Page 18 of A Game of Ruck

---

What makes her cry.

I want to be the one who fixes whatever those cousins of hers broke in her confidence.

And that’s terrifying.

Because this was supposed to be pretend.

A weekend.A favor.A footnote.

But she’s not a footnote.

She’s the fucking headline.In big, bold print.And me?I’m thinking about getting it tattooed right over my heart.

Fuck.

“Hey,” she says softly, turning those warm brown eyes on me.“You okay?”

I smile like a man who’s definitely not two seconds from declaring his fake love for his fake girlfriend in front of a very real concierge.

“Peachy.”

She narrows her eyes.“You’re standing behind a ficus.”

“Strategically,” I say.“It’s part of my pre-breakfast grounding ritual.Very spiritual.”

She laughs, and the sound does dangerous things to my internal organs.

God help me.

I’m completely and absolutely fucked.

And not in the fun way.

Yet.

Fuck.She’s doing that thing again.

The one where she fidgets with the hem of her dress like it’s offending her.

Like if she pulls hard enough, she’ll disappear entirely.

I hate that she feels like that.

She is so damn pretty.So sweet and funny.So damn interesting.

Why can’t she see that?

Why is it that perfect people never seem to know it?

“Do I have something on my face?”she asks, eyes fixed on the floor like it’s more trustworthy than me.

“No,” I say, leaning just a little closer.“You just look like you’re about to sprint out the back door.I thoughtIwas the one being held hostage here.”

“Oh, ha ha.And I’m not nervous,” she snaps a little too fast.

Then immediately winces, like the words betrayed her.

“Sure you’re not,” I say, grinning.

---