She sidestepped Ford’s lounging hotness and hot-footed it to the door leading into the hotel’s hallway. Since the door didn’t bang shut after she went though, Holly assumed Ford dogged her steps. She assumed right. He stopped beside her at West’s office door, waiting Buddha-patient as she wrestled the damn key into the damn keyhole.
“Nervous?” he asked, bracing a shoulder against the door frame and folding his arms.
She bent over. Brain—instruct fingers to shove in key without jittering in the lock and then twist. Easy. On her third attempt, the locked door clicked open.
“Nope.”
What was there to be nervous about, just because a big, built guy was crowded into your personal space? All his understated hotness not understated, thanks to a peripheral close-and-intimate view of Ford’s new pants. Now that she was almost face to fly with the undisguised and very nice male bulge behind the stone-colored cotton…
Invisible laser beams melted her bones to sloppy marrow.
Holly jerked upright and flung open the door in triumph. She hit the light switch and scooted into West’s office, a cramped room that had nowhere near the breathing space she needed. Should’ve thought to duck out through the kitchen and into the fresh air. Maybe that would’ve cleared her head of lingering bad-girl thoughts.
Hindsight—so helpful.
By the time she’d parked her butt on the edge of West’s desk, Ford had entered after her and shut the door. He lowered himself into one of the deliberately uncomfortable folding chairs West positioned in front of his desk to discourage visitors, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, lacing his fingers together in a classic male I’m listening pose.
“What’s up?”
“It’s about Emily.”
Ford’s expression didn’t change. “Gathered that.”
The edge of West’s desk dug into her butt, and she shifted her hips…freezing when Ford tracked the movement with feline-like interest. A cat spotting the appearance of a small, edible creature.
Really shouldn’t’ve had that last pinot…since it’d screwed with her perception of reality. Or incited an incident of overactive imagination. What wasn’t her imagination, though, was being trapped in an office with some really weird feels zipping around. But the sooner she filled Ford in, the sooner she could get the hell away from him.
So Holly blurted out the boinking-Richie-and-clueless-Doctor-Who-trivia story, finishing with a lame, “Piper insisted I tell you. She’s worried.”
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “What exactly is her worry?” And yours, were his unspoken words.
“That Emily is…misrepresenting herself.” Holly folded her arms with a sigh. “Lying to you, basically.”
“I know she’s lying.”
“Wait—what?” Holly dropped her arms from her chest and gripped the desk edge.
Ford leaned back in the chair. “Over dinner, she told me more tall tales in an hour than even Smitty could come up with in a month.”
“Oh.” What was she supposed to say when Ford knew he’d been lied to yet continued to ogle the woman’s tits over drinkies the last couple of hours? “And you, um, don’t-have-a-problem-with-that?”
Ford’s eyes hooded. “I have more of a problem with you lying.”
“When have I lied?” And where the hell had all the room’s oxygen gone?
Holly stood and stalked away from the desk—all of two paces—until she reached the old-fashioned file cabinet. She braced her back against it, the muscles across her shoulders a solid block of granite, even as her stomach muscles quivered.
“You said you weren’t attracted to me. That we had zero chemistry—which we later disproved.”
Holly licked her lips. Okay, maybe she had been a little untruthful.
Once again, Ford’s gaze honed in on her, this time drawn to her mouth. Something crackled like static electricity between them, something resulting in a crash—nope. That would be Ford knocking over the folding chair as he moved ninja-fast across the room.
Palms braced either side of her shoulders, he leaned in—but his body didn’t touch hers. He was still close enough that her blood pressure rocketed up with the scent of his cologne. Warm breath misted against her neck then puffed on her ear lobe.
“You lied, saying you’d be okay if I fucked other women.”
She inhaled fast, the rush of oxygen making her head spin in carousel circles. Topping the list of things Ford and I don’t discuss was sex. Maybe he talked about his sexual adventures with his male mates, but they’d always kept that topic off the conversation menu. Hearing him say the words was both a turn on and torture.
“When we both know,” he continued in a rough voice, “you’re not okay. That the only woman you want me to fuck…is you.”
The small, needy sound piercing the room’s silence couldn’t be her, could it? Sure it could. As a follow-up to that needy little moan, Holly’s hips swayed forward until they connected with…a very aroused man. The hard length of him jutted into her belly, pressing so deliciously against her that another breathy moan slipped out before she could contain it—or admit Ford hadn’t moved an inch…she was the one rubbing up against him.
Ford dropped his hand from the file cabinet to her hipbone, squeezing it gently then gliding fingers under the hem of her shirt to settle on her bare waist. His thumb traced warm circles on her skin, his breaths more ragged as every second passed—much like hers was. Her breasts were full and heavy, desperate for him to roll the bud of her nipple between his fingers.
He pulled back so their gazes met, soldering together in a blast of pure heat. “I’m not sugar-coating this anymore. I’m done pretending there’s nothing between us when we combusted the moment I kissed you. We’d both go up in flames if I touched you now, and you know it.”
Ford removed his hand from her waist and used the file cabinet to push away. He strode to the folding chair, righting it and then gripping the back. “But I’m on a date with someone else. So I’m not kissing you tonight.”
Holly’s heart pounded so hard she could barely hear him, the blood surging through her hot enough to liquefy the metal against her spine. Her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth, which was a good thing. Because if she spoke, an invitation for Ford to do her right here, right now on the desk, might slip out.
He walked to the door and opened it, tossing a look over his shoulder that should have come with an SPF warning label. “Understand this. If you want me to kiss you again—if you want me to do every dirty, secret thing you’ve imagined me doing to you—then quit lying to us both, and ask for what you want.”
Chapter 11
After a restless night with a boner that wouldn’t quit until he’d taken care of business with a 2:00 a.m. shower, Ford was in no mood to screw around with social niceties.
Up at six, he hit the weights and punished the shit out of the bag then hit the shower again. Since he was supposed to be meeting Emily at eight.
The internal debate lasted for five minutes before he yanked on shorts and a shirt. He’d committed to spending the day with her—a pleasant enough prospect yesterday until he’d realized he’d no idea how much of what the woman told him was fact or fantasy. He may as well burn off some excess fuel on the sports field this morning. Thank Christ it was his dad’s week to play coach-referee combo at the kids’ rugby practice, or he’d run the bunch of six to twelve-year-olds into the ground.
Damp air, chilled with billowy morning fog curling off the ocean, slapped into him as he left the house. He rolled his shoulders under the tee shirt, the skin across his back taut over knotted muscles. As he drew closer to Due South, a whistle and muted shouts drifted toward him from the sports field. His mates would already be there—Ben and Kez watching Zoe and Jade bound over the grass like puppies, Piper and Shaye cheering on their nieces, and likely some or all of the usual gang to round out a small crowd to give the kids a sense of support. His feet itched to carry him past the hotel and onto the muddied grass.
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Before he did, he had an obligation to talk to Emily. They’d parted amicably last night—after Ford spent five minutes in the men’s bathroom splashing icy tap water on his face and waiting for his dick to settle down. She’d come downstairs in a new outfit, which he’d dutifully complimented her on. He’d bought her another wine and then accepted her and the other teams’ congratulations when the Thunderbirds won. The whole time aware that Holly refused to meet his eyes and left shortly after the winning team was announced. Ten kinds of pissed at himself, Ford still managed a veneer of polite interest in Emily’s conversation. To a point. At which time he’d excused himself and gone home. Alone.
Sucking in a deep lungful of briny air, Ford strode into the hotel, rehearsing a variation of the classic “It’s not you, it’s me” speech. Tactfully, he’d omit his suspicions that Emily wouldn’t know the truth if it bit her on the ass, but—
“Ford! In here.”
He stopped just inside the front entrance, his gaze whipping to the restaurant dining room, where Emily sat with Piper and Shaye, leftover breakfast dishes still on the table in front of them.
“Hey.” Ford raised his hand and strolled into the dining room, which was half full of people enjoying breakfast.
Shit. There went his opportunity for a private Dear John spiel.
Emily turned her huge blue eyes to his with the look of a woman who’d been thoroughly grilled both passive aggressively—by Shaye—and not-so-passively by Piper, whose flat stare spoke volumes; Emily had failed Piper’s bullshit detector. And since he stood for these women as another older brother—women he’d break bones, his own and others, to protect—he trusted them to have his back.
“We were trying to convince Emily to join the touch game after the kids are done this morning,” Piper said by way of greeting as Ford swung a dining chair around and straddled it. “Since West says my baby bump’s too big to play anymore, and Shaye and Del can’t get away this week.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said. “Experience some of Stewart Island’s rugby culture.”
Shaye snorted and nudged her sister. “More like mud culture, ay?” Then she swivelled in her seat, widening her green eyes to doe-eyed innocence. “But that won’t worry you, will it Emily? Not after hiking to Machu Picchu in a storm. Now that would’ve been muddy.”
Emily gave Ford a pained smile, her shoulders drooping a fraction. “Touch rugby sounds like fun. I’d love to play.”
Piper snickered, shooting him an evil smirk. “Ford does love a dirty girl, right mate?”
Ford levelled a stare back, and her smirk turned into a wide smile.
“One day in the near future, you’ll be sleep deprived, dressed in mis-matched pajamas and covered in baby puke,” he said. “On that day, I’ll upload a photo of you onto every social media site I can with the hashtag dirty girl.”
“I love that idea,” said Shaye, “so much that I’m going to marry it and have its babies.”
Piper flipped him the bird, her stern cop-face dissolving into giggles. “Fuck off, Ford.”
Emily’s brows puckered inward, darting baffled glances between the three of them.
“I’d better go get changed,” Emily said in a tone that indicated she was willing for someone, anyone, to step in and let her off the hook.
No rescue was forthcoming by either of the Harland sisters or from Ford. You could learn a helluva lot about a person playing a game of touch.
“Great.” Ford stood and slid his chair under the table. “Piper and I will wait outside.”
And after the game, he’d talk to Emily in private.
***
The kids let out unholy squeals of excitement the moment Ford strolled onto the field. The younger ones flung themselves onto his arms and legs, while the older kids demanded explanations of why he’d missed their warm-up.
Ford introduced Emily as his friend who’d come to watch them play and then join in the adults game, but his explanation wasn’t met with much interest or forgiveness. He grinned down at them and ruffled hair, patted shoulders and promised to spring for carrot sticks later—the secret coach code for ice-cream cones from Russell’s Grocery Store.
While Emily helped Piper set up a folding chair, Ford scanned the rest of the small crowd of jacket-and-scarf-wearing locals. The misty damp kept many of the older Oban locals at home—Mrs. T. and her gal-pals were regulars, often bringing home-baked goodies for the kids after their practice. Ben and Kezia passed out water bottles and towels to the kids near a pile of kids’ sports bags and spare rugby balls. His dad was in the centre of the marked rugby pitch, deep in discussion with Noah and Joe. Kip, with his arm around Carly’s waist, stood a short distance from the others, talking to Tarryn the Department of Conservation worker, and Lani—who caught his eye, tilted her head at Emily…and crinkled her nose. Little cousin not liking someone, what a shocker.
He gave her the double-raised-eyebrows greeting, then a flash of blue at the edge of the field caught his eye. Holly. Dressed in a close-fitting, bright-blue tee shirt with a strip of her hair dyed to match. She strode onto the field, warrior princess attitude in every flex of her bare legs. God, to see that view from behind—her curvaceous ass swaying under black sports shorts.
Something cuffed the back of Ford’s head, and his heart jolted.
“Take a photo; it’ll last longer,” Ben growled by Ford’s ear, low enough in volume that only he would hear. “And since when did you have a hard-on for Hol?”
“Hit me again, asshole, and I’ll break off your fingers.” Ford shoulder checked his friend, and ducked out the way of another fake blow.
Ben slanted a glance past Ford’s shoulder, and seemingly satisfied their conversation wouldn’t be overhead, said quietly, “What gives?”
“The women have formed some strong opinions.”
“About—?”
Ben angled his chin to the left, where Emily chugged on her water bottle, keeping her gaze fixed, as if in fascination, on the small changing rooms across the field. Opposite direction to where he and Ben were, in other words.
“Yeah.” Ford folded his arms, mirroring Ben’s body language.
“General consensus is not good?”
“Yep.”
“Doesn’t explain the slo-mo eye-fuck I just witnessed.” Ben angled his chin in the other direction.
Holly stood facing away from them, chatting with Carly, Kip and Lani.
And yes. He couldn’t help but notice her ass did look exceptionally hot from behind.
“Dude.” Ben huffed out a grunt coated in barely restrained humor. “You’re doing it again.”
“Shit.” Ford wrenched his gaze from Holly and studied the grass at his feet.
“The hell?” Ben craned his neck, so he could meet Ford’s eyes. “Now? After all this time? With—” chin jerk in Emily’s direction—“here on a date with the bachelor?”
“I’m not the bloody bachelor. Leave it alone. It’s nothing.”
“Leave it alone?” Ben shook his head. “Me and the guys are gonna enjoy watching you stumble around then fall for Hol like the Berlin Wall.”
Before Ford could come up with a denial that wouldn’t sound overly defensive, his dad blew the referee whistle and kids ran onto the field.
***
After forty minutes of cheering himself hoarse over the kid’s game, Ford lined up with his team of adult touch players on the field. They had no subs this week, so the two mixed male-female teams would play the whole forty minutes. After a simple, boy-picks-girl, girl-picks-boy team selection, his six-player team of Emily, Kip, Taryn, Zach and Kezia were pitted against Ben’s team of Holly, Joe, Carly, Noah and Lani.
Ford had won the ball toss, and at the blast of his dad’s whistle, he sprinted toward Holly, who was playing defence. She rushed him, mouth set, eyes laser-focused on the ball in his hands. He glanced left to Emily, a short distance behind—threw her the ball in an easy pass a hair’s breadth from Holly smacking an open palm on his for
earm.
Emily caught the ball with the finesse of a woman catching a decaying fish head—which is to say, her fingertips briefly touched the ball before dropping it like a hot potato.
So much for her stories of playing on a women’s rugby team all through high school.
Ford forced a no worries smile on his face and backed up the required five meters, so Ben’s team could take possession of the ball. Perhaps Emily’s fumble was a one-off.
By the end of the first twenty minute half, it was pretty damn obvious to every player on both sides that Emily should consider a sport other than touch rugby. Like running for thirty seconds and complaining of stitch. Or standing to one side and cleaning mud out of her fingernails. Or maybe an indoor sport? Like competitive lying-your-bloody-ass-off?
At half time, Ford guzzled three quarters of his water bottle, poured the rest over his head in an attempt to cool himself down—both externally and internally. While Emily’s performance didn’t break the red zone on his annoyance meter, his natural competitiveness was on the rise. Mostly thanks to Ben’s teams’ jibes and mock insults at the score being 10-3, and not in Ford’s favor. That, and the new awareness zinging across the pitch between him and Holly. An awareness that caused his concentration to shift from catch-duck-dodge-run-score-a-try, to admiring the smoothness of her thighs, the damn delight in watching her whoop with laughter when a teammate scored a point…the puzzle of whether she tasted as good as she smelled.
With one final glance at Holly, surrounded by her team and looking flushed and sweaty and sexy-as-hell, he turned to strategize game play with his four teammates…and Emily. Emily, covered in mud splatters and scowling, Emily, who obviously wanted to be anywhere but on the field. The five of them who were committed to kicking ass in the second half exchanged silent but meaningful glances, while Kip—who had more tact than Ford could dredge up—laid out an attack plan based on the other team’s weaknesses with no mention of their own couldn’t-catch-a-ball-if-her-life-depended-on-it dead weight.
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