Page 12 of Rafferty's Rules
‘You mentioned a boat last night. You’re staying on one?’
‘Not if I don’t get there before it leaves without me.’
‘Hang on,’ he calls as I bustle past him, throwing the strap of my bag over my shoulder. ‘Do you even know where you’re going?’
‘No, but it can’t be far.’Was the cruise ship terminal one bus stop or two after The Rocks yesterday?Oh— ‘And I have my phone.’ As I slide my feet into my shoes, I push my hand into my bag, bringing it out...dead.Of course it is. ‘But I’m sure I’ll manage somehow.
‘And your T-shirt?’ he calls after me as I begin bundling down the next flight of stairs.
‘Oh... hell.’
‘This way.’ He steps around me at the base of the stairs, turning right. ‘It might be dry by now.’
‘I hope so. Anyway, it’s so hot out already, so I know it won’t be wet for long, not that I feel like walking around initially like a contestant in a wet T-shirt competition.Oof!’
I suddenly collide with Rafferty’s back, and by collide, I mean I plaster myself against his smooth, muscular skin. I blame my lenses—they haven’t transitioned to the indoor light yet and are still dark.
‘What do you know about wet T-shirt contests.’ I don’t miss the amusement in his tone. Amusement I don’t have time for, but as it’s a bit of a sore spot, I find myself answering.
‘I know I wouldn’t win one.’ I’ll credit panic for my answer because I don’t typically draw attention to my flaws, small boobs, scaring, or otherwise. Besides, there’s usually someone else around to do that for me. My fingers on his back, I try to hurry him down the narrow hall, stepping behind him.
‘You would if I were a judge.’ His tone is so languid and seductive and redolent of illicit trysts and touches in dark corners. And when he turns, his smile matches, and I don’t even feel annoyed when his gaze dips again.
Oh, we are definitely having a moment. It’s just a pity it’s not the kind that steals my speech.
‘Let me tell you, the way my past week has gone, I’d be all over you like a rash, even without that sinful smile and the compliments you’ve dished out, because you are the hottest thing I have seen since my girlfriend took me to see the last Magic Mike movie.’
Okay... so we’re going with a kind of reckless stream of consciousness rather than the truth because that’s what I’d do if I were a different, braver kind of girl. Because the truth is, I’ve never hit on a man before, and I’ve certainly never behaved as forward as this. Maybe I am still drunk, but it’s not like I’ll ever see him again, so it’s not like he’ll ever see the real me. Besides, it’s making him smile. And the man who saved me from whatever might have transpired last night deserves to smile—deserves all the things.
‘No lie, Rafferty. Channing Tatum may be a movie star, but you could give that man a run for his money.’That, at least, is the truth. ‘And I would give you a run for yours, quicker than a hot knife through butter.’And that’s wishful thinking.‘But,’ I add, taking a deep breath, ‘I have a place to be right now, and I am all out of fucks. I mean, luck.’
Because a lady does not ever say fuck.
Not out loud, at least.
He tries not to smile, though as a response to the flattery or amusement, it’s kind of hard to tell. Settling on a shaking his head as though bemused, he reaches behind him, then hands me my T-shirt. And it is dry but also now toddler sized.
‘Fuck.’ His accent seems to twist the curse into something less aggressive. But I don’t have time to appreciate the tiny nuanced differences.
‘It doesn’t matter. I really, really have to go!’ Three o’clock was either the time for boarding or the official time for departure. Either way, something tells me if I hustle, I’m going to be okay because the universe can’t hand me any more crap this week.
‘No worries. Here.’ He pulls a white oxford shirt from where it’s hanging on the back of a kitchen chair, pulling a T-shirt for himself out of seemingly thin air.
‘Thank you.’ I rapidly button up as he pulls his over his head.
‘Come on, I’ll show you the shortest way.’
I nod my assent, add another thank you, then we’re out of the front door and running.
Chapter 4
RAFFERTY
For a chick with short legs, she doesn’t half shift. Well, at least for the couple of hundred meters before she slows to a walk and then stops, bracing her hands on her knees.
‘I feel sick,’ she sort of moans, clutching the left side of her waist. She tries to hobble forward a step or two, her teeth gritted against an obvious pain, and despite her pronounced freckles, she’s as pale as a pie that’s been left in the bakery window all weekend.
‘I’m not surprised.’ Moving her hands from her waist, I step behind her, lifting her right into the air. ‘You were off your chops last night.’
