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“You’re from Boston and you’ve never watched rugby? Not even in college?” he asked.
“I was too busy studying in college,” she said.
“I’m glad you weren’t studying today.”
She smiled. “Me too.”
“Murphy!” She and Nick turned to follow the sound of one of Nick’s teammates, leaving the field with his shirt off. “You owe me a beer!”
He shook his head and looked at Alexa. “You have plans for the rest of the evening?”
She didn’t, but she should have. She should have had plans to grocery shop or clean her apartment or prepare for the grand jury testimony she’d already prepared for ten times over.
Anything but spending more time with the man standing in front of her.
“Not really.”
“We’re heading over to O’Toole’s for beers and food. Why don’t you join us?”
“I don’t know…”
“Come on,” he said. “It’s good clean fun. Pitchers and wings and nachos, with the added benefit of seeing a bunch of grown men posture like peacocks.”
She laughed. “With a description like that, how can I refuse?”
She should have regretted the words. Should have wanted to take them back.
Instead all she felt was excitement. Excitement and a ripple of fear that was either a warning or a promise.
13
Nick felt like a kid leading her through the bar, her hand warm in his. She’d startled a little when he’d taken her hand outside of O’Toole’s but she hadn’t objected and he’d been almost embarrassed by the thrill that had run through him.
He navigated through the crowded bar, glad that they played and drank in Weymouth instead of closer to the city center where he might run into Ronan, or more likely, Declan out looking for a hookup.
He should have thought harder about it. Should have given more weight to his guilt. His conscience never steered him wrong and guilt meant he knew he was in the middle of an epic fuckup.
But instead of trying to fix it — thanking Alexa for coming and walking her to her car like a gentleman — all he could think about was the feel of her hand in his, small but strong, her skin warm and soft.
A cheer went up when Nick reached his teammates at the back of the bar, tradition when any of them arrived late. He smiled and shook his head, then introduced Alexa, careful to omit her last name. He didn’t need one of his rugby buddies — many of whom were in some form of business or another — to recognize her name and start asking questions about her work.
It was weird enough as it was.
They settled onto chairs at one of the high tables and Nick ordered two more pitchers, making good on his debt to Donnie Leary, the teammate who’d reminded him about it on his way off the field.
Nick poured them both beers and Alexa leaned her head toward his while they looked at the menu. He caught the scent of coconut and vanilla and had to force away the image of her hair cascading around her bare shoulders.
“I’m glad you were curious,” he said.
She leaned closer. “What was that?”
He laughed, took her hand, and raised his voice to be heard over the laughter and conversation and music around them. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Her eyes met his. “Me too.”
He saw her lips mouth the words and forced himself not to lean over, capture her mouth with his own.
They ordered food and poured more beer and talked and laughed with the guys from his team. Showing off came like second nature to most of them, and they enjoyed preening for her, pretending to try and woo her away from Nick. He was surprised to realize he felt possessive.
