The Player and the Pixie (Rugby #2) Page 4

“What? Did I hit a nerve?” I was nearly giggling, enjoying his discomfort far too much.

  “If my agreement with Brona proves my poor taste, then your brother also has poor taste by association.”

  “Ronan doesn’t have poor taste, he’s just prone to bad judgment. It’s a family trait, which explains why I’m sitting here with you right now.”

  Sean’s mouth began to curve in a smile. “If I’d known you were this much fun, I’d have forced you into having dinner with me years ago.”

  I lifted my glass and took a sip of water before pointing out, “Years ago I was underage.”

  Sean bit his lip, pulling it slowly between his perfect teeth, and allowed his gaze to wander from my eyes to my collarbone as he murmured, “Yes, you were, weren’t you? How old are you?

  “Twenty-three.”

  “You’re not that young.”

  I didn’t like the husky quality to his voice right then, nor did I like the way his eyelids lowered, making me imagine he was having sexy thoughts. In an effort to distract myself, I picked up the small paper bag he’d placed at the side of the table when we’d arrived and pulled out the cream he’d bought. I didn’t ask permission, because that was just my way. Sean didn’t utter a word, but simply watched me as I twisted open the lid and took a sniff.

  “Smells a bit like a church, but in a nice way,” I said.

  “It’s sandalwood,” he replied. “Here, give it to me.”

  I handed it across the table and he swiped his fingers in, extracting a small blob. Before I could react he took my hand and smoothed the cream into my wrist. His hands were very . . . large. My fingers felt completely encapsulated, minuscule by comparison. A tingling, nervous feeling buzzed in my belly as his fingertips massaged my sensitive skin. When he was done he lifted my wrist to his nose and inhaled deeply.

  “Smells good on you,” he said. I was momentarily lost for words.

  Uh, would it be too overfamiliar to request he do that again, this time all over my body?

  The waiter arrived with our food and Sean dropped my hand. I placed it in my lap under the table, like it was now a thing of obscenity too sexual for prying eyes.

  Digging into my yellowfin tuna, I tried to push my thoughts to a safer, non-sexually arousing place. Quickly, I imagined Ronan’s reaction if he knew I was here right now—his famous temper flaring—and yep, that did the trick.

  Sean had ordered the steak, of course he had. The thing was almost as big as my head.

  “You rugby boys sure know how to put food away,” I commented.

  He was currently chewing a cleanly cut slice of meat, and there was something about it that had me squeezing my thighs together. Maybe the way his jaw moved? Not to mention he had the most sensual mouth I’d ever seen.

  “Tell me about it,” he replied and patted his oh-so-flat stomach. “This is my second big meal today. Dropped by for a late breakfast with the fam earlier this afternoon.”

  “Don’t call your family ‘the fam’, Sean. It sounds douchey. Another two syllables won’t kill you,” I chided playfully.

  Sean’s smirk indicated he was enjoying my criticism, and I didn’t understand that, either. “This coming from the girl with hair like a packet of Skittles.”

  “My hair isn’t douchey,” I said, and flicked a few locks over my shoulder. “It brings joy to all those who gaze upon it.”

  “Is that what those hippies in Vermont tell you? At that Maharishi sanctuary on the mountain?”

  “It’s not a Maharishi sanctuary, it’s a yoga retreat.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  I ignored him because he seemed to be trying to fluster me . . . or flirt . . . or both. “It’s a yoga retreat in New Hampshire, on a lake.”

  “Squaw Lake, yes?”

  “Squam Lake. And it’s really beautiful, peaceful, calm. Many of the cabins have docks on the water. It’s so quiet, especially at night, and the stars are so bright. They fill the sky and feel almost close enough to touch. It’s truly a retreat.”

  He looked reluctantly interested. “That doesn’t sound entirely terrible.”

  I pressed my lips together, trying not to smirk at his less than high praise. “Like I said last night, you should give it a try. Meditation would do you some good.”

  “Getting in touch with my feminine side?” His eyes twinkled with a devilish glint.

  “Oh no. You don’t have a feminine side—”

  He barked a laugh.

  “—but it might get you in touch with the missing syllables in family.”

  Sean’s laugh waned, but his smile lingered. His lips really were sinful. I tried not to stare, instead tilting my chin upward in challenge. “I’m serious. Don’t underestimate the power of inner peace.”

  His eyes narrowed on me. “Peace, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And who will keep Goldilocks safe from the bears?”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “There are no bears in New Hampshire.”

  “What about wolves?” he asked, leaning forward, looking wolfish, his eyes on my nose.

  I lifted my chin higher, this time with false confidence. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  For some unknown reason, this statement made him frown. He studied me for a long moment, no longer wolfish but no less intimidating. I endeavored to appear unaffected by his stare by nonchalantly eating the fish on my plate.

  Unfortunately, endeavoring to eat nonchalantly wasn’t easily done.

  Abruptly, his knee nudged mine and his tone grew intent. “What did you steal, Lucy?”

  His swift change of subject caused the bite of tuna I’d just swallowed to go down the wrong tube. I coughed fitfully and shifted in my seat, staring at my utensils. “Some eyeshadow.”

  “I didn’t realize eyeshadow was so vital to the survival of pixies it had to be stolen.”

  “That’s not why I took it,” I mumbled and shame bit at my gut. Shoplifting was my biggest flaw, the part of myself I saw as the ugliest, but it was also my biggest secret. Which was why I felt terribly uncomfortable discussing it over the dinner table.

  “So why then?”

  I frowned, still not looking him in the eye. “It’s a compulsion. A bad habit. I’ve been trying to quit, but it’s hard when I’m around certain . . . negative influences.”

  “And those would be?” His knee was full on resting against mine now, but I couldn’t tell if he was doing it to comfort me or make me nervous.

  “My mother.”

  “Ah.”

  “I haven’t stolen once since I moved to New York, then I come home for a visit and poof, I’m back to thieving.” I slumped in my seat, feeling glum.

  Sean’s knee knocked mine and I looked up. He stared at me kindly and admitted, “I do it, too.”

  “Do what, too?”

  “Take things that don’t belong to me.”

  “You shoplift?”

  “Not exactly. Not from shops at any rate. But I often take things from other people’s bathroom cabinets.” Very quickly he added as though to defend his habit, “Creams and cosmetics and such. I find it’s a good way to discover new products.”

  “Other people? What other people?”

  “Women.”

  “Women?”

  “Yes.”

  “So . . . who are these women?”

  Sean rolled his eyes. “Just women.”

  I scrutinized him and his just women, and I knew at once which women he meant. “You mean the women you have sex with? Of the one-night-stand variety?”

  He nodded once just before taking a large gulp of his drink, not looking at me.

  Huh. That was a very specific habit, and it was still stealing. “Are you sure that’s the only reason you do it?”

  Sean’s eyes cut to mine and he studied me for a long moment; his stare was verging on peculiar when he finally shrugged. “Of course, there’s no other reason.”

  I poked at my food as I thought on it.
A few moments passed before I spoke again. “Or maybe, deep down, having these relations with just women makes you feel, I don’t know, unfulfilled emotionally, since they’re essentially strangers and one-night stands are generally all about the sex. So, the next morning, in order to make yourself feel a little bit better, you steal things.”

  Sean tilted his head. “Are you psychoanalyzing me?”

  “I’m attempting to, yes.”

  He looked away, watching as a few other customers passed by our table. “Well don’t. I promise you, I’m not that deep.”

  He sounded sort of sad.

  “We all have depth, Sean. It’s a side effect of being human.”

  He stared at me for so long I began to feel uncomfortable. I had to break the silence, so I stood and gestured to the bathrooms. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I tried not to sprint, but it was difficult. I felt his eyes follow me the entire way, causing gooseflesh to rise over my upper arms and heat rise to my neck.

  Once I was safe in the ladies’ room, I ran some cold water over my hands then held my fingers to my neck, willing my skin to cool down. I suddenly realized that spending time with Sean Cassidy was a lot more dangerous than I thought, because in a strange way I was actually enjoying myself.

  In an attempt to lighten the mood, and remembering I’d been neglecting the blog since I’d been home, I pulled out my phone and left the bathroom. Before I reached our table I stood off to the side, snapping a few shots of Sean as he finished his meal.

  Almost like he sensed me, he turned his head, catching me in the act. He didn’t even have to ask. His arched eyebrow said it all as I hurried over to join him.

  “I’m going to feature you on Annie’s blog this weekend. I hope you don’t mind. I’m kind of stuck for material this week since Dublin’s not exactly celeb central.”

  “Annie’s blog?”

  “Ronan’s Annie. I work for her now, taking pictures, co-writing blog posts, tweeting, Instagramming, Facebooking, the whole nine yards.”

  “Well,” said Sean, carefully setting down his knife and fork, done with his food. “I hadn’t pegged you for a paparazzi.”

  “Really? What had you pegged me for?”

  “A tarot card reader. Or maybe a yoga instructor,” he teased, though his tone was flat. He reached out to take my phone. I watched as he swiped through the pictures.

  “These are boring. Come here,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me up from my seat. A zing of excitement shot through me as he perched me in his lap and raised the phone, snapping a selfie of us together. One of his arms was wrapped around my waist and his body felt warm and solid beneath me. As soon as the picture was taken I shot up, grabbing my phone back and returning to my seat.

  “Wow, talk about a sneak attack,” I muttered to myself, still feeling tingles from where he’d touched me.

  “Now you can write a whole article about the weekend you spent with Sean Cassidy,” he preened. “Your views will skyrocket.”

  I laughed. “I’m pretty sure my brother would blow a gasket if I did that.”

  “Oh, tell Mother Fitzpatrick to go take a Valium and relax.”

  My laughter died down as my expression sobered. “He’s just protective of his family. Ronan’s a good person. You’d know that if you simply took the time to get to know him.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because maybe if you knew him, you’d stop trying to ruin his life.”

  We stared at each other. Actually, he glared at me while I tried to meet his gaze evenly. It wasn’t easy. I could see his mind working, words on the tip of his tongue, and he seemed to be debating whether or not to speak.

  “Ruin his life?”

  “Brona O’Shea,” I repeated. “Ring any bells?”

  “I think I did him a favor with that one. His current bird is a definite step up.”

  “Yes, but the suspension from the team? After he found you two going at it? I don’t care much for Brona, but you knew how he was going to react. He almost ruined his career.”

  “It’s not my fault he chose to act with aggression. The man’s a chimpanzee, mindlessly flinging excrement at anyone who doesn’t worship at his holier-than-thou altar.”

  My mouth fell open at his audacity and I jabbed my finger toward him. “He’s the ape? You’re the one who was knocking knickers with his fiancée!”

  “No,” he responded firmly. “Technically, I wasn’t. I never actually tapped that. So, to be fair, going back to your earlier statement, my taste isn’t as questionable as your brother’s.”

  “What do you mean you never ‘tapped that’?”

  “I never fucked Brona O’Shea.” His voice was as flat as a deflated tire, and I winced at his vulgarity and tone.

  I immediately contradicted him, “Yes, you did.” Everyone knew he’d seduced Brona. It’s how he’d earned his nickname, Sleazy Sean. “Ronan walked in on you, he saw everything.”

  “No. He saw what we wanted him to see. And Mother Fitzpatrick, being Mother Fitzpatrick, jumped to all the wrong conclusions. Do you really think Ronan could best me in a fight? Unlikely. I let him win, so I could win.” He reached for and gulped his water, watching me.

  I studied him, seeing the truth in his eyes. He’d staged the whole thing. How could someone be so despicable? Anger swelled within me, an emotion I didn’t often have cause to feel.

  “You wanted him to find you. You wanted him suspended.”

  “No. I wanted him expelled.”

  Mounting fury had me raising my voice. He wasn’t Sleazy Sean, he was Sinister Sean, and I couldn’t believe I’d ever agreed to this farce of a dinner date.

  “I can’t believe you!”

  “Shhh.” He glanced around the restaurant, presumably to ensure we weren’t causing a scene.

  Leaning forward, I whispered harshly, “You are such a prick.” Then I picked up his water glass and tossed it in his face.

  Immediately, I stood, refusing to listen to him any longer. To be perfectly honest, it was a surprise he’d managed to go the whole meal without saying something mean. He’d just reminded me exactly why I shouldn’t ever have been gullible enough to give him the time of day.

  “Hey,” he frowned, mopping the water from his jaw. “What was that for?”

  “I’ll give you one guess.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  I spun on him, so angry I couldn’t see straight. “Call me when you get a clue and stop being so jealous of my brother.”

  He snorted at this and threw the wet napkin to the table. “Jealous. Right. What a joke.”

  I just shook my head, shot him a final parting grimace, and walked out of the restaurant. He was so oblivious I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  Later, on the train ride home, and after I’d calmed down a bit, I did something that completely contradicted my outburst in the restaurant. I shouldn’t have wanted to see Sean’s face again for as long as I lived, and yet there I was, pulling my phone from my pocket and searching for the picture he’d taken. I couldn’t stop looking at it, studying the curve of his mouth and the intensity of his eyes as he stared directly into the camera. His look made me shiver.

  What on earth was wrong with me? Sean was not a nice person. Looking at a photo of him shouldn’t be giving me all these . . . feelings. The thing was, for someone who claimed to be without depth, his gaze told a different story. Had I been right last night when I’d thought of him as a rescue dog, behaving badly because he was afraid? Or were those notions complete and utter nonsense?

  Either way, Sean Cassidy needed help.

  Again, my eyes fastened to the image of his arm, which was wrapped tightly around my waist. The more I looked, the more the picture gave me belly tingles, and despite everything I’d said to him in the restaurant, and all the reasons I told myself he didn’t deserve it, there was a small place deep within me that desperately wanted to help him.

  And that was the most disconcerting part of
all.

  Chapter Four

  @RugbyTart23 to @SeanCassinova You are so much bigger than I expected. Loved meeting you XOXO

  @SeanCassinova to @RugbyTart23 You are so much more forgettable than I expected. Did we meet? I can’t recall.

  *Sean*

  I was insufferably bored.

  And cold.

  The start of the offseason used to be a relief. It used to be my favorite time of the year. But now the lack of doing something, the being surrounded by hangers-on, and the tedium of their flattery—the monotony quickly grew suffocating.

  Clubbing in Monaco was tiresome. I’d hoped to find amusement in Spain on the heels of the one-day mandatory team press junket in Barcelona. A respite was sorely needed after spending a full fourteen hours indoors with Ronan Fitzpatrick and listening to his inane blathering about team cohesion.

  Alas, to put it quite bluntly, the nightlife in Spain sucked arse.

  I considered traveling farther south, someplace even warmer and sunnier. Instead, and without dwelling too much on my motivations, I booked a flight back to Dublin at the end of June.

  Departing the Spanish villa at 6:00 a.m., I abandoned my traveling companions without leaving a note. In truth, I couldn’t recall their names. I knew only the basics: they’d been rich and beautiful; I was rich and beautiful; we’d been rich and beautiful together.

  And now we were rich and beautiful apart.

  First class was the only way to fly when one was six foot six and could bench-press three hundred pounds. Typically, I would book two seats, but the flight was full and relatively short, so I made do with the front row aisle seat. It was snug, but not uncomfortable.

  “I’m Dorothy. May I get you something before we take off?” The stewardess inclined her head toward me, an older bird with a grandmotherly air about her.

  “Bourbon and 7, please. No ice. Two bottles.” I gave her a distracted smile as I’d just spotted a SkyMall magazine. I reached for it, plucking it from the wall pocket in front of me. A new edition? My pulse quickened at the discovery. Brilliant!

  The worst thing that happened to air travel in the past ten years was the bankruptcy of Xhibit Corp., the parent company of SkyMall. I recalled with clarity the first time I boarded a flight and it was missing from all usual nooks and crannies.