“You’re still flirting,” I accused.
“Maybe.” He canted his head, lifting an eyebrow. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re some type of sportsball player.”
“I meant about the flirting.” He bit my knuckle again and followed with a smacking kiss. “But you might be onto something with your guess. Why don’t you try again, baby?”
“I might?” I perked up, a dog with a bone. “What kind of sportsball, Benny?”
“Guess.”
I tapped my cheek, thinking. “The obvious choice would be football.”
He scoffed. “Wimps, all of them.”
“Oooh, what’s less wimpy than football?” I wasn’t a sports person, so I had to pull my guess out of my Summer Olympics repertoire. “Shot put?”
He slowly shook his head. “No, Mazzy, I am not a professional shot-putter.”
“Don’t say it like that.” I glanced around the nearly empty bar. “You might offend someone.”
He eyed the three other patrons, who were seventy if they were a day. And spindly too. I would’ve bet none of them could lift a shot to save their lives, let alone hurl it across a field.
“If there’s a shot-putter here, I will personally apologize to them.”
“As you should,” I huffed. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know any other sports.”
That got him laughing again, earning another nibble on my knuckles. “The only sports you know are football and shot put?”
I tilted toward him, confident he would catch me before I teetered off my stool. He clutched my waist like it was a slip of a thing—it wasn’t.Iwasn’t. But Ben made me feel dainty, and that was pretty fun.
“I’m not a sporty girl,” I whispered in confession, as if it wasn’t obvious. “Won’t you be nice and just tell me?”
He hummed as he looked me over, and the corner of his mouth hitched, making him look nearly devious. With his dimples and curls, he didn’t quite make it there, but it was close.
“Ever heard of rugby?”
I groaned. “Of course. How could I forget rugby? With the shorts and the scrums and the lifting…yes. I’ve heard of rugby.”
“There you go. That’s what I do.”
“Professionally?” I clarified.
“Yes, Mazzy Belle. I get paid to play rugby.”
“Wow.” I tilted toward him even more, almost splaying onto his lap. “Are you famous?”
“In some circles.” He laughed dryly. “Clearly notthatfamous. You’ve never heard of my sport, let alone my name.”
I tried to shove his shoulder, only to end up clutching his shirt. “It was a momentary lapse. I’ve seen lots of rugby.”
“Actual games, or those montages heavily emphasizing the length of our shorts?”
I tried to give him a dirty look. “Don’t act like you know me.”
His teasing grin was a bright burst of light. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
I shoved and clutched him again. “Shut it. You definitely don’t know everything.”
