Page 11 of A Game of Ruck
“Alright, Luca Warden,” she says.
I wince at the name she uses, but it’s not like she knows my other name.I thought I buried that part.
My ties to the Moretti family, but there is this small piece of me that’s always been pissed about having to lie about who I am.
It’s better that way, of course.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
But shielding this beautiful creature from the ugly past of my family?Well, it’s the least I’d do for her.And that scares me.
Annabeth Martinez shouldn’t mean anything to me.She’s a stranger, but somehow, she feels familiar.
Then she holds out her hand like we’re striking a deal.
“You’re hired.”
“Hired?All right, we’ll have to discuss wages later,” I tease.
I take her hand, not giving her a chance to respond.And I shake it.
“Alright, and don’t worry,” she adds, eyes gleaming, “you’re totally gonna be better than a handbag.”
Chapter Three-Annabeth
The jet is sleek,white, and way too luxurious for something that’s about to cart me and a literal Adonis to a wedding where I will, without a doubt, be emotionally carpet-bombed by my family.
My heels clack too loud on the steps as I board, my palms are clammy, and my brain is just not okay.
Who thought this was a good idea?
Oh right—me.And Daniela.And possibly a bottle of wine.
Inside, Luca is already lounging like he owns the damn jet.
And he looks good there.Like he’s used to it.To money.
I mean, yeah, he is a professional athlete, so that makes sense.
But I have to admit.I’m curious about him.
Legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of the buttery leather seat, sunglasses perched on his face like this isMiami Viceand not a midnight private flight to Mexico.
Sunglasses.Indoors.At night.Like he’s trying to protect the world from the full cosmic force of his jawline.
Honestly?Rude.
He’s so hot it’s almost offensive.
The kind of hot that makes your thighs clench and your brain short-circuit.
The kind that makes you want to both strangle him and lick his abs like an ice cream cone.
I think I hate him.
We made one stop at his place, where he packed in less time than it takes me to find matching socks, and now we’re here.
Sitting in a billionaire’s wet dream, headed straight for Playa de Sol, where I have to pretend this walking sex fantasy is my boyfriend.
