Page 30 of Married to the Scottish Player
She ignores me, pushing a pair of sunglasses over her eyes.
I grip the axe, glaring down at the sad excuse for a woodpile. Let’s be honest: I’m about as good at chopping logs as I am at ballet, and my knee screams in protest.
Option one: Keep hacking away on these logs and pretending I don’t give a shit that Annabelle is sunbathing twenty yards away in a bikini made of dental floss.
Option two: Go down to the pier and annoy the shit out of her, because clearly,ignoring her is impossible.
She shifts on her towel, crossing one bare leg over the other, and the flash of hot pink between her thighs short-circuits my brain.
Yeah. Option two.
I slam the axe into the stump and head down the yard, knee twinging with every step, but adrenaline (or stupidity) pushes me on.
The closer I get, the faster my heart beats, and honestly, it’s been weeks since anything has excited me the way sparring with Annabelle does. She’s sassy, bratty, bossy—and sexy. A ticking time bomb of temptation.
Here for a good time, not for a long time, same as me.
Lethal combo.
My steps rattle the boards under my feet, the whole dock shivering as I walk, demanding her attention whether I mean to or not as I drag the empty deck chair closer to her with a satisfied grunt.
She turns her head in my direction. “Lose interest in lumberjacking already?”
Totally. Being a lumberjack sucks.
“No, I just realized the view was better over here.”
She lowers her sunglasses to peer over the lenses, her eyes dancing with mischief. “You had better not be flirting with me.”
Is that what that was?
Is that what that was?Maybe. Maybe not. Damned if I’m going to admit it to her.
I tilt my head, shrugging lazily. “I’m just making an observation.”
My roommate laughs. “Whatever you say, Mav.” She pauses. “Know what I’ve been wondering? Does Maverick have a last name?”
I rub a hand over my jaw, feeling the rough edge of stubble. “Of course I’ve got a last name.”
“Well?” She shifts, waiting. “What is it?”
I hesitate. A quick Google search would have given her the answer, but apparently my new friend has no interest in secretly prying into my private life.
“McBride.”
“Maverick McBride?” She pieces the names together, and I can hear the wheels turning in her head. “Sounds like you should be riding a motorcycle, or fighting crime on TV.” Annabelle rolls to her stomach, props herself up on one elbow, and lowers the sunglasses. “So your parents just liked the name Maverick, or is it a nickname?”
“It’s a nickname.”
Her brows go up. “And?”
“My name is Callum.”
She blinks over at me. Blinks some more.
“Callum McBride.” She repeats, rolling the words over her tongue. “That’s ... It’s so ...” Bites her lip. “Scottish sounding.”
I nod. “Aye.”
