not staring at Miles’s hand gripping the steering wheel, veins popping as it flexes around the leather, thinking about where else I want those hands.
I focus on the trees instead.
In the month since I’ve been here, the blossoms have fully emerged, and the lane we take is blanketed in pale pink petals. It feels like we’re driving through cotton candy.
I’m so distracted by the view that I don’t immediately notice the traffic ahead as the road widens near the turnoff to Foxleigh Park.
There are two entrances: the main one used for match days and the other, which leads directly to the stables.
Where the yard staff arrives, along with visitors and guests.
It’s where security sits, and everyone’s required to show their passes, because when you’ve got ten-million-pounds’ worth of horses living in your stables, you need security.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Miles mutters, trying to maneuver around a tractor that’s trying to pass the blockage in the road by using his very loud horn.
As the tractor clears the road, I notice it’s people, several holding long-lens paparazzi-style cameras. And they seem to be inspecting every car coming through.
“What the hell is going on?” Miles repeats, his frustration growing as he honks for them to move, but all it does is draw their attention.
Then the shouting starts, and my stomach drops.
“Miles! Miles! Tell us about the wedding!”
“Miles, Ruby! Tell us, when did you get married? When did you meet?”
“Miles, Miles, Miles.”
“Ruby, Ruby, Ruby.”
“What’s happening?” I whisper as Miles keeps honking.
“Get the fuck out of the way, or I’ll have you arrested.” He accelerates forward, nearly clipping a photographer who jumps aside before he’s run over, landing in a bush.
It’s so reminiscent of the day we first met that bile creeps up my throat.
“Dickhead!”
“This is private property. Now, fuck off,” Miles yells back. He puts his foot down again, and we speed through the gates.
One photographer squeezes through before security can close them, but he’s not fast enough to catch us as Miles races around the driveway and screeches to a halt beside the stable block.
Before I can even unbuckle my seat belt, Miles is out of the car and sprinting back toward the entrance.
What the hell just happened?
I’m still shaking when I reach for my phone, and a slew of messages flash up. After the incident this morning, I totally forgot to check it.
The first message contains links.
HAS MILES BURLINGTON JUMPED INTO HIS FINAL BED?
There’s a picture of the two of us hugging beside the trophy. Other photos show us during practice before yesterday’s match. Then there are old photos of me in Aspen—photos that could only have come from Scott McTavish’s yard.
I didn’t think it was possible for my stomach to drop any further than it does.
How did they even get these?
MEG: OMG, Ruby, what the hell?
She adds another link, which I click on. I’m expecting another gossip magazine, but it’s not that. It’s The Daily Polo News, which everyone I know reads.
MEG: Holy shit, this is amazing!
MEG: Congratulations. Also, call me because I need to know how this happened. I knew you guys were hot for each other . . . but wow!
My hands are shaking too much to type back. I also don’t know what I would say even if they weren’t. My nerves are so shot that when the door is yanked open, I can’t stop the screech.
Miles holds his hand out to me. “Ruby, come on.”
There’s urgency in his tone, but instead of spurring me on, it glues me in place, and I shake my head.
“No, Miles, what’s going on?” I hold my phone up. “Why is there an old picture of me?”
He twists so his body is positioned between the open Range Rover door and my seat.
Picking up my hand, he slides his finger over my ruby like he always does. “Because the press love to write gossip about me—”
“But this isn’t gossip. This is my life.”
“I know.” His head drops, and he looks genuinely remorseful.
“There were like twenty photographers outside.”
He nods. “I know, I’m sorry.”
“Miles.” I can barely form the words as a thought occurs to me. “What if they can tell we’re lying? What if they find out about the visa? Us. That we’re not really married . . .”
His hands cup my face, his eyes bore into me, and all the tension of the morning vanishes.
I feel the scratch of his calluses against my cheek.
“Ruby, they’re not going to find out about us.
No one knows except you, my family, and me.
They’re not getting in here, and they can’t get near the practice arena.
They’ll get bored soon, I promise. Please trust me. ”
He holds his hand out again to me, and I take it.
I do trust him—somewhere in the last few weeks, he’s earned that—but for the first time, I get the sinking sensation I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.