The Player and the Pixie
Page 65

When it was time to pay the bill, I had Ronan’s credit card at the ready while the ladies put on their coats to move on to the next venue in Temple Bar. I slid my arm through Annie’s and we chatted about her jitters for the big day. It was as we were wandering down the cobbled streets that I heard a few recognizable hoots and laughter.
We’d crossed paths with the stag party.
Tom, having come home to be Ronan’s best man, had been the one to organize it, but I thought they’d go someplace boring, like the rugby clubhouse or an old codger’s pub. Before I knew what to think about this unexpected turn of events, the hens had mixed in with the stags, everybody drunk as a skunk, and I knew there’d be no separating them.
“Annie dearest,” came Ronan’s voice as he extracted Annie’s arm from mine and folded her into his embrace. She protested at first but then started giggling, and before long, the two were canoodling like a pair of lovesick teenagers.
I would have been grossed out if I hadn’t been a mess of anticipation and nerves, unconsciously searching the horde of muscular rugby players for one in particular.
In the end, I felt him before I saw him. I felt his familiar presence and when I looked up I found Sean standing a couple feet away, leaning against the outside wall of the pub, his gaze on me.
I shivered, unable to tear my eyes away, hungry for the sight of him.
He smirked, his eyes traveling over my silly outfit.
I scowled—mostly for self-preservation, because God forbid I be caught dreamily staring at my brother’s nemesis—and glanced around to make sure nobody was looking as I mouthed, what?
He just kept on grinning like he couldn’t get enough of the sight of me. My chest felt airy with anticipation and I was barely able to meet his gaze as it transformed from amused to intense.
With that single look I knew, regardless of my best intentions and weeks of espousing the benefits of distance, Sean and I were far from over.
Chapter Seventeen
@SeanCassinova Throw me a goddamn parade.
@THEBryanLeech to @SeanCassinova You mean a pity party?
@SeanCassinova to @THEBryanLeech Go fuck yourself.
@THEBryanLeech to @SeanCassinova Too late :-D
*Sean*
“That’s a bad idea,” Bryan said, standing next to me, a lurking pariah. Clearly, he’d noticed the mutual eye ogling between Lucy and me.
I responded without sparing my teammate a glance. “If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it.” I hadn’t seen Lucy in weeks, and was hungry for the sight of her. I wasn’t craving goody-goody censure from our team’s bad egg.
Well . . . the other bad egg.
“First his girlfriend, now his sister? Tsk,” Bryan tut-tutted, though his tut-tutting was slurred and sloppy. “Why don’t you lay off, eh? It’s his feckin’ wedding. Give him a bloody break, ferchissakes.”
Most of our teammates were pissed—some more than others—yet I wasn’t even buzzed. I’d made a conscious decision to maintain my sobriety. I’d meant it when I’d texted Lucy that I didn’t want to make things hard for her with her brother. If I’d drunk to excess then I was liable to do just that.
I’d lost count of the number of times I’d nearly announced my intentions to claim Lucy as my own. But I hadn’t, not yet. Instead, I’d bitten my tongue or excused myself.
Basically, I’d been a saint.
“Not everything is about Mother Fitzpatrick,” I mumbled, though I hadn’t yet looked away from Lucy. But then she hadn’t yet looked away from me. An enchanting smile still lingered on her lips and behind her eyes.
Christ, I’d missed her. The last month had been the longest of my life.
Aside from the first two weeks after my departure, we’d texted every day but she’d never sent a picture of herself, always memes or shots of arseholes coming on to her, purposefully misspelling her name on coffee cups. I’d missed seeing her. I’d almost asked her to send a picture, but she’d drawn a line before I left. A line I didn’t know how to cross without storming over it and begging her on my hands and knees to give this—us—a chance.
In other words, I didn’t know how not to be a fool with Lucy Fitzpatrick. And oddly, I didn’t care.
Nevertheless, I had no pictures of her or of us together, a sad fact I planned on remedying as soon as possible.
“You’re a fecking eejit.” Bryan chuckled, forcefully pushing my shoulder.
“Am I?”
He didn’t respond at once and I sensed his inebriated attention shift away from me, several seconds passing before he admitted, “She’s hot.”
“She’s beautiful.” My declaration a pointed contradiction to his underwhelming assessment.
Bryan nodded, presumably now inspecting Lucy with a critical eye. “Pretty in an odd, freaky sort of way.”
My frown was immediate, hating his description, but I maintained my hold on Lucy’s gaze.
She wasn’t odd. She was unique.
She wasn’t freaky. She was free-spirited.
She was enchanting.
Breathtaking.
Wonderful.
Perfect.
And if we didn’t stop staring at each other we would soon be drawing more attention than just Bryan Leech’s inebriated opinions.
But Lucy was no longer smiling at me. Her gaze had intensified, grown solemn, almost tortured. She felt the pull—of that I was certain. Now, if only I could arrange for a well-timed push . . .
Bryan snorted inelegantly, interrupting my thoughts. “It doesn’t matter if she looks like Helen of bleedin’ Troy. That bird is off limits—off limits to me, to all these other arsehole wankers here, and most especially off limits to you.”