Page 22 of Married to the Scottish Player
Chapter 5
Annabelle
Captain’s log: This couch sucks.
It’s lumpy. It’s scratchy. The cushions are flat in all the wrong places and somehow still manage to puff up where my spine is supposed to go. There’s a spring that keeps poking me in the ass, and the blanket I borrowed is thin enough to qualify as a napkin.
Also I’m cold. And awake.
I’ve flipped the pillow, flipped it again, shoved it under my head, shoved it under my butt, thrown it across the room, retrieved it, and then threatened it with violence.
Still not comfy.
I toss. I turn. I sigh dramatically into the quiet house, hoping maybe the universe will take pity on me and knock me unconscious.It doesn’t.
“Oh my God, this is so annoying.” I’m supposed to be relaxing, dammit!
That was the whole point of coming here—a peaceful week, with no devices, to clear my head, detox from social media, sleep in late, walk around in no bra, and answer to no one.
Instead, I’m stuck with a roommate. A hot, grumpy, on-the-mend roommate with a defined jawline and cleft chin and abs that need to be covered up so I stop staring at them.
My stomach grumbles.
“Fine, you win,” I tell myself, flinging the thin throw blanket off my legs and swinging upright. “Midnight snack. Whatever.”
My oversize T-shirt slides halfway down my thighs and my fuzzy socks pad softly over the hardwood as I tiptoe to the kitchen, trying to keep the creaky floorboards quiet. The last thing I want to do is wake Captain Limpy.
The fridge hums as I tug it open, squinting against the light.I am a gremlin crawling out of a cave, foraging for sustenance.Cold air wafts over my bare legs, and I do a little shiver dance on the spot, peering into the shelves.
What am I in the mood for ...
“Hmm.” I need fuel. Something salty or cheesy or carb loaded? Ice cream? Ugh, I don’t have any. Chips? Don’t have those either. “Lord, I sure could go for some tortilla chips.”
The problem? Now that I’m staring at everything, I realize: Everything I want to eat is Maverick’s.
The rules were clear:No eating each other’s snacks.
I bite my lip, eye twitching. The man drinks protein shakes and looks like he eats raw spinach. What is he doing with streusel-frosted cupcakes—and wait—are thosecaramelclusters?
I hesitate.
No eating each other’s snacks, no eating each other’s snacks, no eating each other’s snacks ...
Then I justify.
He has abs. He’ll survive without one of his chocolate desserts.
He Won’t Even Know!
“This moment will be between myself and the universe.” No witnesses.
I peel back the seal on the half-empty package and slide out a nut-covered cluster, popping the entire thing into my mouth, eyes already rolling to the back of my head.
My God, is this good.
I slump against the counter in the dark kitchen with all the grace of a raccoon in a trash bin, chewing dramatically and sighing and moaning.
“So good.” I groan, using my finger to wipe some of the drool escaping my mouth. “Oh my God, he does not deserve these. He’ll never kn—”
