“Hello,” he says, stopping a few feet away and tucking the ball under his arm. It makes his bicep flex beautifully.
I tilt my umbrella back to stare up at his face. A lock of wet hair sticks to his forehead. Drops of rain trickle down his nose, over those full lips, and down his throat until they settle at the base of his neck. Oh god, to lick that throat.
“H-hi,” I say before composing myself. I smile. “I really didn’t expect to see you playing rugby.”
He runs the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away the rain, and eyes the sidelines where the rest of the team is leaving. Raindrops drip from his lashes. “Aye,” he says with a nod. “It’s just a pick-up league. Been playing with them a few times.”
I want to follow his gaze but I can’t. I don’t want to look away from this sight, and even if I do, I’ll hit him in the face with the umbrella. I can’t risk starting off on the wrong foot again.
“Well, I’m sure you’re giving one side an unfair advantage,” I say. “Did they have to fight over you?”
He looks at me, tilting his head, and though he’s not smiling, his eyes just might be. “They don’t know who I am.”
I nearly laugh. “How do they not know who you are?”
He shrugs and takes the ball out from under his arm, and starts spinning it between his hands. He frowns and looks everywhere. I’ve noticed he has a hard time looking at me sometimes. “I didn’t tell them.”
“Huh. Well, I don’t know anything about the game, but I’m pretty sure they’ve figured out that you’re more than just a Scottish guy who plays a few pick-up games every now and then.”
Lachlan nods, considering. “Maybe.” Finally his eyes meet mine briefly. “So did you watch the match?”
“Just the end,” I admit. “Did you invite me here so you could show off?”
A flash of a smile. Well, more like a close-lipped smirk, but it transforms his whole face. It makes his eyes go soft, sensual, and his lips turn devious. He goes from looking like a dangerous dog to a puppy. I can’t help but grin back instinctively.
“Maybe,” he says again, and for one delicious second, bites his bottom lip. “Did you like what you saw?”
My eyes widen. Is he flirting with me? Was that flirting?
Oh my god.
If it was, it’s like he just handed me the key to heaven.
“Relax,” he says, taking a wide-legged stance in front of me. “I’m joking.”
And just like that, he takes the key back.
“I didn’t think you had the ability to joke,” I tell him, ignoring my dashed hopes.
“Most of my jokes are in my head,” he says mildly. “Honestly though, I figured if you learned a bit more about rugby, it would help the article.” He pauses. “You know. Give it a time, a place, some action.”
Hmm. He’s actually right about that. It would bring the article from passive to active. I would start off by describing him on the field, soaking wet, his clothes sticking to every surface like glue, every curve of taut, sculpted muscle on display, the way his large, strong hands cup the ball, just like he’d cup a woman’s ass. My ass.
Shit, my article is going to veer off into erotica territory pretty soon.
I realize he’s staring at me for a response, and I haven’t said anything. That smirk is still there, his brows raised expectantly.
I look at him and shrug. “Sorry. If you’re going to be playing rugby in the rain and you look like you do, you can’t blame a girl for staring.”
He licks his lips, a flash of pink tongue. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”
I bet you are.
“So, do you want to learn?” he asks, forehead all wrinkled and serious again.
“Of course,” I tell him. “Can I play?”
That catches him off-guard. “What, now?”
I shrug. “Why not?”
He points at me with the ball. “Because you’re wearing that.”