He drums his fingers along the edge of the table and I lean forward, trying to get some cheese on my plate. “Lot of work in the gym. Lot of work on the pitch. A good diet.”
“I assume it doesn’t include loads of cheese,” I tell him, drizzling the honey on top of my brie.
“Nah, just boring stuff. Chicken breasts, broccoli. It’s not a lot of fun, but at my age, you have to do it if you want to keep playing. When I was younger I could have eaten whatever I wanted.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Thirty-two,” he says, and I’m a little bit surprised. I guess because he looks so manly and distinguished—the lines on his forehead, his scruffy beard—I figured he was in his mid to late thirties. Or maybe it’s his eyes.
I stare at them, even though they are now staring sharply at the fig as he hacks his way into it, as if the fig has done something personal to him. It’s those eyes that trip me up. The eyes of an old soul, of someone who has seen too much, done too much. There’s a war behind them at all times, a war I want to help him win.
“Does that surprise you?” he asks, glancing up at me briefly.
I take a delicate bite of the crostini. “Not really. You just seem more mature than that.”
He scoops out some of the fig and spreads it over the goat cheese and crostini. “In rugby, being in your thirties is asking for trouble. All those years of being hit, all the injuries, the strain. It takes a toll. I don’t know what happened, but when I turned thirty it all started to slip, just a bit.” He offers me the rest of the fig and I take it from his hands, my fingers brushing against his. One simple touch and I feel it travel down the length of my arm, straight to my heart.
Bam. A shower of sparks.
I swallow, trying to ignore the feeling. “How long have you been playing?”
He frowns, eyes squinting in thought. “Twenty-two. Yeah.” He nods. “Ten years.”
I blink, impressed. “That’s a long time. Is that normal?”
“I guess,” he says, pursing his lips, considering. “I’m good at what I do. They need someone fast, someone who will break everyone in their way. That’s my job. But I can’t do it forever. After I fucked up my bloody tendon…I know I don’t have long.”
“You almost make it seem like you’re dying.”
He briefly sucks in his cheeks. “Rugby saved my life. I’m not sure what I’ll do when it’s over.”
“Coach?” I ask him hopefully.
“Nah,” he says, munching on the crostini and leaning back in his chair. When he swallows, he adds, “I’m either in the game, or I’m not. There is no halfway. That’s not how I’m built. Once I’m done, I’m done.”
And when this is over? I think, are we done?
But of course we are…we aren’t even a thing.
“Maybe you’ll just do charity work…for the dogs.”
“Aye,” he says. He reaches for his wine and takes a small sip. He almost puts it back down but takes another gulp, finishing the glass. “I’ll keep doing that. There’s no expiration on helping others. As bloody cheesy as that sounds.”
“That’s not cheesy,” I tell him. “That’s selfless and beautiful.”
“Come now,” he chides me, seeming embarrassed. He looks away, folding his arms across his wide chest, his unreal body stealing my attention again, turning my thoughts back into a sexual whirlwind. Well played, Mr. McGregor, well played.
“What’s the lion tattoo for?” I ask him. “What’s the story?”
That startles him and I can tell it’s a soft spot. “What are you on about?”
I point to his forearm. “There. Lion. See. You said you would tell me some stories. About your tattoos. Why you have them.”
He rakes his teeth over his lower lip and looks me dead in the eye. “Did I now?”
“Yes,” I tell him impatiently. “Last night…maybe this morning. After some good fucking.”
“Ah, yes. That explains it.”
“Well, give me something.”
“If I give you something, will you give me something?”
I can’t help but grin like a fool. “Of course.”
“Okay then.” He pushes his chair back slightly and takes his shirt off, tossing it to the floor beside him. He spreads his legs and pats the crotch of his pants, his gaze absolutely feral. “Have a seat.”
I am lightheaded at the sight of his torso again. I manage to get up, drawn to him like a magnet. I put my hands on the hard breadth of his shoulders and straddle him. We are so close. Our mouths inches away.
He’s breathing hard. I’m breathless.
He’s a wall of muscle and ink. I’m soft, yielding against him.
“So, ask away,” he says, that voice low and rough, yet cashmere cream. That voice I’ll hear in my dreams long after he’s gone.
His eyes never leave my lips.
I lean back to get a better look at him, even though the distance pulls at me. I decide to leave the lion alone for now, and run my fingers over his shoulder, the taut, hard muscle. A storm rages in muted ink, a masterfully shaded old ship with tall sails spreads onto his chest.
“This one,” I say softly. “Why the storm? Why the ship?”
He chews on his lip for a moment, searching my eyes. “I was twenty-four. I backpeddled with life for a bit. I lost my edge in the game. But I pushed through and was better for it. A ship is safe in the harbor, but that’s not what ships are built for.” He tilts his head as if observing me, though I’m the one watching him. “It helps me when I get scared. To keep going.”
“You get scared?” I ask him, unable to picture this strong, powerful man, afraid of anything at all.
“All the time,” he says frankly. “How can life be anything except terrifying at times? We’re born here. We don’t ask for it. And we’re expected to somehow get through it, to live each day without dying. We live, and if we don’t, we die.” He looks away, gives his head a shake. “Nah. We’re all scared, every last one of us.”
I know I am. Of so many things. My heart melts slightly to know that someone like him could feel the same way as someone like me.
I trail my fingers along the text on his collarbone. “Nunquam iterum,” I read out. “Latin, I assume?”
“Yes,” he says slowly, looking away. “It means never again.”
“Never again, what?”
His mouth quirks up into a sour smile. “Never again to a lot of things.”
“Is that all I’m going to get?”
“From that, yes,” he says, finally meeting my gaze again. His pupils are so large, they hypnotize me. “You get one more. Then you’re giving me something.”
I breathe in deeply and look over every inch of him. The lion. “Hope before Death” across his side. A paw print on his inner arm. A flock of ravens swirling into a tribal pattern down one bicep, making a sleeve. A crest with what looks like Latin on the other forearm. Another similar crest on his chest. I press on the one on his chest, with a boar at the center. “Corda. Serrata. Pando,” I say, my finger tracing the words.
“I open locked hearts,” he says.
I still, watching him close. “What?”
“I open locked hearts,” he repeats. “It’s the Lockhart crest. I was born a Lockhart. That is the clan’s motto.”
“Again, that’s terribly romantic,” I tell him. “That must be where you get it from.” I touch his forearm, the other crest. “And I guess this is McGregor?”
“Aye, though it should be MacGregor, or Clan Gregor.”
“'S rioghal mo dhream,” I try to say but stumble over it. “What the hell.”
“Royal is my race,” he translates. He gives me a dry smile. “But I’m not a McGregor and it’s not my race. So that explains a lot.”
I run my hand down the side of his cheek and he briefly closes his eyes. “I think I’d rather you a romantic warrior than one with fussy bloodlines.”
He leans in, slowly opening his eyes, gazing at me through his lashes. “Who said I was a warrior?”