The Player and the Pixie (Rugby #2)

I inhaled, my mouth opening to deny his assumption, but nothing came out. Had I been talking to myself? I’d been in such a tizzy, I couldn’t remember.

I began fidgeting with the hem of my top, staring at the ground as I said, “Look, whatever game you’re playing by coming here, I want no part of it. I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months and I won’t have anyone ruin it for me.”

When I finally lifted my head to meet his eyes, Sean’s masculine brows drew together in a frown. I reluctantly traced the contours of his arms beneath his long-sleeved gray T-shirt, savoring the way his waist tapered into a pair of dark workout pants. God, he was attractive.

“I’m not here to ruin anything. You invited me to come.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You would.”

I scowled at him. “Why would I do that?”

“Because, deep down, you like me.” He grinned. The grin looked entirely sincere, but also a little dangerous, and a lot sexy.

I crossed my arms over my chest, my water bottle dangling from my fingers, unimpressed with Sean Cassidy’s insincere smiles. “I would never—”

“Don’t you remember? At the end of season party back in Dublin?”

“I, uh . . .” I blinked, finally remembering. Okay, I had to admit, he had me there. “Look, maybe I did technically invite you, but that was before you bad-mouthed my brother over tuna.”

“I didn’t have tuna,” he denied as though tuna were horrifying.

“No, you had steak. I had tuna.”

“Oh yeah . . .” He nodded, his eyes shifting to the side, perhaps recalling his steak. Or my tuna. Or both. After a moment he shook himself and refocused on me. “And I’m sorry for that. Truly. I came here to de-stress, hoping to find a modicum of enlightenment and become less of a prick. Let’s be friends? Forgiveness is a virtue, Mini-Fitzpatrick.”

I pursed my lips and eyed him, trying to decide if he were being genuine. If he were faking the white flag routine then he certainly put on a good show. And really, if he was so determined to stay then there was nothing I could do to stop him.

What would it hurt to call a truce? Peace was the least stressful option available.

Huffing a breath, I replied, “Fine, we can be friends, just try to keep the prick side of your personality to yourself for a few days.”

He grinned again. “You’re in a lively mood.”

“Mmm-hmm, that’s what happens when people decide to gatecrash my sanctuary.”

I took a few steps forward and passed him by, uncapping my water bottle and taking a small gulp. Sean began to follow me through the trees, his shadow looming as we walked.

“So,” he broached, “who’s the Mocha Frappuccino back inside? Your boyfriend?”

I stopped immediately and turned to face him, my expression devoid of humor. “Could you be any more racist?”

“I’m not being racist. I’m being descriptive. I’ll have you know that some of the warmest nights of my life have been spent with women of color. Lovely, lovely colors.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about your conquests.” I started walking again, faster this time. Sean hurried to catch up.

“Why? Does it make you jealous?”

I laughed, incredulous. “It makes me feel sorry for all the women whose bathroom cabinets you’ve pilfered.”

Sean let out an amused-sounding laugh and brought the conversation back to where it had started. “You still haven’t answered my question, Lucy.”

I heaved a sigh. “No, Rick—Broderick—is just a friend.”

“Just a friend? Are you sure he’s not curious about the color of your knickers?”

“No. He’s a total lamb. He’s my best friend, so I’d appreciate it if you could keep your completely offensive comments to yourself when you meet him.”

“I’m not completely offensive. If you’re allowed to nickname me after a pale fermented-grape drink from France, then I can call—”

“Oh my God! Okay, you’re only mildly offensive, now can you please just shut up?”

Sean grinned and made a gesture as though zipping his mouth closed.

We’d reached the entrance to the house and I turned to him once more, emitting a long sigh. I didn’t want to be angry with Sean. I just wanted to enjoy the rest of my stay. He watched me as I considered what to say to him. In the end, I didn’t mince my words.

“Just . . . don’t be mean, okay? Try your hardest.”

His expression sobered and he gave me a tiny, almost non-existent nod. Without further ado, I hurried off to my room, needing some time alone to come to terms with the fact I’d be dealing with a daily dose of Sean Cassidy for the foreseeable future.

***