Page 15 of Married to the Scottish Player
Maverickwhatever-his-last-name-isprobably doesn’t do sunsets. Or feelings. Or human connection.
I roll my eyes at the horizon and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, settling deeper into the chair as the breeze picks up. It’s nice, though. Chilly, but nice. And for the first time all day, I feel like I’m not on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Not gonna lie, today has been stressful. Seeing a mountain of a man standing over me earlier when I’d woken from the hammock not only scared the ever-lovingshitout of me—but for a brief second, I genuinely thought I was about to die.
Like,this is it. This is how it ends.
This is how I—
Click.
I freeze.
The soft slide of the door opening behind me cuts through the quiet like a dropped pin in a library.
I don’t turn around. I don’t breathe. Because now I’m very aware that the caveman has exited the cave. And I swear, if he ruins my moment with some kind of smug, sarcastic—
“You’re gonna get eaten alive out here.”
So? Pfft.What does he care?He hasn’t cared about a single thing I’ve said all afternoon—why start now?
“You’re gonna get eaten alive out here,” he says again, as if I hadn’t heard him the first damn time, that low rumble of his sounding mildly amused.
“Mosquitoes are the least tragic part of my day.” I don’t turn around. “I’ll take my chances.”
Behind me, the deck creaks under his weight as he lowers himself into the chair beside mine. Not directly next to me, thank God, but close enough that I can feel the gravity of him. He radiates heat and intensity in ways the men of Star Lake do not. The guys back home mostly wear khakis, sell insurance, and talk about trout season, blech.
Annoying.
“Suit yourself,” he grumbles, settling in with a grunt. “I read somewhere mosquitoes like sweet blood.”
“Oh yeah? Where’d you read that?”
“Magazine.”
I scoff.
He turns his head so I can catch the smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “Sounds legit, though, doesn’t it?”
“Um—no.” It most certainly does not.
“You wound me,” he says, moving the ice pack against his knee to a new spot. “Here I am, offering mosquito trivia, and all I get is attitude.”
I roll my eyes again, this time at him. “You also kicked me out of the only bed. You don’t get points for bug facts. This is war.”
War.
That’s what this is, and I am not losing.
“I hate to break it to you, Annabelle, but possession is nine-tenths of the law, and I was here first. You’re lucky I don’t call the cops for breaking in entering.”
“It’s breakingandentering,” I correct. Then I can’t resist adding, “You know, most hostages develop sympathy for their captors over time. Stockholm syndrome, it’s called.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “You think I’m your captor?”
“Well, I didn’t rent this place intending to share it with a linebacker and an insufferable personality, so yes. I think I qualify.”
“‘Insufferable,’” he echoes proudly. “I like it.”
