Byrne turned to the sound of the chorus of male voices. Outside in the sun, the rest of his team, muddy and disheveled in red-and-black, beckoned to him, laughing. No other rugby players wore yellow wristbands.

Byrne acknowledged them with his glass, then tasted what Shea had poured.

The brown liquid disappeared slowly into his mouth. His jaw worked it over for a good four or five seconds. Biting it, chewing it. Savoring it, as it should be done. Then he swallowed it back, his throat working.

Exactly the way she was about to instruct her newbies.

Byrne lifted his eyes to Shea without a hint of pretentiousness or flirting. “Excellent, thank you.” Then, with a nod to the other four people, he swiveled and left her tent.

He had a long stride, masculine but oddly graceful. A leisurely confidence to his gait. He also had ridiculous legs, and she was annoyed with herself for noticing. They were tanned and thick and strong, a distinct pronunciation to his quads. Goddamn it.

Outside, she watched him wiggle off the yellow wristband in a way that would have the organizers rethinking their purchase next year, should they have seen that. Byrne went over to a group of middle-aged adults spreading out a blanket next to the flag rope surrounding the athletic field. He tapped a woman on the shoulder, said something to her, then when she smiled and nodded, he offered her his hundred-dollar wristband.

Then he pulled three more brand-new ones out of his shorts pocket and passed them out to the others. As one of the men reached for his wallet, Byrne waved off any sort of compensation.

The four recipients of the new wristbands slapped them on, and Byrne headed back to his team.

As he passed by the roped-off outdoor seating of the whiskey tent, he turned his head and immediately, instantly found Shea. Found her staring.

She quickly ducked her head and wiped off an already-clean section of her serving table. But not before she caught a final glimpse of that crooked smile, far too bright in the sunshine.

That crooked smile promised a lot. Things she hadn’t allowed herself, or been afforded, to think about in a long, long time. Things that hit her right where she hadn’t been touched in an embarrassing number of months.

It disturbed her, to become disarmed while in uniform, so to speak. It disturbed her more that the man who’d done it was a taster, and quite possibly a Brown Vein. An absolute no-no. He wouldn’t win, though. She wasn’t one to ever back down from a good challenge. He had to know that even though he’d caught her staring, and even though she’d looked away like a virgin schoolgirl, it didn’t mean he’d won, or that he’d gained any sort of ground with her. She had rules to uphold, a business reputation to maintain.

But when she looked up to tell him all that with her cool expression and Stay Back eyes, Byrne was gone.