On the table is a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a cheeseboard topped with brie, cheddar, camembert, figs, jam, honey, and crostini.

“Wow,” I say softly. “You did all this?”

He shrugs, making a dismissive noise. “It was nothing.”

“This is romantic,” I tell him. “I didn’t peg you as a romantic.”

He raises a perfectly arched brow. “Oh yeah? What did you peg me as?” He slowly pours a glass of wine.

I stand there, watching him pour a smaller amount into the other glass. His forearm flexes, the lion tattoo seeming to roar. His forehead is creased with concentration, perhaps in anticipation of my reply. He seems completely at ease with me, but there’s always that wildness in his eyes that never seems to go away. The only time I saw peace in them was after he came last night.

“I pegged you as a man who wouldn’t give me a second glance.”

He gives me a crooked smile and corks the bottle “Well, love, you know that isn’t true.”

I slowly walk toward him, looking up through my lashes like some kind of femme fatale. “Oh, it’s true. You wanted nothing to do with me.”

His look softens for a moment before he heads into the kitchen, grabbing two small plates from the glass cupboards. “I want nothing to do with most people. Never take it personal.”

“Tell that to old Kayla. She had no idea she’d get the chance to put your gorgeous cock in her mouth.”

The plates rattle against the counter. “You do have some mouth on you.”

“Exactly.”

He comes back into the room with his hulking swagger, setting the plates down. He nods at the pushed out seat. “Here. Sit down, please.”

I hook my purse on the corner of the chair and take a seat. Both dogs stare at me from the couch.

“So, how are they?” I ask him.

He looks behind him and I take a moment to appreciate every hardened, strained muscle in his neck and shoulders. “As I said, they’re adjusting.” He sits down and folds his hands in front of him. “Someone is coming by tomorrow to see about adopting Ed. But I think Emily will be coming home with me.”

“Which one is Ed?”

“The pit,” he says.

“Funny, I would have thought he’d be harder to find a home for.”

“Usually. But Ed is a big sweetie, and people in this city are a little more tolerant of bully breeds than people in the UK. Emily, however, as sweet as she looks,” he glances back at the scruffy dog, who immediately bares her teeth at me, “has behavior problems. She’ll need work.”

“And are you the one who teaches them?” I ask. “Because if so, then you are the dog whisperer, which means there’s pretty much nothing you can’t do.”

He looks down at his hands and gives a lazy one-shouldered shrug. “I found Lionel on the streets in Edinburgh. I was able to teach him. Maybe he taught me some things. You never know with dogs. But…it takes a special kind of person to train dogs, especially those who have been through trauma and abuse. I am not that kind of person. I will do whatever I can to save them, but I’m not the person who can school them on obedience.”

“Really?”

A quiet, almost uncomfortable smile tugs at his lips. “A dog with behavioral problems shouldn’t learn from someone with behavioral problems.”

I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. “Oh,” I say, trying to think of the right thing to say. “You just seem like a natural. These two were strays, and now look at them. Just like that.”

“I can get the dogs to trust me,” he says in a low voice. “Because I trust them. But I can’t get them to trust others.”

“Because you don’t trust people?”

He slowly blinks and then reaches for the stem of his wine glass. “I think I may trust you. Here’s to that.”

“Here’s to that,” I say, raising my glass and clinking it against his. I’m more than meeting him in the eyes—I’m diving in the green and grey. They seem darker somehow, moving shadows. Depthless. Behavioral problems? What kind? How much more can I learn about him before he’s gone?

I take a gulp of my wine and he barely touches his. Just a small sip, then puts the glass back down and pushes it away from him.

“I’ve never seen you drink much,” I tell him, hoping my tone is easy enough so he won’t take offense.

He gives me a long, measured look before he licks his lips and looks away. “No, I don’t.”

“Because of training,” I say, giving him an easy way out.

A slow nod. “Yes.”

He’s still not meeting my eyes. His focus is on the cheeseboard, and even though he’s not frowning like he usually is, his shoulders seem tense.

“What other things do you have to do for training?” I ask. I feel like we’ve regressed a little bit and I want that sexy, casual banter back.

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.