Oh boy, Mr. Hot Voice and Muscley Forearms didn’t want to go down that road. Not like he could know the brother who raised me was a Super Bowl winning football player, now one of the best defensive coaches in the league. If he wanted to talk football, I’d run his ass into the ground without breaking a sweat. So, I turned slowly in his direction, and when I did, I froze.
The face matched the voice. The hands. The muscles and ink. It matched, surpassed, blew the voice and the hands and muscles out of the water.
And when a slow smile pulled at the edges of my mouth, he did some turning of his own. It took everything in me not to climb into his lap where he sat on that stool.
I’d been around some hot men in my day. Kissed a bunch. Slept with a couple who I really, really liked.
And Mr. Hot Voice with the Hot Face and dark hair and knife-sharp jaw just made every single one of them fade into oblivion.
His gaze studied my face carefully for something. Whatever he saw caused him to relax. “What?” he asked.
I pointed at the TV. “I don’t think this is an argument you want to have with me.”
He licked his bottom lip, and reflexively, I felt my thighs clench together. His eyes, an indecipherable color in the dim light of the bar, never strayed from mine. “Carl, put another drink for the lady on my tab, if you please.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Who said I wanted another one?”
Under the guise of looking out the street-facing windows, he slid to the stool next to mine, his shoulder brushing my own. “Well now, it’s raining out, so I reckon you won’t be in a hurry to leave. Besides, I think this is exactly where you need to be right now.”
Lifting my beer to my mouth, I took a sip to hide my growing smile, but his eyes dropped to my lips regardless. As I set the pint glass down, I crossed my legs and set my chin in my hand. “Why do you think that?”
“There’s a look on your face that intrigues me.”
I snorted. “Is there? I can’t wait to hear this.”
“You’re missing something.”
My face went slack with shock, but I blinked, recovering in the next breath. “Why on earth would you say that?”
When he lifted his chin in a blatant study of my face, the light of the room caught the hard edge of his jaw. Seriously, a man who looked like him should be illegal.
“Because any time a beautiful woman is drinking alone in a quiet bar, and she has the terrible misfortune of telling me she hates the beautiful game, then she’s clearly missing a screw or two.”
A shocked laugh burst out of my mouth. His answering grin was belly-flipping gorgeous.
I did a little leaning of my own. “And let me guess, you’re just the man to help me find them.”
His thumb tapped the surface of the bar. His lips curved into a devious smile that made my toes curl inside my shoes. “No.”
My eyebrow lifted in question.
What he said next were words I’d replay a thousand times over the next few months, when I had no idea how true they were. In a rough voice that pulled goosebumps up along my arm, he said, “I’m the man who’s about to give you an education, love.”
JUDE
Things I did not need tonight:
– Beer.
– My brother to be out of town the one night I was in London and felt like stopping by to see him.
– A cheeky American woman with big blue eyes and long dark hair.
Yet knowing the safest course of action would be to not drink the beer, go back home and pretend I’d never stopped by, and ignore the invitation in her eyes, I damn well ignored it.
The woman laughed at my blatant come-on, revealing straight white teeth and a dimple on the right side of her face. But after a shit day, a shit week, indulging in something that I wanted—not needed—sounded perfect.
Like me, she must have been caught in the rain, which was heavier than I’d expected it to be when I came to see Lewis. The ends of her hair looked damp where they curled against her back.
But the smile was all I got in response, which only intrigued me further.
“Educate me on soccer, huh?” she mused quietly, leaning back on her stool and folding her arms over her chest. Those big eyes focused on the match, one I’d wanted to watch from home, except I had an appointment with my agent, something I couldn’t ignore. Looking at her delicate profile in the dim light of the pub, I couldn’t even regret that I wasn’t at home, watching Tottenham and Bethnal Green, the latter who I’d be playing in short order.
“Football,” I corrected with a grin. When she rolled her eyes, I laughed. “Been in London long?”
“About ten days.” With graceful fingers, she traced a line of condensation along the surface of her glass. “I’m here to study at Oxford for Michaelmas.”
I nodded. A smart, cheeky American then.
“You probably meet many interesting people,” she said carefully.
“Why’s that?”
She gestured at Carl. “I assumed you worked here or were here a lot or something.”
He lifted his bushy gray eyebrows in question, probably wondering if I’d answer her honestly.
I was a footballer, and my brother was the pub owner. And not only did I not spend a lot of time here, but it was the first time I’d ever stopped by without my little brother asking first.
“My brother owns it,” I said. “While I do meet some characters in my job, I’m sure Carl has me beat for good stories.”
Carl snorted. The American smiled.
“Let’s say I’m interested in this soccer lesson,” she began, turning slightly on her stool until her knees touched my legs under the bar. I didn’t move. Neither did she.
My elbow bumped hers. “For the sake of argument, and since the rest of the world calls it football, can we dispense with the s-word, please?”
She grinned. “That really bothers you, doesn’t it?”
“Well, it’s the wrong name, so yes.” And not that I’d say it out loud, but playing that game—the one she was currently disparaging with her American label—was the center of my entire universe. If we sat at those stools long enough, or Carl flipped to the right channel, a replay would likely come on showing me on the pitch, doing what I did so well. The only thing I did well, it felt like, even as my body was trying to tell me I was getting too bloody old to keep going at it the way I wanted.
Thirty-one felt a decade older some days, especially given the young talent.
She gave a magnanimous wave of her hand. “Fine. When in Rome and all that.”
“They call it football there too,” I pointed out.
Carl walked past and shook his head when he saw how closely we were sitting together—the American and me.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She licked her lips, pulling my attention to her mouth. It was a bloody marvelous mouth too. When I tore my eyes away and met her gaze again, it was knowing. It was also full of banked heat. The pretty American girl had no problem with me staring at her pretty lips.
“Lia,” she answered.
I held out my hand. “Jude.”
No last names were offered, which was fine by me. If she didn’t live here, and paid no attention to football, my last name wouldn’t mean anything to her. But all the same, I decided not to risk it.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.