Chapter One - Scarlett #2
Without missing a beat, he scans me over, thoughtful, but his dark gaze still lingers. Okay was that not the world’s biggest turn off.
“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay, because that’s the most insincere thing someone can do. But do you need a hug, another shot, or a shoulder to cry on? I have pretty big shoulders.”
He does have big shoulders; this man could carry me away from all my problems on those bad boys.
His eyes burn with warmth. Trust. I’ve always been good at reading people, and this one.
He’s a good guy. I can tell. Shame really, considering my current man hiatus—thanks again Jason you sleaze bag.
At least his team got beat tonight, and the front rower for the Western Big Cats took his head off in a head high tackle.
“I’ll take the hug,” I smirk. “That would be nice.” Did I just tell a guy I’m horny for that my mum died? Well grief does bring with it a whirlwind of emotions, so I’m learning.
He steps forward, wrapping me up in the biggest, warmest bear hug known to man. And by God, he is a man in every sense of the word. I let myself sink into it, inhaling the deep, oaky scent of him, laced with something just faintly fruity.
The only man in my life now is my dad, and I haven’t seen him since the funeral.
He’s too busy, too caught up in his commitments and I think he’s using everything and anything to distract himself from what’s happened—like father like daughter.
Mum was his high school sweetheart; she was his world.
The only person her death has hit harder than me, is dad.
I’m still wrapped in this hug. Breaking rule 4 wouldn’t hurt right?
Not if it’s not my normal plan of attack.
I’m not a nun by any means but it’s been 3 months of celibacy, and I could use this distraction.
Tall, dark, handsome, hates football but good at it distraction. I wonder what else he’s good at…
As if he’s felt my heart rate hike up through his polo and my mind go over all the ways I’d like to please him—He’s the first to pull away, his eyes searching mine.
“Do you want another drink, actually…” he laughs “do you need another drink or like a water or something?”
I glaze over him, yeah, he’s hot, hot. Just to confirm again.
I glance at his sneaky vodka-water bottle.
“Not from that.” I spit.
He smirks. “Not from the water bottle.”
Then he takes my hand. And this time, I let him. Our fingers intertwine and there’s something weirdly intimate about the way he’s holding my hand, like he’s guarding me, protecting me. His cut up manly calloused hands against my tiny delicate freshly manicured fingers.
He leads me inside, away from the cold Sydney night, to grab a bottle of Great Northern. We spend the rest of the night peeling back layers, spilling secrets, laughing. I stopped drinking out on the balcony and I swear I’m nearly sober again, just intoxicated off Mr Mysterious.
No names. No numbers. No future.
Just a single night of solitude, together.
He tells me about why he didn’t play tonight; he’s injured at the moment and has just been bought by some other club.
We talk football and I tell him about my favourite local spots in the city—which he hates the city life, no shock there.
But there’s something about the way we talk, like two lost souls just sharing in a fleeting moment, one that doesn’t have to mean anything.
We watch as the last few people begin to leave, I can’t see Jen, in the few groups left chatting away—normal Jen behaviour, she’ll find a man and take off; swear he’s the one then he doesn’t text her the next morning and she moves to the next one—it’s all in an attempt to piss off her on again off again boyfriend Sean.
At this point if they said we were back together and getting married all within a few days we wouldn’t blink an eye, encourage that really.
I flick her a text to find out if she’s okay.
I’m breaking rule 4. You’re not here to stop me, so I’m taking it as a sign xx love ya.
My phone vibrates:
So, you should, they were your stupid rules anyway forget about Jason, angry/sad fuck whoever the lucky bastard is. We’ll regroup in the morning.
Tall, handsome, and hates football stares at me with those piercing blue eyes and I can almost see into his sharp jaw-lined, beautiful head. He wants me, as much as I want him. His left hand lingers on my lower back, and he brings his right hand up to tuck my hair behind my ear.
“You ready to get out of here, darling?” His voice sexy, husky, alluring and the side of his lips almost form into a smirk.
I told him about ten times already darling is reserved for my grandpa and the old man at the pub. But he just insists on the country hospitality. Really, I know he’s doing it to tease me now.
“I’m breaking rule 4 for you, so you better hurry up and whisk me away before I change my mind hot stuff. Yours or mine?” I poke his chest as I over enunciate ‘hot stuff.’
“Let’s go yours, for all you know I’m a serial killer”
“Are you a serial killer?” Not that I could care less if he was, I’m already dead inside, if it wasn’t for the tequila burning a pit in my stomach I might not feel at all. However, “I definitely feel like that’s something a serial killer would say.”
He leans his head back and laughs
“You’ll have to trust I’m not.”