The Player and the Pixie (Rugby #2) Read online

  “This is a party, Lucy. Work can wait for another day.”

  I stood my ground, planting my feet firmly on the floor and not allowing her to lead me any farther. I knew my mother had her own issues and insecurities; however, she still stressed me out. I wished things could be different, but it was often hard to be around her.

  “No, Mam, I’m going back to Annie. I don’t want to meet your friend’s son.”

  She gaped at me, as though surprised by my outburst. I was a little surprised myself. Often I went along with her wishes because I didn’t want to upset anyone. A few moments elapsed, and I couldn’t tell if she was going to lose it with me or not.

  In the end she didn’t, probably because there were too many people about. She plastered the fakest smile I’d ever seen on her face and said, “Okay, darling. You go to Annie. Enjoy the party as much as you can. I’ll see you back at the house.”

  And with that she turned and strode off. I knew her last line wasn’t as benign as she made it sound. The second I got home tonight I’d be in for it. Yes, she’d hold back all her dissatisfaction until then, when there were no watchful eyes about to witness it. The thought made me start to wish there was something around that I could steal . . . maybe a few champagne glasses. They’d fit in my handbag, right?

  God, I was a mess.

  Letting out a long sigh, I slumped back against the wall. Pulling my phone from my bag, I checked to see if I had any messages. I had one and it was from Annie. Reading it made me smile and drove away most of my thieving urges.

  Annie: If we locked your brother and Sean in a room, what do you think the odds would be on whether they’d murder each other or start crying while having an emotional heart-to-heart?

  I snorted and typed out a quick reply.

  Lucy: I’d say that’s a ratio of 1,000,000: 0, my friend.

  Although we didn’t actually live in the same country, Annie and I had become extremely close over the last few months. I was her sounding board and advice-giver on how to deal with Ronan, and she was my guru and advice-giver on how to survive living in New York. Plus, we worked together to create humorous blog posts about ridiculous celebrities. Tell me two girls who wouldn’t bond over that? I swear most of our Skype calls have consisted of ninety-five percent giggling and five percent actual conversation.

  Slipping my phone in my bag, I turned to go back to the VIP room and collided with a body. That body was large and male, and appeared to be wearing a very nice suit. It only took a split second for me to recognize the suit. It belonged to Sean Cassidy, who was currently glaring at me.

  “Watch where you’re going, Mini-Fitzpatrick,” he said, hostility in his voice. Clearly, being Ronan’s sister meant I was enemy number one to him.

  I lifted my hands in the air and replied humorously, “Sorry, Bubs. I’ll try to be more careful next time.”

  One sardonic eyebrow went up. “Bubs?”

  I almost laughed when I realized what I’d called him. It was all to do with his glorious bubble butt, of course, but no way was I telling him that. I didn’t need to start blushing like a maniac in front of him.

  “I’ve decided to name you after your favorite beverage, Bubbly,” I said, trying to lure a smile out of him. Ronan always said I was too nice for my own good and let people take advantage, but maybe Sean wasn’t as bad as everyone thought. Maybe he had some good in him somewhere. Or maybe I was just tipsy.

  I thought I saw his lips twitch in amusement, but then he grew hostile again. “I thought girls such as yourself limited their repertoires to alco-pops and daiquiris with tacky umbrellas.”

  His smile was as condescending as his tone and he made a move to walk away. Still, there was something defensive about how he said it that made me think his comment was a pre-emptive strike. He thought that because I was Ronan’s sister I automatically hated him, so he’d show he hated me right back. Hmm . . .

  “You seem tense, maybe you should try meditation,” I suggested.

  He stopped and turned back around. “Pardon?”

  “Yogi Bhajan meditation is supposed to work wonders. For me, personally, yoga works a treat. I go in all tense and stressed and come out light and airy. Seriously, consider it. You’ll be amazed by the results.”

  This suggestion seemed to both annoy and fluster him. “What are you rambling about?”

  I took a few steps forward until I was standing directly in front of him. “You obviously have some unresolved issues and you’re using my brother as an outlet for your aggression. I’m trying to suggest some ways to deal with your anger. Oh, and you know what else is great for managing stress? Full immersion relaxation and detox, like going to a yoga retreat. In fact, I’m doing one when I return to the States next week. It’s in Squam Lake, gorgeous place. I’m really looking forward to it. You should think about going.”

  Of course, I wasn’t at all serious, but I was tipsy and chatty and felt a bit sorry for him. There was something about Sean Cassidy that reminded me of the dogs that came into the shelter in New York, abused and mistreated, barking at everyone because they didn’t know who to trust. Obviously, it was a ridiculous notion. Sean wasn’t a rescue dog, he was a primped and pampered thoroughbred.

  He listened to me speak, but his eyes weren’t on my face. Instead they wandered from my bare arms and shoulders before landing on my chest. I had this small beauty mark close to my collarbone, and he was currently staring at it as though he wanted to get up real close and personal with it.

  Whoa, this was not what I’d expected at all, but having him look at me the way he was looking at me right then, well, it made my skin tingle.

  He took a step forward and into my space, his size and closeness dizzying, and deadpanned, “Aren’t those retreats just an excuse for hippies to get together in the middle of nowhere, eat granola, and have group sex?”

  The way he spoke made my tingles instantly vanish. Ronan was right. Sean was an arsehole. And I was a softhearted fool to think there was something more beneath his sleek and polished surface. We were from two different worlds. He’d grown up in South Dublin, an adopted son in a privileged house. Whereas I’d grown up in North Dublin, in the working class area. My mother had worked two jobs, barely putting food on the table. Everything, from the differences in our accents to our divergent attitudes, put us worlds apart.

  “No actually, it’s an excuse to go somewhere beautiful, meet amazing people and clear your mind, but I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.” And with that I turned on my heel and attempted to walk a straight line back to the party.

  It could have been my imagination, but I felt his eyes on me the entire time and I may have quickened my unsteady pace until I was safely beyond the privacy door. I hated that he got to me. I was supposed to be the calm one, the enlightened one, and yet with just a few carefully chosen words he’d made me want to throttle him. I now totally understood Ronan’s hatred for the guy.

  I always tried to believe everybody had the potential to be good, to be redeemed. But this guy might just be the one to prove me wrong.

  Yes, as far as I was concerned, Sean Cassidy was completely, irrevocably, and unequivocally irredeemable.

  Chapter Two

  There are three certainties in life, death, taxes, and the cold dread of attending another family gathering.

  - Sean Cassidy.

  *Sean*

  Somebody needed to explain to me why mobile phone cameras made that click sound whenever a photo was taken. Could you not see a photo had been taken? That was like adding sound effects to a salt shaker. Clearly, I saw that my food was being salted. I could taste the salt. I didn’t require additional sensory information alerting me that my food had been salted.

  I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, but I was awake. I could hear her snapping pictures of me, so I decided to wait until she finished. No need to make things uncomfortable.

  Hopefully I didn’t have drool crusted at the corner of my mouth, and she hadn’t drawn on my face. If memory s
erved, she hadn’t seemed the sort. Those pictures were trophies for girls like her.

  I felt her still-naked body slither along mine, and her hair brushed against my bare shoulder. From the angle of her posturing, I deduced she was now taking selfies with me . . . while I slept.

  No. That’s not distressing at all. Perfectly normal behavior. Just pose with the unconscious man, nothing strange about it. I’m sure plenty of people enjoy having their picture taken while they’re asleep . . .

  Bloody weirdo.

  She leaned away, likely to scroll through her trophy pictures, and I felt her shift on the mattress into a sitting position. Her long fake nails clicked against her phone’s touch screen, the sound incredibly irritating.

  That was my cue to exit.

  I stretched my arms, careful to avoid touching her, and made a big show of arching my back before I opened my eyes. This gave her plenty of time to hide her phone if she felt guilty about being an opportunist. When I opened my eyes, I avoided making contact with hers. I’ve found it’s best to set expectations on a proper course as early as possible in a non-relationship.

  “Well, good morning handsome.” She slid into the sheets again, her claws coming to my torso.

  I glanced at her hands. No sign of the phone. She must’ve hid it in her bedside table. This was a relief; the less inconspicuous of her kind often requested more pictures over breakfast. The answer was always no. I never ate meals with the help.

  I hadn’t been drunk last night when I suggested we party. I’d been cold. Ireland is cold year round, even in the summer. And I am likewise cold, unless I can locate a warm body and share her bed.

  The woman snuggled against me. Her skin had been soft last night, but now—bathed in daylight—it felt like sandpaper. I peeled her from me, no longer cold, and then sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed sleep from my eyes.

  “What time is it?”

  “Just past seven,” she purred, her nails scratching lightly down my back.

  “Stop touching me. Where the feck are my pants?”

  She jerked her hand away with a little gasp and was mercifully silent as I scanned the room.

  Sex was usually the price I paid for a night of warmth, which made no sense because my nameless partners always faked it, even when I ate them out. They faked it loudly, and with enthusiasm, and sometimes with impressive creativity. But faked nevertheless.

  Just once, I wanted to see and hear and feel a woman truly orgasm. Just. Fucking. Once. I’m beginning to doubt women are capable of climaxing. The great female-orgasm myth . . .

  “No need to be such an arsehole.” She’d recovered the ability to speak. I wished she hadn’t.

  I was going to be late for Sunday breakfast with the family if I didn’t get up and out. If I missed breakfast then I’d be subjected to months of passive-aggressive reminders of my tardiness for that one time, and be on the hook for a year’s worth of favors.

  “I need to piss.” I stood from the bed and crossed her tiny Dublin flat to the door I assumed was her toilet, finding my pants on the way and pulling them on. I shut and locked the door—just in case she had any ideas about snapping more pictures—and did my business, rinsing off her toothbrush with Listerine before brushing my teeth with it.

  I had a ritual when I cleaned up after a night of inane debauchery. Disinfecting the toothbrush, going through the medicine cabinet for aspirin, washing my face with their soap—as long as it didn’t smell of flowers or food. One-night stands were worth it just for cosmetic product discoverability.

  About six months ago I shagged a woman and used her facial cleanser. Great stuff, unscented, gentle but left the skin thoroughly cleaned. I couldn’t tell you her name or what she looked like, but I could tell you she used a cleanser named Simple to wash her face. I knew this because on my way home, I’d stopped by Boots and picked it up in bulk.

  “What are you doing in there?” Last night’s warm body tested the door handle.

  I ignored her question and smelled her soap. It smelled like cake. I placed it back on the tray, unused. Why do women want to smell like cake?

  If I want cake, I’ll eat cake.

  If I want a woman, I’ll eat a woman.

  I heard her huff, it sounded nervous. “How much longer are you going to be?”

  I took one more look in her medicine cabinet and found a lotion sample. Unopened. I cracked it open and sniffed . . . sandalwood. I squeezed out a dot on the back of my hand, and it went on light and silky. I pocketed it.

  “Hey!” She pounded on the door. “What are you doing—”

  I yanked it open before she completed the question, causing her to stumble back, startled. I have that effect on people because I’m not small. Truth be told, I’m quite large. I’m larger than was polite or appropriate, as my family frequently reminded me. Imposing, my aunt called it.

  But I’d like to think I’m also agile, especially for my size.

  Tapping into this agility, I maneuvered around the warm body and located my shirt and jacket, pulling them on as she watched. I didn’t waste time looking for my tie, instead claiming my shoes and socks, and sitting on a sad little bench by the front door.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her take a few timid steps toward me; she was in a bathrobe and her arms were crossed over her chest. “Have you lost your voice? Because you were chatty enough last night.”

  “No,” I said, finished with my right sock and moving to the left.

  “Is this a brush-off, then?”

  “Yes.” I really liked my shoes. I reminded myself to find a pair in brown.

  She sniffled. She was crying. I rolled my eyes. Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they cried buckets. I’m never moved by displays of overt mawkishness, especially when I could count on being tagged in a half hour on Twitter when she posted the pictures of me sleeping.

  I stood and buttoned my shirt, then checked my back pocket to make sure I still had my wallet and phone. I did.

  So I left.

  I didn’t have time to stop by the shop and search for the mystery sandalwood lotion before breakfast, as I still needed to shower, shave, and dress properly. But I promised myself, if I could make it through the morning without entertaining any games of passive-aggressive superiority, I’d pick up a bottle on my way home.

  Who was I kidding? Most of my family detested me. I’d pick up the lotion either way.

  ***

  “Do sit down, Sean. You are quite too tall to stand.” My aunt waved her napkin at me, then added under her breath, “Excessively imposing.” She set the linen in her lap with a graceful movement, the kind that takes years to perfect but appeared effortless.

  As she’d told me on numerous occasions, appearance was all that mattered.

  Presently, I was standing—which she hated—at the breakfast buffet in her sunroom. The serving spoon I held, suspended in the air between the silver warming dish and my plate. My plate was empty. I hadn’t a chance to put any food on it yet as I’d just stood from the table.

  “Once I’m finished at the buffet, I will sit down.” I was careful not to sound irritated. Any display of emotion was frowned upon and blamed on my regrettable parentage.

  “If you must.” I wasn’t looking at her, but I could see her in my mind’s eye, sipping her tea with great effect. My standing was likely the most inconvenienced she’d been all week.

  All six cousins were gathered, but Uncle Peter was absent. He’d been increasingly absent over the last few months, though no one had remarked on it. The lack of explanation led me to believe Uncle Peter, my mother’s brother, decided to spend more time with his other family in the country.

  My uncle’s longstanding infidelity was the worst-kept secret in Dublin society, one that gave Aunt Cara the elevated rank of martyred saint amongst the social elite.

  “That shindig last night was a complete bore, Sean. Sorry waste of an evening. I don’t know why I allowed you to talk me into going.” This statement came from my oldest c
ousin Grady, and my hand tightened on the serving spoon.

  Grady was a banker, six inches shorter than me, and a complete eejit. He’d begged me for those tickets last week, then showed up with six friends instead of one, forcing me to pull several strings so they’d all be given admittance.

  What I wanted to say: “I’m not surprised. Your staggeringly irrelevant existence meant every night was a bore.”

  What I actually said: “I found the evening lacking as well.”

  Both statements were equally true. But just as I finished speaking, the unbidden memory of Ronan Fitzpatrick’s sister flashed through my mind giving me pause. Mini-Fitzpatrick I’d called her, but she hadn’t looked or behaved like her brother.

  His manner was that of an ape—reactionary, resorting to violence and threats his only strategy. I, on the other hand, preferred a different approach.

  He hadn’t done any one thing in specific to earn my hatred. He ignored me mostly. Though it irked, being arguably the best player on the team and having my captain dismiss my efforts as mediocre, I might have overlooked his slights.

  But after years of taking a back seat to his popularity and having the first question asked of me during any interview, What’s it like to work with Ronan Fitzpatrick? I was sick of him. I wanted him gone.

  The fact that he was universally liked by everyone else only made me resent him more.

  Yes, Ronan was a primate. Sadly, he was a talented primate irritatingly adept at getting people to like him, a skill I’d never mastered.

  But his sister was different. She reminded me of a . . . well, of a fairy: cheerful, thoughtful, and adorably curious. I frowned because adorable wasn’t the right word.

  Seductive.

  Seductively curious.

  Much better.

  A new image, one of Mini-Fitzpatrick lying on her back—shyly covering her sweet curves with a sheet, that delicious beauty mark just visible, her rainbow hair spread over a white pillow—made me wonder why I’d been so belligerent with her last night.