Playing it Cool (Sydney Smoke Rugby) (3 page)

“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.

“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.”

“Have I shocked you?”

“Not at all. It’s just that…and this may be because I don’t chit-chat with a lot of women…masturbation isn’t a topic I usually discuss with them.”

“Why not? You discuss it with the guys, right?”

Dex shifted uncomfortably in his seat. All this talk about wanking was having a predictable effect. “Well, we might smack talk about it, but we don’t sit around in the locker room having a serious discussion about how many times we did it the night before.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “How
many
times?”

Heat rose in Dex’s cheeks as he thought about how often in the last few days he’d tugged one off thinking about Harper.
Christ.
He’d been like a horny teenager all over again.

“Why, Dexter Blake, I do believe you’re blushing. For a man who unashamedly read one of my private texts, I think it’s a little late to come over all prudish now!”

She was grinning at him, obviously enjoying herself, and he relaxed. As far as Dex was concerned, it was a vast improvement on the shimmer of tears that goddamn text had caused.

And two could play at that game. Clearly they’d both given up on the whole painting lark.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, you want to talk masturbation? I’m up for that. But you’re talking to an expert here.”

Her lips quirked, dragging his gaze south to their full, glossy pillows. “Expert, huh?”

“A Jedi,” he deadpanned.

She laughed, but it was husky, the sound going straight to his balls. “A Jedi?”

He nodded. “Obi-
frickin
-wan, baby.”

“What makes you think I’m not an expert?”

Dex tried
really
hard not to think about Harper lying gloriously naked on a bed touching herself. He failed. His cock surged to life, enjoying the visual.

“After all,” she continued, winking at him. “I get to use props.”

Another visual exploded into his brain. Harper gloriously naked on a bed touching herself, a light-sabre shaped dildo jammed to the hilt inside her.

Christ. He
really
liked her mouthy.

Ignoring the image, he pressed on. “Experts practise every day. When was the last time you did it?”

“Last night,” she said, firing her response without even blinking. “You?”

He smiled triumphantly. “This morning. What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

“Lately?”

No. Every single time. God, he wanted every single dirty detail. But if she was the expert she professed, then that could take a while. He shrugged. “Sure.”

“You.”

Bam!
Dex’s cock almost burst through his zipper. She might as well have leaned over and shoved her hands down his pants.

She’d been fantasizing about
him
when she touched herself.

She grinned then like she knew
exactly
the affect that little bombshell had on him. “What about you, Dex?” she purred. “What’s in your spank bank?”

“Lately?” he mimicked.

“Sure,” she parried.

“Your ass.”

She frowned, looking unsure of herself for the first time. “My…ass?”

“Oh yeah,” he murmured, his dick twitching. “You have a
spectacular
ass.”

She frowned as if the statement had genuinely confused her. “
My
ass?”

Dex grinned at her lack of understand. “
Your
ass. I think I’ve developed a completely unnatural obsession with it.”

“Oh…” Light finally dawned in her eyes. “You’re one of
those
guys.”

“Those guys?”

“All about the bass.”

“I am,” Dex chuckled. “I really am.”

“I’ve heard about your sort but thought you were just some kind of mythical beast. Like a unicorn.”

Dex wondered if maybe he should be affronted by being compared to such a girly creature. He’d have preferred dragon. “Oh, we’re real baby. Give me a woman with hips and boobs, thighs you can crack nuts with and an ass I can grab hold of, and I am a happy man.”

“Hmm, that’s funny,” she murmured, dropping her head to the side a little as she inspected him. “None of those women I saw you pictured with seemed to fulfill
any
of that criteria.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “They’re normally just chicks the WAGS are trying to set me up with.”

“So you’re using them?”

“No. They’re usually using
me
.”

Dex could say that with absolute conviction. He was polite and gentlemanly. Hell, he was
charming
. He showed them a good time, and they were more than happy to have their selfies to take to work on Monday morning, or to post to their Facebook pages and imply a hell of a lot more than what had really happened with Dexter Blake, Sydney Smoke front-rower.

Dex didn’t mind. It was all part of the unspoken deal. They had a splash of celebrity, and he got to keep his focus.

“And you haven’t slept with
any
of them?”

He shook his head. As far as he was concerned, they’d all been very nice, but he’d only ever looked at them as props. A plus-one to an event he had to attend. Dex could put his hand on his heart and tell Harper with complete honesty that he’d never crossed that line.

Even though many had tried.

“Nope. Not a one.”

Her face blanked out in apparent disbelief for a moment before she laughed, shaking her head at him. “Wow. You really
must
wank a lot.”

Dex laughed, too. It felt good to know that he’d helped banish that stricken look from earlier, even if his brain was slowly dying from lack of adequate blood supply.

A clapping sound interrupted their laughter. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, time to put the paintbrushes down and share your masterpieces with your group.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “So what have you got?”

Dex glanced at the canvas filled with a giant pink mouth. The paint was still wet giving it the glossiness that had kept him awake at nights. It kinda looked like the toddler version of a Rolling Stones album cover.

“It’s no Michelangelo,” he murmured as he spun it around for Harper to see.

Her eyes darted over his offering. “It’s a little pop-artish,” she mused, “but not bad for someone who can’t draw a stick figure.”

Her compliment went straight to his dick. “I had the right inspiration.” Her mouth—
her addictive mouth
—curved upward into a sexy smile, and that went straight to his dick, too.