Page 35 of Married to the Scottish Player
Oh my God.I swear my cheeks are about to catch fire. His grin is lethal, and the way he calls mebonnie lassmakes something warm and fizzy seep through my bloodstream. All over. Fuzzy, warm.
Zip.
Zing.
I can’t take it. If I keep sitting here next to him, listening to his deep voice use random Scottish terms, I’m going to combust.
So I stand, fix the strings of my bikini top, and square my shoulders. “I’m going for a swim.”
Yup. A cold dip should do the trick. I give him a sassy toss of my hair and march to the edge, refusing to let him see how rattled I am.
Behind me, he calls, “Watch out for sharks!”
Rolling my eyes, I leap, and the cool water envelops me. The shock is glorious—pulling the heat out of my cheeks, the thump out of my loud heartbeat.
Underwater, silence washes over me, cooling every part of me that tingles from Maverick McBride’s voice and that smug, playful smile.
Even his stupid last name is sexy.
Ugh!
When I surface, slicking my hair out of my face, he’s there—all six-foot-five of him, bare chested, sunglasses propped on his head, watching as if worried I wasn’t going to emerge.
“The water is a bit cold—it might feel good on your leg.”
He lifts a thick brow. “You trying to get me wet?”
My mouth parts. “I mean—yes?”
A grin teases the corner of his mouth. “I’ll pass.”
Coward.
“Suit yourself.” I float on my back, letting the sun warm my belly and boobs while the chill of the water keeps me from overheating. My eyes close, and my ears dip just below the surface so the world goes muffled and distant.
The engines whir in the background.
But then a splash—amassivesplash—roars against the side of my face, pulling me upright.
Maverick is in the water.
I sputter, blinking. “You—”Son of a bitch!“You said you’d pass!”
He shrugs. “Changed my mind.”
Another splash—this time courtesy of me, shooting water straight at his face.
He laughs, rich and deep, and retaliates with a shot of water of his own, sending me backward. I gasp, catching my breath between giggles, treading water as he moves closer.
“Stay where you are,” I warn him, though I have no idea what I’ll do if he reaches me.
Maverick arches a brow, dark hair plastered to his forehead, droplets clinging to his lashes like tiny crystals. “Or what?”
He’s teasing me, I know he is—there’s a glint in his eye that says he’s enjoying every second of this, same as I am.
“I mean it. Don’t come any closer.”
I’m lethal, but he’s determined. One slow stroke, then another, and he’s cutting through the water like a predator out to get me.
