Page 30 of Playing Rucking Hard

Dylan Fleski is trying to be inconspicuous at a table near the back, one arm draped over the chair like he owns the place, but wearing a non-descript navy Henley that hides his ink and baseball cap over his eyes. Still, as he hears me approach, his lips curve into a grin that turns my knees to jelly.

“Emma,” he says, standing as I approach. His voice is low and sexy, like honey poured over rough edges as I add another version of him to my mental bank of Dylan. Nightclub Dylan, naked Dylan, gym-rat Dylan, Mavericks Dylan, black-tie Dylan, and now casual Dylan. I want each version on him at call, and on repeat.

“Hi,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

He pulls out the chair for me, and I sink into it, my heart racing. He sits across from me, leaning forward, his elbows on the table.

“You showed up,” he says, his grin widening.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” I say, trying to sound breezy, but my voice wobbles. “I might be a girl who’ll do anything for coffee.”

“A beautiful woman agrees to meet me, it’s a very big deal.”

“And a regular occurrence, if social media is anything to go by.” And just like, my jealousy is out of the bag.

“We should talk about my fake date,” he says, “but not until I get you what I promised. How do you want your coffee?”

“Black, no sugar.”Fake date?Why would Dylan Fleski need to go on a fake date?

“What about a chocolate brownie on the side?”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” I smile to take away the sting. “I’d never be able to stop at one.”

“Oh, I know your type.” He laughs, and I swear nuns lose their panties. “Should I just accept that you’re gonna share my dessert and get you a second spoon?”

The waitress interrupts us, and Dylan quickly places our order, including a slice of banana bread without butter or cream. “Just in case,” he says with a shrug. “I mean, banana is a fruit, and there’s nothing wrong with sharing fruit.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Dylan leans back in his chair, lightly drumming his fingers on the table’s edge. I can’t work out if his moves are casual or confident, but his eyes are locked on mine like I’m the only person in his world. The way he looks at me is disconcerting. The way his eyes soften, but refuse to let me go, I’m half prepared for him to launch across the table and kiss me, or … what? I don’t know what to do. Dylan has my head spinning and heart pounding.

I shouldn’t be here. But there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

I should say something—make a joke, comment, or anything to break the tension. But words refuse to form. They’re stuck in my throat.

The café hums around us: the soft clink of spoons against mugs, the low murmur of conversations, the hiss of the espresso machine. It’s like when I got the call about my parents—the rest of the world seemed to go on around me even though my world had been tilted off its axis. Not that Dylan and my parents can be compared, but what I do here today will change my future—while for everyone else in the coffee shop, it’s a regular afternoon.

He shifts slightly, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. His eyes trace over my face, lingering at the corners of my lips, and the slow burn of a blush starts at my breasts before working up to my cheeks.

I don’t know how long we sit, staring at each other. Seconds? Minutes? I’m used to having silent conversations with Sage, but Dylan is such a powerful energy, it feels out of character for him to be quietly still. Our coffees arrive, and Dylan slides the plate of banana bread between us, takes a spoon, and offers me a bite.

I want to say something cute like, “I should have my coffee before dessert,” but I don’t want to break whatever trance we have going on here. So, I open my mouth and he gently places the spoon at the edge, allowing me to control the experience—well, right up until he uses his thumb to brush crumbs from the corner of my lips.

Dylan’s lips twitch into a soft smile, and the dimple in his left cheek appears, the one I forgot could make my knees weak. Although his eyes talk up a storm, he still doesn’t say a word. Panic sets in. Is he waiting for me to cave in? Am I just the hard-to-get girl that he’ll dump as soon as I give in?This is Dylan Fleski.Despite his rumored body count, there are still a couple of million in Sydney alone waiting for their chance. I want to slapmy inner jealous bitch until she gets a grip. There are so many reasons for Dylan and I not to hook up,again, that I shouldn’t manufacture reasons.

It’s not manufactured if it’s true. Locker room gossip is adamant Dylan will never settle for one woman.

I clutch my coffee cup like a shield, forbidding further banana bread offerings. Ishouldbreak his gaze. Ineedto look away, but I can’t.

He takes a sip, and the crema coats his top lip in possibly the most seductive thing I’ve seen. My eyes drop to his mouth, waiting … waiting … waiting. He has to feel the wetness. It has to be tingling his skin.

I’m still waiting when he chuckles, his eyes sparkling as his tongue darts between his lips to lick the crema away. He is so controlled, so sensual, and I desperately need a refresher course on how his tongue slides up and down my … No. This is not helping. I can’t think of Dylan’s tongue and be expected to make good decisions.

I don’t want to speak, I don’t want this moment to end, but remembering what his fingers can do to me when they’re not tapping on the table makes me want to combust.

Just when I’m preparing to ditch this whole coffee date and get my ass back home before I do something I’ll regret, Dylan leans back slightly, the chair creaking under his weight, and breaks the silence.

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