Playing it Cool (Sydney Smoke Rugby)

by Amy Andrews

  Harper—the uninhibited and sober versions—didn’t have a problem with one-night stands. She didn’t give a rat’s ass what two consenting adults decided—more power to them. She just didn’t believe in it for herself. Sleeping with a guy—any guy—on the first date was not on her agenda. And even if she were to break that lifelong rule, she sure as hell wasn’t going to head down that path with a guy she knew was using her as much as she was using him.

  What if she wanted more, but he and his mates had had their fun and he moved on? To a supermodel. That was just asking for some fucked-up self-doubt that would screw with her psyche for far too long.

  “And painting,” she added. “Take it or leave it.”

  A smile played on the full curve of his bottom lip as he considered her for a moment. Weighing his options maybe? God knew she was so turned on from watching his wrist action he could slide his hand onto her thigh and she’d probably come louder than Sally had done for Harry.

  And there’d be nothing fake about it.

  Harper almost sagged with relief in her chair when he picked up his paintbrush and dipped it in the white paintpot before transferring it to his canvas, resuming the incessant long, slow strokes.

  “Do you have a current commission you’re working on?” he asked after a moment or two.

  “Yup,” she said, also returning her attention to her own work. “I’m currently doing murals for the City Central kid’s hospital.”

  “Really?” His eyebrows rose in interest. “The club does charity stuff there. We’ve got a visit coming up soon, I think. How’d that gig come about?”

  “A friend of mine has a child with cystic fibrosis who’s in and out of there a lot. The place was so bloody depressing—all the walls this beigey-apricot colour. Looked like it was the original paint job from two decades prior. She raised some funds and got permission to have murals painted on the walls of the ward where Maddy stays, to brighten things up a bit and make the kids less apprehensive about being in some giant, sterile, unfriendly building. She suggested me for the murals. I put some designs together and was given the go ahead.”

  He whistled, clearly impressed. “That sounds awesome.”

  The enthusiasm in his voice was genuine, and Harper sat a little higher. She’d been so used to her so-called family nagging her about getting a proper job, she’d forgotten that there was another worldview out there. “I do have an awesome job.” She grinned.

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “The first ward was a year ago, but I’m doing various wings in the entire hospital now. I also volunteer to teach a couple of art classes through the school there in the afternoons.”

  “They have a school?”

  “Sure. Some kids are long-term, and they have as much right to be educated as well kids.”

  “Makes sense,” he mused. “So…you’re a muralist by trade?”

  “No. I’m a graphic artist, which is useful in the design stage. But I know my way around a canvas, too, and just sort of fell into this, and I love it.”

  “That is so cool. Your family must be really proud.”

  Harper kept her smile in place but it was tight and forced. “I think they’d prefer me to have a real job.”

  He frowned. “Being an artist isn’t a real job?

  “Well…” She shrugged. “To be fair, it’s not always stable and usually not very lucrative.”

  “And is that the way we measure job worth? By how lucrative it is?”

  Harper gave a half laugh. “It’s the way a lot of people do.”

  “We’re talking about Chuck now, right?”

  “My stepbrother…” Harper picked her way carefully through this. She didn’t have a lot of time for Chuck—she certainly didn’t feel like she owed him any family loyalty—but he did have to work with guys like Dex, and she had no desire to fuck anything up for him, either. “Let’s just say we don’t see eye to eye.”

  “How in the hell did you come to have the misfortune of being related to that tosser?”

  Harper blinked at the patent distaste in Dex’s voice. “He’s not…liked?”

  According to Chuck—who had the good fortune to be born with classic, clean-cut good looks and a great physique—he was Mr. Popularity. Apparently all the footy players loved him and, with his unparalleled ratings, he was being groomed to host the studio’s rugby show when the position next became vacant.

  Her gaze roamed over Dexter Blake’s face. He wasn’t classically good-looking at all. Sure, he was tall and broad, but his dark hair was a little too unruly and there was nothing clean-cut about the rugged, stomped-on features that gave him the rather battered appearance worn by a lot of rugby players.

  But his face did more for her than Chuck’s brand of pretty ever had.

  “Not liked?” He laughed and it was music to Harper’s ears. “He’s barely tolerated. He’s a total dick who cares more about looking good and getting his face on the camera than he does any hard-hitting sports news. But hey…the female audiences love him.” His brow scrunched, accentuating the rugged appearance. “Apparently.”

  The last was said with such confusion that Harper laughed. “It’s okay. I don’t get it, either.”

  She’d seen too much of his ugly heart to consider him any kind of attractive.

  “Have you been related long?”

  Harper doodled paint absently on her canvas, not really paying too much attention to what she was creating, the paintbrush as much an extension of her as a ball was to Dex. She sipped her wine, trying to decide whether she should go into all the gory details. Ultimately, with Dex’s long, slow strokes distracting her, she found herself wanting to tell him.

  “I was ten when my dad married Chuck’s mother. He was fourteen. And well and truly the golden boy as far as my stepmum Anthea is concerned.”

  “So he was always a prick?”

  Harper’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Pretty much. I think he was threatened that I was as tall as him and not some pretty, dainty little girl who was going to hero worship him. He used to call me harpoon because that’s what whales like me needed.”

  Dex’s hand stilled mid-stroke and his knuckles turned white. “Did you tell your dad?”

  “Nah.” Harper had been lucky to have Em and a decade of body-positive messages that had given her a good sense of herself, even if the crushing weight of a society obsessed with bodily perfection played havoc with her confidence from time to time. “He was happy after being sad for so long about Mum dying. And Anthea was okay. I mean…she was cute and petite and blonde and ate like a sparrow, and I think my size eleven shoes were a constant embarrassment to her, but it wasn’t really until after my dad died a few years ago that it’s become all about Chuck again. Especially since his big nomination for the annual television awards. Anyone would think he was up for a freaking Nobel Prize.”

  “So…if your dad’s not around anymore, why have anything to do with Chuck and his mother at all?” he asked, dipping his paintbrush in the red again.

  “Because when I was twelve they had twins—Jace and Tabby. They’re my brother and sister and they mean the world to me. When Dad died, they were the same age I was when I’d lost my mother to a car accident, and I promised my father while he was in the hospital that I would always look out for them. So I grit my teeth and pretend all is peachy.”

  “You stay involved with them?”

  Harper nodded. “My stepmother works full time as an interior designer, and with my job being flexible, I do the school pick up and run them around to their different activities in the afternoon until Anthea gets home. They often come and stay with me on the weekends.”

  He painted for a beat or two, his gaze fixed on the canvas. “I’m sorry about your father.”

  “Thanks.” Harper gave him a sad smile.

  He glanced at her and returned the expression with one of his own, as if he knew a little about grief, too. The chime of an incoming text broke the fledgling intimacy.
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br />   “Sorry,” Harper grimaced, putting her wineglass down to pick up her phone.

  Normally she wouldn’t look at her phone on a date—even a fake one, but Harper was waiting on a reply from Tabby who hadn’t been feeling well.

  Alas, it was from Anthea…

  Harper! Chuck just told me about this ridiculous pity date. It’s probably just some kind of dare. I hope you’re not embarrassing Chuck by throwing yourself at Dexter Blake. Set your sights lower and have more self-respect!

  Harper was well used to Anthea being Chuck’s mouthpiece by now. But considering how much she did for her stepmother, and how much she put up with from her, this level of vitriol really hurt.

  Okay, yes, the date was fake, but was it really that ridiculous that a man of Dexter’s calibre might want to go out with her?

  Harper clutched the phone hard as she stared at the screen, her heart banging against her ribs as the words burrowed like a parasite under her skin. She was beginning to feel like a character in a fairy tale. The bad pantomime version.

  Wicked stepmother, shitty stepbrother, poor, downtrodden orphan girl.

  And it really wasn’t that bad, for crying out loud. Anthea just didn’t understand the value of a good heart over a good body. She’d been raised by an ex-beauty-queen mother and a mostly absent father who’d run a modelling agency. If she’d been someone else’s stepmother, Harper might even have felt sorry for her.

  But she wasn’t.

  A sudden yearning for her father swelled in her chest, and an unexpected rush of hot tears pricked the backs of her eyes.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Harper blinked furiously to quash the rise of tears. “Ah…sure,” she said, putting the phone on the table with fingers that trembled slightly. She plastered a smile on her face as she grappled to bring her emotions under control.

  The last thing she wanted to do was burst into tears in front of Dex. She wasn’t sure how well rugby front-rowers coped with hysterical dates.

  “Harper!” The call from across the room came at just the right moment. “Over here.” Kevin gestured for her to join him. “You’ve just got to see this painting.”

  Harper leaped at the opportunity for escape. A chance to pull herself together. To remove herself from the heavy weight of Dex’s concerned gaze.

  She scraped her chair back, grateful beyond belief. “Won’t be a moment,” she said and fled to the other side of the room.

  Chapter Three

  Dex blinked at the retreating back of Harper Nugent. What the hell was that? Everything had been fine, and then her olive complexion had turned to alabaster as she read a text. Then she’d looked at him with moisture turning her eyes into deep Marsala pools.

  He had absolutely no qualms reaching for her discarded phone and reading the text that was still on the screen. It was so awful he had to read it twice.

  What the fuck?

  Her stepmother had sent her this? No wonder Chuck was such a prick—it was obviously genetic.

  Set her sights lower? Embarrassing Chuck? Probably some kind of dare?

  Dare? What the fuck did she mean by that?

  Dex dropped the phone, shuddering at the vileness, the rage he’d felt on the field the other night at hearing the way Chuck had talked to his sister returning. Harper was funny and witty and kind—being there to commiserate with her bestie, looking out for her siblings, volunteering her time at the hospital—any guy would be lucky to be with her.

  And that didn’t even go anywhere near her physical attributes. The strength of her Amazonian body, curves that wouldn’t quit, an ass that he couldn’t wait to get his hands on, and her mouth… Man, that mouth, all full and glistening with gloss again tonight.

  Lush.

  He glanced at his painting—a hopelessly inadequate 2D representation. The fullness didn’t do it justice. The wetness wasn’t right. The contours of her lips were not as perfectly defined. Her mouth was a goddamn frickin’ work of art. How did he even capture that?

  More importantly, how in hell was she even still single?

  He glanced back toward Harper to find her making her way to the table, a really full glass of wine in her hand. Her jeans clung lovingly to her thighs and hips, and her hair, pulled back into a ponytail, swished behind her. Things moved interestingly under her shirt.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” she chirped, an overly bright smile fixed on her face as she sat. “Did you want another drink? I can call the waiter.”

  Dex shook his head. He only ever sat on one drink when he was out in public. Too many footy payers got themselves into trouble by overindulging and acting like dicks.

  “No, thanks.”

  “You should see some of the other paintings,” she continued, still bright as a button. “I’m always amazed at people’s creativity.”

  Dex picked up her phone. He sure as hell wasn’t going to sit here and pretend like nothing had happened or let the vile insinuations of the message go uncountered. “I read your text.”

  Her chest puffed up, and for a moment he thought she was going to tell him off for invading her privacy, and to mind his own goddamn business. Both of which he deserved. Instead her shoulders slumped, her smile faded, and she stared morosely into her wine.

  “It’s fine.” She dismissed the matter with a shrug. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Don’t worry about it? Was she crazy? “This date is not some dare.”

  The contortion of disbelief on her face was comical. “Oh, come on, Dex,” she said briskly, her look incredulous. “I saw all your little rugby mates laughing and talking about us and shooting you the thumbs up the other night. It’s okay. I understand how these things go. I was using you, too, to get up Chuck’s nose. So we’re even.”

  “No. You’re wrong,” he said as she took two decent gulps of her wine. “Nobody dared me to ask you on a date.”

  “Okay, sure,” she said. “Maybe they bet you instead. Whatever. There’s no need to get hung up on the semantics.”

  “Nope.” Dex put his hand on his heart. “Absolutely not. No bet.”

  She waved her hand as if it was of no consequence. “So why are we here, then?” she insisted.

  “I heard the way Chuck was talking to you at the game the other night, and I couldn’t stand it.”

  She stared at him for long moments then laughed suddenly, a slight note of disbelief in the sound. “Oh God. I am in a pantomime, and you’re the dashing prince sweeping in to rescue me from my evil stepbrother.”

  “Okay, sure. I can be the dashing prince.” He grinned. “I can be whatever you want.”

  She didn’t seem impressed by his offer. “So I am a pity date. Score one for Anthea.”

  Dex shuddered. No way in hell was that bitch going to score any points on his watch. “No. Trust me, I’d been lusting after you on the sidelines long before that.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him, clearly disbelieving. “So you were going to ask me out, anyway?”

  Dex hesitated. The urge to be honest warring with his need to protect her feelings.

  Ultimately, honesty won out.

  “No.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded triumphantly. “That’s what I thought.”

  “It’s not like that.” Dex reached across the table and slid his hand onto her forearm. “Look…” He sighed. Where to start? “I don’t usually date, all right?”

  She snorted. “Not according to the internet.”

  He grimaced. He knew the kind of photos that floated around the web. Selfies snapped by female fans at matches, and the official engagements and award ceremonies he attended as part of his commitments—contractual and social—to the Sydney Smoke.

  “I haven’t dated any of those women. That just goes with the rugby territory. Official crap.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, taking another long swallow of her wine, displacing his hand in the process. “I saw a couple of very non-official looking ones, too.”

  Dex laughed. “Those aren’
t me. In any way, shape, or form.” He knew about them, though. His head Photoshopped onto some porn star’s body, a twelve-inch schlong ready for action with some busty babe on her knees in front of him.

  Dex wasn’t exactly small in the junk department, but he didn’t want to falsely advertise, either.

  She eyed him for long moments, as if she were disappointed. “So why don’t you date?”

  “Because rugby is my number one priority at the moment. I had to fight hard to play professionally—I was overlooked a lot in my early career.”

  Dex had no desire to bring the mood down again by talking about how difficult it was to pull himself free of the circumstances of his youth and prove himself a worthy contender. He didn’t want her to think he was in it for the money, either, even if the thought of being on the bones of his ass again was highly motivating.

  “But I’m here now, and at thirty I’ve probably only got another few years left in me, playing at an elite level, and relationships are distracting.”

  “But plenty of guys do it. Get married. Have families.”

  “Sure. It works for them. Me?” Dex shook his head. He’d been passed over for selection too often. “I worked too hard to get into the team, and there’s such a narrow career window in professional sports, it has to be my focus. There’ll be time for relationships later.”

  She tipped her head, considering him for a second. “Are you gay?”

  Dex chuckled. “No.” And if he hadn’t been 100 percent sure about it before, then the rounded perfection of Harper’s ass had confirmed it.

  “So you’re just…celibate?”

  She sounded horrified, and he grinned. “Mostly. Occasionally I hook up but…” He shrugged. Having been caught out by one or two clingy women early in his career, Dex had learned to be careful.

  “So you either have a really low sex drive, which is kinda surprising given the amount of testosterone you guys must pump out, or you…spend a lot of time in the shower.”

  The comment surprised a laugh out of Dex. He glanced at her wine—this was her third glass and she was half done with it. “Ah. Now we’re getting to the mouthy bit.”