Page 33 of Married to the Scottish Player
“Do you speak the language—what do they call it?”
“Gaelic.”
That’s it. “Doyouspeak it?”
“Some. Aye.” I gawk at him when he goes on to say, “When I visit, I sometimes slip into the cultural way of speaking,ye ken?”
Ye ken?Ye ken?
Shit, shit, shit.
My brain takes a mental vacation and goes a little fuzzy around the edges.There’s something about the way he says the words—easy and natural, like he’s carried those words since birth—that does dangerous things to my girly parts.
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to appear unaffected, while my pulse pounds like a war drum. “Are you doing this on purpose? Weaponizing your hotness.”
“Am I?” he drawls, all innocent like—but his eyes sparkle, telling me he knowsexactlywhat he’s doing. “Enough about me. What’s your origin story?”
Lame. Embarrassinglyvanilla. I swallow, wishing I had some epic saga involving castles and sheep and nans who call mewee lass.
“Well,” I start, trying not to sound like the most boring person alive. “Before we moved to Washington, we lived in Illinois. My dad got a new job—he’s a contractor—and my grandparents moved close by so they could babysit me while my parents worked. Um.”
God, riveting stuff, Annabelle.
“We’re German?” I add lamely. “I’ve never actually been to Germany. My ancestors came over in, like, the late 1800s.” I cringe. “That’s it.”
“Germany sounds cool. I’d visit.” He pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes. “What else? You’re a wedding planner; you plan events. Any hobbies?”
Is he making small talk for the hell of it, or could he genuinely be interested?
“I run. I hike. I would love to travel more but ...” I’m boring. Plus, I’ve never had anyone to travel with, and I’ve never had the urge for solo trips. “What are your hobbies?”
He shifts a little in the chair, one knee bouncing, sunglasses hiding most of his expression except the faint twist of a smirk on his lips. “Hobbies?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound breezy, even though my skin is prickling from his attention. “You must do other things when you’re not on the field or chopping wood.”
Ha ha.
He gives a soft, huffing laugh. “Recovery is my full-time hobby these days.”
I roll my eyes. “You can do better than that.”
He pauses, considering. “I guess I like the gym. Weight lifting. Swimming. Spending time with my family. I watch a lot of sports, even when I’m not playing.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “You sound thrilling.”
He tips his sunglasses down just enough to meet my eyes, and something about the dark glitter of them hits me square in the chest. “I promise you, I am.”
My breath catches. A weird silence pulses between us, warm and electric. He’s closer than I realized. Close enough that I can see the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose.
Freckles? Anything but those!
I try to look away, but my gaze drifts lower, over his ridiculously broad chest, down the faint line of sweat darkening the collar of his T-shirt. He shifts in the chair, tugging at the hem, like even he can’t stand the heat anymore, then casually peels the shirt off and tosses it over the armrest.
Shit.
There’s a trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his pants, and the sight of it feels illegal. His shoulders bunch, rolling as he leans back, arms folded behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Eyes closed.
“Want some sunscreen?” I offer, half joking.
