Page 13 of Trying Sophie

Confused, the guys shared a few glances before one asked, “Your girlfriend?”

Declan laughed animatedly. “Oh no,” he assured them, pulling me in against his side and resting his arm across my shoulder. “She actually kind of hates me.”

He looked down at me and winked. Then, addressing the guy who’d pulled out his iPhone to take a selfie of the group, said, “But she’s gorgeous and any time you have an opportunity for a photo with a beautiful woman, you need to take it.”

I fought my laugh. He was still a charming bastard, that was for sure.

That group drew even more interest in Declan’s presence and suddenly he was swamped. After taking photos with what I estimated to be at least 50 more fans we were finally, blessedly, left alone.

“That happen often?” I asked as he buttoned his jacket and tried to burrow down into it, a poor attempt to hide himself for any additional fans.

He shrugged and shot me a look. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“Still the most popular boy in all of Ballycurra then?”

“More like all of Ireland,” he responded with a smirk.

“And that would be because …?”

“Here, why don’t you hand me that.” He pointed to the carry-on I wheeled along behind me.

“Oh no, that’s okay. You’ve already got the heavier ones and it’s easy for me to lug this one,” I responded, dropping the strap of my purse over my head to settle across my body.

Declan tilted his head and assessed me for a few short seconds. Shrugging, he said, “Suit yourself,” before heading toward the parking structure.

“You never answered my question. Why were they treating you like a rock star back there?” Dreading his answer, I continued, “I’m assuming you play some sort of sport?”

He snorted. “Not some sort of sport, Sophie. Rugby, the only sport.”

Avoiding the warning ache in my gut, I set him straight. “Since my family back in the U.S. owns a professional basketball team, I’m going to argue with you there, buddy. I may not care for sports, but I know enough to say rugby’s nowhere near as important as baseball, basketball, or football.”

“Pussies,” I’m pretty sure I heard him mutter under his breath. Then, more diplomatically, he said, “That you can put baseball and rugby in the same sentence proves just how ignorant you are.”

“Baseball takes a large amount of skill,” I argued, wondering if I was right.

I’d been to my fair share of Pirates and Red Sox games growing up, and while I’d been bored to tears no matter which team played, I assumed it did take a special type of skill to throw a 98-mile-an-hour fastball and for a batter to be able to hit it. As for the rest of the team? Well, there was an awful lot of standing around doing nothing.

“What’s so special about rugby then?”

He shook his head like I was completely clueless. “The only sport in the U.S. that comes close to the skill and physical stamina needed to play rugby is hockey, and even they get to wear pads and helmets.”

“And is that how you messed up your face?” I asked, raising my chin to call out his bruises since my hands were occupied with my luggage.

He chuckled and rubbed his hand across his whiskered chin and winced. “You should see my thigh.”

Immediately I pictured what he’d look like without his pants on. If Declan clothed was a sight to behold, I could only imagine what he’d look like bared for me. I hoped my expression didn’t give away my lewd thoughts since I wasn’t exactly known for my poker face.

Declan caught my eye, laughed, and waggled his eyebrows. Okay, he knew exactly what I’d been thinking. That wasn’t mortifying or anything.

“So how do you know my grandma?” I asked, changing the subject from his naked body to something less fraught.

Declan’s face lit up with a warm, happy smile. “Everyone in Ballycurra knows your granny. She’s the best cook in town.”

“So, how’d she rope you in to picking me up? Bribe you with food?”

“No bribing necessary,” he responded, and then scratched his face nervously. “She, ehm, called me up right after you told her you were coming and asked if I could swing by and get you. I had to come out this way anyhow so I volunteered.”

I couldn’t say if it was his shifty eyes or the quick stutter when he started to answer, but something didn’t ring true. Instead of pressing him on it though, I thanked him for doing my grandparents the favor. By the time he finished telling me about his conversation with my grandma, we’d reached an older model black Volkswagen Golf that, despite its age, was in perfect condition.

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