Jock Reign: Jock Hard Book 5

by Sara Ney

  “Giving you a bite would be like sharing a toothbrush.”

  “I’d share my toothbrush with you,” he informs me, holding out a sausage for my perusal—as if that serves as an explanation or justification.

  “I would never share a toothbrush with you, either.” He needs to stop staring at my breakfast wrap with that look in his eye.

  “Why not?”

  I bite into my food, rolling my eyes. “We’re not actually having this conversation right now, are we?”

  “Sure, but only because you’re being difficult.”

  I wipe the side of my mouth with the napkin—procured from my lap—and chew.

  “Listen, why don’t we flag the server down and order you your own. You’re obviously still hungry.”

  The sausages are gone.

  “I don’t want an entire wrap, I just want a bite. Or two.”

  “Oh, now you want two?”

  His wide shoulders rise then fall. “I’m hungry.”

  I don’t dare set this wrap down on my plate and leave it unattended; the way he’s watching it now—like a hawk—leads me to believe he’d snatch it from under me and devour it without my permission.

  “Clearly.” I look at him again with a raised brow. “You know, I came here to work.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” he says sociably, pleasant smile pasted on his handsome face.

  He hasn’t shaved this morning, whiskers peppering his skin in an attractive way. Call me crazy, but I love a man with a five o’clock shadow.

  I clear my throat. “There is no way I’m putting this down so I can start drawing. I don’t trust you.”

  “Don’t trust me? I’m not doing anything!” He sounds positively affronted.

  “Yet.”

  “You don’t want to give me a bite. I’m a big boy—I can handle the rejection.”

  “I’m not rejecting you. I just don’t want your germs all over my breakfast.”

  Jack scoffs loudly. “I barely have any saliva in my mouth. It’s not like I’m a walking Petri dish.”

  That makes me laugh, and I almost give in.

  Almost.

  “Jack, just order yourself one and stop staring at mine. It’s not going to happen for you today.”

  “I won’t eat it. I just want the one bite—why are you being so difficult?”

  “Why are you being so difficult?”

  “Would you stop repeating everything I say?”

  “I’m not the one repeating everything you say. You’re the one repeating everything I say.”

  Duh.

  He screws up his face. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

  I raise the wrap to my mouth and take another bite, disappointed that it’s already begun to get cold. I’m not eating it fast enough, and now I’m losing my appetite.

  I eyeball his scones but don’t dare take one.

  Unfortunately, he notices me noticing.

  “Trade you?” He holds his out, the one he’s been gnawing on this entire time we’ve been talking.

  “I do not want your soggy, half-eaten scone.” It’s hard not to laugh at him, but I manage.

  Barely.

  “Soggy?” Jack inspects his baked good with a scrupulous eye. “No it’s not.”

  If he starts in again with his spiel about saliva, I will lose it. Absolutely die laughing.

  Jack drops the blueberry nugget to his plate unceremoniously. Dejectedly. “You won’t share your burrito, you don’t share your toothbrush, you don’t want a bite of my scone.” His sigh is defeated. “What do you share?”

  I can’t take him seriously.

  I also can’t eat this half-cold breakfast wrap I so greedily withheld from him before.

  Extending my hand, I present it to him. “Here. Have a bite.”

  Jack leans back in the seat, crossing his arms.

  My eyes drift, of their own accord, from his face…down to his shoulders…down to those crossed arms.

  Biceps.

  They look…firm. And strong. And…

  I have no idea how to describe them. I know nothing about working out and being in shape and muscles, although I do quite all right for myself physically.

  Do British guys have bodies like this? What are they feeding him where he comes from?

  I dare to find out. “So Jack—where in England are you from?”

  “Sussex. Less than an hour from London.”

  I’ve never been to England, though I have been to Europe. It’s definitely a place I’d love to see, but I can’t imagine when on earth I’ll be able to visit.

  Trips overseas don’t come around often—or ever—and the only reason I’ve been across the pond is because my grandmother is from Sicily and we went over to Italy for a wedding when I was young.

  I was ten and remember some things but not enough. I wish I’d paid more attention. Wish I could have appreciated it for what it was while I was there, none of my photographs doing any of it justice.

  I sigh. “You don’t want it now?”

  I’m still holding—nay, dangling the wrap over the center of the table, its cold, lifeless shell no longer alluring to Jack though I’m doing my best to make it appealing.

  “What did you do to it?” He sounds stodgy.

  “Nothing. I’ve been sitting here staring at you this whole time. What could I have possibly done to it?” I shift in my seat, wondering what I can order off the menu that won’t take forever to prepare. “I will admit, it’s not that warm anymore.”

  His look is triumphant, arms still crossed. “Ah—so you’re tossing off because it’s cold.”

  Er. Sure.

  What he said.

  “Yes or no?”

  He falters, wanting the breakfast wrap but not wanting to admit it. Jack is stubborn; I can see it in his dark eyes as he watches me, lips slightly pursed indignantly.

  “Are you still hungry?”

  He shifts in his seat. “I might be.”

  “You know, if you’re not going to eat this, then I’ll just—”

  I don’t even get the rest of the sentence out before he snatches it out of my hand and takes the first bite, chewing the massive piece he’s torn off with his teeth.

  “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

  “No.” He manages to swallow. “I learned my manners from nannies and…” Jack pauses, taking another bite. Chews. Swallows. “At boarding school. Not really Mum.”

  Mum.

  I’d forgotten they call their mothers Mum in Britain, and I love the way it sounds. So romantic and different.

  For a brief moment, Jack stops eating, taking a second to scrutinize the food in his clutches. “I don’t think I like this very much. Tastes like chalk and dog kibble.”

  He pops it into his mouth.

  “Then stop eating it.”

  He’s like that little kid who can’t stop poking their own scab because it hurts.

  “I can’t.” Chew, chew. “I’m hungry.”

  There is no chance in hell I’m going to accomplish anything sitting across from this guy—he is so disruptive, and not necessarily in a bad way.

  Entertaining.

  Funny.

  Likes comics, too, apparently…

  And Kaylee—don’t forget, he likes your roommate too.

  I sit up straighter, remembering that little fact, plucking a menu from between the salt and pepper at the end of the booth. I study it anew.

  I already know everything that’s on it—I’ve been here too many times.

  But, if my nose is in the menu, it’s not busy learning to like Jack and getting to know him when all I really have to know is that he is interested in Kaylee.

  Before I know it, the entire breakfast entrée is gone, Jack having devoured it in less than one minute flat. He’s actually licking his fingers despite the fact that he just told me it was disgusting.

  That doesn’t negate the fact that I still have barely eaten anything and I’m still hungry. I decide on somethi
ng to order and raise my gaze, hoping to catch the server as she weaves her way through the crowded café.

  Luckily she’s paying attention and is damn good at her job so she makes her way over from across the room. I notice her eyes straying to Jack with interest; it’s obvious she’s attracted to him. And who wouldn’t be? He’s so handsome. Like a modern-day lumberjack flown in from Great Britain just for us! Minus the plaid and axe.

  Bet if we put him in an axe throwing bar, he would fit right in though…

  I order an omelet.

  Healthy. Light.

  “An omelet?” Jack snorts. “That’s boring.”

  “We can’t all gorge ourselves on baked goods first thing in the morning.”

  “First thing? Half the day is gone!”

  Uh, not for me!

  I’ve never been an early riser, and today is the weekend so I felt no rush waking up. No classes, no extracurricular activities, nowhere to be. Why wouldn’t I sleep late? It’s not like I have anyone to be accountable to. I have a job, but it’s part time, and my shifts are usually in the afternoons if I’m scheduled at all, so I never have to rush around in the morning.

  Life is good.

  I exhale contently.

  Try to focus on my laptop while Jack sits across from me doing his best to distract me, wanting to chat and screw around when my purpose for coming here today was to work. He can’t possibly know that because I haven’t told him what I’m working on, but the laptop and notebook and pen should be an indication that I’m here to get shit done.

  Pausing, I raise my eyes again. “How is your day half done? What time did you wake up?”

  I’m curious to know.

  “Five?” His shrug is all kinds of nonchalant. “Had practice this morning at the arse crack of dawn. Bloody painful.”

  “Practice or waking up that early?”

  “Both.” He fidgets.

  “Did you get hurt?” I look him over, checking for injuries, and find none exposed to my gaze.

  “Not physically painful—emotionally.”

  That makes me laugh. Emotionally painful? “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Jack tips his head back, resting it on the seat behind him, emitting a loud groan. “I’m shite at rugby, and going to practice gives me anxiety.”

  Hold up.

  What? I’m not sure what questions to ask first, but I’m sensing there’s something here.

  “Why does going to practice give you anxiety?” Is he joking or being serious? It’s hard to tell.

  “Uh—I just told you. Because I’m rubbish at rugby.”

  How can he be rubbish at rugby when he’s so huge? Don’t they live for that sort of thing? Aren’t big dudes usually good at everything they do?

  Or am I just stereotyping him?

  “How can you play rugby and be rubbish at rugby?”

  Is it just me, or am I loving that word? I’ve said it twice already and want to repeat it over and over…

  “I didn’t play it growing up—I played other sports.”

  “Which other sports? Soccer?” Aren’t they big on that overseas?

  “No, not football.” Jack begins picking at the paper napkin still placed in his lap. “Water polo. Cricket.”

  Uh. If those aren’t the crustiest, most snotty-sounding sports I’ve ever heard of…

  “Lacrosse,” he goes on. “Polo. Horseback riding.”

  I try to imagine this large, imposing guy on a horse and fail miserably. That poor horse! Jack must be as tall as one would be! Unless it’s a draft horse?

  “So how did you wind up coming here and playing rugby if you’re so bad at it?”

  “My brother Ashley is dynamo at it. Just brilliant. The blokes here love him, and I thought it would be a great way to meet people.”

  Surely there are other ways than pretending to be good at something. I may be naïve here, but I wasn’t under the impression you could just waltz onto a university sports team unless you excel at it.

  But what do I know? I just sketch and draw and tinker in a doodle pad.

  “So you felt pressured to play because your brother plays?” I know something about sibling rivalry because my older brother Kip is an amazing person whom everyone absolutely adores. Throughout high school, I always felt like I was living in his shadow—teachers loved him, parents loved him. Everyone knows who he is and respects him.

  I wanted to be my older brother, as funny as that sounds.

  Perhaps that’s how Jack feels about his brother Ashley.

  Ashley.

  I roll the name around in my brain for a little bit, an incredibly British name for a guy. I decide I love it. Decide it sounds more masculine than feminine. Very cool.

  For another brief moment, I also wonder what Ashley is like, if they resemble each other physically…not that I’m ever likely to discover the answer.

  “Did I feel pressured to play because my brother plays? Absolutely. And I bloody regret it because I’m complete shite.” Jack drops his shoulders and his head dejectedly.

  Awww.

  “Why don’t you just quit? Do something else. I’m sure there’s a water polo team somewhere—why not do that?”

  It seems like a no-brainer for him to go do something he loves instead. I just don’t understand why he would subject himself to the torment of a sport he clearly does not enjoy at all.

  “I’m a Dryden-Jones. We do not quit.”

  Uh. “What’s a Dryden-Jones?” Is that the name of a team?

  Jack stares at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “Dryden-Jones is my surname.”

  “Your surname?”

  He glances up when the server comes over with my omelet, picking up his fork, ready to attack.

  Oh no he is not about to eat my other entrée…

  No.

  “Surname,” he repeats. “You know—my last name?”

  I feel my face flushing. “Gosh, I’m sorry. The hyphen threw me off. I don’t think I’ve met anyone with a name like that.” I’m a dumbass and need to stop talking.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Jack says.

  “How could you possibly know what I’m thinking?”

  He begins eye-fucking my breakfast for the second time this morning. “Well whatever it is, you’re wrong. I’m not forcing myself to play rugby because my brother plays rugby. I am—”

  “Forcing yourself to play rugby because your brother plays rugby?”

  The expression he makes has me giggling, the wry set of his mouth a telltale giveaway.

  “Fine. So maybe I am playing because it’s what my brother loved. And okay, maybe I do want to be just like him when I grow up.” He laughs. “What younger brother doesn’t?”

  When he grows up? How much bigger does he expect to get? The man is already a giant. Adorably huge but apparently gentle.

  “Listen, I have an older brother and I want to be just like him too, and I’m a girl.”

  “Must be a decent bloke.”

  He is.

  “You have no interest in playing anything else? What about intramural volleyball? You’re certainly tall enough for it.” I eyeball him. “How tall are you anyway?”

  “Hundred ninety-five centimeters.” He grins. “I’m not sure what that is in American. I’m terrible at math.”

  Jack winks.

  I’m not sure what the wink means.

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “You’re right, I’m amazing at math.” He laughs, tipping back his head, almost forcing me to stare at his throat. “I’m six foot four. Trust me, I learned the conversion pretty early on—it was something everyone asked, and I knew I’d better know the answer. Americans don’t seem to take well to other cultures and customs. They expect everything to be on their own time and their own terms.”

  I know this to be true.

  I’ve seen House Hunters International plenty of times, and I’m always triggered by the way Americans behave in foreign countries. Wanting full-size applianc
es when there is no room for full-size appliances in the teeny-tiny, three-hundred-year-old French flat that’s within their shoestring budget.

  But I digress…

  “The omelet is getting cold,” he tells me, changing the subject back to food.

  I change the subject back to rugby. “You don’t honestly think anyone is comparing you to your brother, do you?”

  “No—I think everyone is comparing me to my brother.” He chuckles. “Kind of like Wills and Harry, and look how that ended.”

  Wills and Harry?

  Oh, duh—the two princes from England.

  “William and Harry are not dead yet,” I point out. “They can change the ending to that story.”

  “Perhaps.” Jack has a fork in his hand, and I wonder what he thinks he’s going to do with it. Very suspect.

  Very shady.

  The utensil gets twirled between his fingertips masterfully.

  “So.” I cut into my eggs, ignoring Jack’s rude ogling. How can he be hungry when he just polished off my first order, his order, and who knows what else he ate when he woke this morning? “Explain to me again why you can’t just quit and do something else? It makes no sense why you’d put yourself through all that misery for the sake of…”

  I need him to fill in the blank, but he’s watching me blankly.

  “For the sake of…” I prompt him. “Offff…”

  “My mates?”

  “Your mates.”

  “Yeah—I have mates because of rugby.” The fork, I notice, has encroached precariously close to my plate, so I pull it back a few inches toward me.

  “You can find mates anywhere. All you have to do is join an activity—or not sit in your dorm room all day.”

  “Don’t live in the dorms.”

  His intention is one hundred percent to stab my food with that fork. No doubt in my mind.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I knew what you mean.” He scrunches up his face. “Knew what you meant. Der.”

  “Wow. You sure have picked up some terrible habits since living here. Did your nannies teach you it’s okay to swipe food off someone else’s plate?”

  He pulls his arm back, affronted. “I was doing no such thing.”

  “Not yet, but you were going to. I thought they taught you better table manners than that in England.”

  “They did—they do. But I’m hungry.”

  “So you keep saying.” More egg goes into my mouth. “How bad are we talking here—at rugby, I mean. How terrible are you?”