Playing By Her Rules (Sydney Smoke Rugby Series)

by Amy Andrews

  “Grab on tight to those you love and never let them go,” she said, patting Matilda on the arm as she shuffled past.

  Matilda watched her grandmother disappear inside before turning to face the back yard and that damn shed. Did she still want Tanner as fiercely as she had that day?

  Absolutely.

  But sex wasn’t love. No matter how much her grandmother wanted it to be so.

  Chapter Eight

  As good as his word, Tanner was back in half an hour with not just pre-fabricated railings and balustrading but a bunch of different shiny new tools as well—a hammer, a drill, a nail gun, a spirit level, a builders tape measure, and assorted screws and nails. Just under three hours later, Hannah was in possession of a brand spanking new wooden railing that looked sturdy enough to last another sixty-odd years.

  Matilda was incredibly touched. Tanner Stone, elite rugby player, worshipped by men and women alike all around the country, who could have been anywhere today celebrating his team’s win yesterday, had knuckled down like an ordinary Joe and fixed her grandmother’s porch.

  It was pretty damn hard to stay mad at a man who was being so damn sweet.

  “Now, where’s that paint?” he asked Hannah.

  “Tanner,” Matilda protested. “You don’t have to paint it as well.” It was getting close to five and they’d already monopolised his company long enough.

  Not to mention the acute case of horniess she was coming down with at the sight of Tanner wielding a power drill and a nail gun.

  “It’s in the shed,” Hannah supplied, clearly not worried about monopolising Tanner’s time. In fact, she’d bent his ear about one thing or another the entire afternoon while plying him with cold drinks and insisting Matilda act as his lackey.

  Pushing her closer and closer to Tanner and his tools.

  “It’s no bother,” he said, grinning at Hannah. “There’s still a good couple of hours of sunlight. Should be able to get that first coat on, anyway, especially if Tilly helps.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Whaddya reckon? Many hands and all that stuff, and you can interview me as we go.”

  Matilda hesitated, but it seemed churlish to not be willing to paint her own grandmother’s porch railing. “Okay…sure.”

  Hannah took him down to the shed and the two of them disappeared for a couple of minutes before reappearing with some paint cans and brushes. Tanner set them down on the patio as Hannah kept going into the house. He used a screwdriver to pry the lids off.

  “She wants the railing this federation green colour and the balustrading white.” He handed Matilda a brush and the green paint. “You do the hand rail. I’ll tackle the uprights.”

  Hannah re-joined them, carrying an old button up shirt. “Here, sweetie,” she said to Matilda, “this will protect your dress.” She glanced at Tanner. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything big enough for you.”

  “No worries,” Tanner said, lifting his arms and yanking up the shirt from the back, pulling it over his head without removing the buttons, and tossing it on the nearby chair. “I’ll just go without.”

  Matilda’s mouth ran dry as her gaze devoured the hard smoothness of his chest and abs, the breadth of his shoulders, and the meaty bulk of biceps decorated in green inky thorns. Daily training session had honed the body of his youth into that of a man.

  A very fit man.

  Hannah winked at her granddaughter. “I’ll leave you two to it. The gardening show’s on the telly now, and I hate to miss it.”

  Matilda tore her gaze from Tanner’s frame to glare at her grandmother’s retreating back. She knew for a fact her grandmother hated the gardening show.

  She shoved her arms through the old shirt and did up the buttons with fingers that trembled uselessly. How the fuck was she going to concentrate on painting when all she really wanted to do was take that brush to his body?

  “Have you got your recorder thingy?” he asked as he sat at the far end of the porch.

  Did she? Matilda thought hard through a haze of lusty thoughts. Yes, in her bag. “It’s inside,” she said. “I’ll just go grab it.”

  As soon as she was safely in the house, Matilda sagged against the wall and prayed for strength. And it wasn’t just about his body, although God knew it was hard enough to resist when he was fully clothed. What was even more dangerous was the mellowing of her antipathy after his work here today. If she started to thaw on that front, it would be just a short, slippery slope to his arms.

  And she didn’t want to be another in his conga line of women. She wasn’t someone who could separate sex from a relationship—especially not where Tanner was concerned.

  He’d move on and she’d be screwed.

  And not in the good way.

  Thirty minutes later, she’d successfully managed to ignore the flash of wide shoulders in her peripheral vision as she asked Tanner questions about his early days with the Smoke whilst simultaneously creating a work of art that could have been displayed in the Louvre. She’d painstakingly painted the curved surface, taking her time, knowing that sooner or later she and Tanner were going to be meeting somewhere in the middle as he worked his way toward her from his end and then she’d no longer be able to ignore him.

  And that time was now. They were close enough so that his elbow occasionally brushed her leg.

  “Swap you,” he said, placing his paint can out of reach as he rose easily to his feet, towering over her all of a sudden, his shoulders and chest a big block of muscle dazzling her gaze.

  Beneath the harsh chemical smell of paint, she caught a warm undertone of ouzo. He was so close that if she wanted, she could reach out and touch him. Hell, with her head where it was, she could just lean in and lick a nipple. They were right there, two to choose from, flat and brown, with the steady thump of his heart beating between them.

  Matilda dragged in a breath, her own heart beating double as she forced herself to take a step back, to look up into his eyes. Neither of them said anything for long moments, just stared at each other like they couldn’t get enough.

  “You have some paint on your face,” he said finally, his voice deep and low like the purr of a jungle cat.

  It was just what Matilda needed. “I do? Where?” She’d been careful, but paint did have a habit of splashing. She raised the back of her wrist to her face, rubbing first one cheek then the other. “Has it gone?”

  He shook his head. “You missed a spot,” he said, dabbing his paintbrush against her nose. Matilda gasped as she automatically rubbed at it.

  “And here, too,” he said, smiling this time as he painted a stripe down the side of her neck.

  Matilda reared back, trying to avoid another swipe of the paintbrush down the bare flat of her forearm, almost succeeding as she grabbed the railing behind her.

  “Shit,” she swore, as wet paint greeted her. She brought her hands up to inspect the damage, then, holding them out to him, showed him his handiwork. “This is your fault.” She glanced at her handprints on the rail. “And I’m going to have to repaint that.”

  He had the gall to laugh. “No way, dirty girl. You grabbed the rail all by yourself.”

  The way he said dirty tipped the situation into dangerous territory. The protest died on her lips as something dark and illicit tugged at her throat and thickened her breath.

  She dragged in some air as the broad span of his shoulders taunted her. “You mean like this?”

  Matilda grabbed his chest, slapping both palms flat on his pecs, smearing green paint all over them, grinding deliberately hard over his nipples, watching her handiwork with fascination, conscious of the catch in his breath.

  “There,” she announced, wiping her hands down his abs before finally dropping them to her sides. “That’s better.”

  He looked down at himself, and Matilda followed suit, taking great satisfaction in the pattern of the dark green smear. Her gaze snagged on his nipples and the way the paint had stained them a darker shade of brown. The illicit thrill of a moment ago r
eturned, and she salivated as the urge to suck them clean rode her hard.

  Would his breath hitch if she did?

  Would it drag a moan from his throat, so temptingly close?

  But, no. That would be crazy. Not to mention possibly detrimental to her health. She flicked her gaze to his, hoping he couldn’t read her mind. Then he’d know just how dirty this girl really was.

  His mouth kicked up on one side. “I guess I deserved that.”

  Matilda smiled sweetly. “Fucking A, you did.”

  And somehow it broke the ice. They crossed over positions and went back to their painting, but there was an ease between them now. It felt more like they were having a conversation instead of an interview as the topics switched back and forth from rugby to her job and Hannah’s antics over the years.

  Hell, Matilda even found herself laughing. And that wasn’t so natural given how badly she still wanted to lick his chest clean.

  Once they were done, Tanner put the paint away and they cleaned the brushes and themselves off with turpentine he’d found in the shed.

  Hannah joined them, nodding approvingly at their handiwork. “Are you available for some nailing at Matilda’s tonight, Tanner?”

  Matilda, who was pouring some turps into her hands, overshot badly at the blatantly provocative question. It splashed all down the front of her maxi dress, soaking in.

  “Gran!”

  The acrid turpentine smell filled her nostrils and Matilda prayed she didn’t spontaneously combust from embarrassment right at this moment. She’d go up like a freaking torch.

  “What?” her grandmother asked with an air of innocence that no one who knew Hannah Kent would ever fall for.

  “I’m up for some nailing,” Tanner said, shooting an indulgent smile Hannah’s way, his voice deep and warm with laughter.

  Despite herself, an answering smile lit Matilda’s face.

  “It’s just that she has all this artwork in her apartment that she brought back from the U.S. and had framed, but still hasn’t gotten around to hanging.”

  Matilda glared at her grandmother as a different kind of hanging came to mind. “It’s fine.” She dismissed the suggestion. “They’re on my to-do list. I’ll get round to it one day.”

  “But he’s here, and he has the tools,” Hannah went on undeterred. “And he’s offering. Aren’t you Tanner?”

  Tanner responded dutifully to the prompt. “Most definitely.”

  “So you should be gracious enough to accept.”

  “Really, it’s fine,” Tanner reiterated. “Have hammer”—he picked it up and winked at Matilda—“will nail.”

  “It’s settled then,” Hannah said, smiling triumphantly, like she’d negotiated a peace deal in the Middle East rather than Tanner banging some nails into a wall.

  Or, as her grandmother clearly saw it, banging Matilda against a wall.

  But Matilda knew to choose her battles, so she smiled serenely and made noises about going as Tanner threw his shirt back on over his head. Hannah looked disappointed that the show was over but Matilda was relieved to finally have the temptation removed.

  “I’ll arrange for someone to come and pick up the old wood tomorrow,” Tanner said as Hannah saw them both to the front door.

  “Thank you, Tanner. It’s been so lovely to see you again. Girlie, you make sure you bring him back soon.”

  Matilda rolled her eyes. No way was she encouraging the old biddy. “Good night, Gran,” she said and pecked her cheek.

  Hannah waved them off, calling out, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” before closing the front door.

  Tanner’s sexy chuckle followed her all the way to the cars. “See you at your place?” he said, as he opened the car door for her.

  Matilda shook her head. “Honestly, don’t worry about it. She’ll never know, and I won’t tell her.”

  Tanner quirked an eyebrow. “Really? You going to take that risk? I seem to remember she has eyes everywhere.”

  Matilda remembered, too. Her grandmother had always seemed to know where they’d been and what they’d been up to. “We’re twenty-six, Tanner. I’m prepared to risk it.”

  “You know I’m just going to follow you to your apartment anyway, right?”

  Matilda sighed. Of course he was. “Fine.”

  “Might as well surrender to the”—he grinned and held up the hammer—“inevitable nailing.”

  Matilda shook her head. “You’re as bad as she is.”

  “What if I promise to be good?”

  “You mean come in, hang some art, then leave again?”

  “Yup.” He raised the hand with the hammer and set it against his chest like he was taking the pledge of allegiance. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  One half of Matilda was throwing up flashing yellow warning signs. But the other half remembered his incredible kindness today at her grandmother’s and urged her cut him some slack. He had the tools and the time. And he’d offered.

  Not to mention the nagging she’d cop from her grandmother if she didn’t give in.

  “Fine,” she sighed. “But the only nailing going on tonight involves my painting, capisce?”

  “Capisce.”

  She would have felt better had he not followed it with a dirty sounding chuckle.

  Twenty minutes later, they’d survived the agonisingly slow lift ride, and Matilda was ushering Tanner into her apartment. It was a modest two-bedroom set up bought with the assistance of the small inheritance she’d received from her parents’ estate, which her grandmother had kept in trust until she’d returned from Stanford.

  Unfortunately, this being Sydney, where the property market had been burning hot for the last decade, she’d had to supplement it with a mortgage that was bound to keep her in servitude for the next twenty-five years.

  “This is great,” Tanner said, looking around the open-plan kitchen, dining, and lounge area with its eight-foot ceilings.

  He looked great, somehow instantly at home in her apartment, his hammer in one hand, a spirit level in the other, the bulk of his frame not diminished by the high ceilings. Often, with just herself for company, the apartment felt empty, but not with Tanner filling up the space.

  “I have a feeling living on the harbour at Woolloomooloo is probably nicer.”

  He shrugged like it didn’t really matter to him at all. “I have a faster lift.”

  Matilda snorted. “I should bloody hope so.”

  “That them?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the half dozen frames stacked together against the far wall.

  Matilda nodded, grateful that he was being all matter-of-fact and efficient, sticking to his word—get in, bang in some nails, hang some art, get out.

  He strode over and separated them, then crouched down and inspected each of the one-meter square watercolours. “Nice,” he said appreciatively. “Do they have some kind of personal meaning?”

  “A friend I roomed with painted them. They’re different aspects of the Stanford campus.”

  “Oh.” A strange kind of stillness settled over him. “It looks great.” But his voice was flatter now.

  “It was. It…is.”

  “You pleased you went?” he asked, still staring at the paintings.

  Matilda remembered how she’d been all set to turn down the scholarship and follow Tanner on his journey. Just as well she’d found out about his predilection to infidelity in the nick of time.

  The turmoil of that time reached right into the present day and wrapped its hands around her gut. Her mellowing attitude toward him hardened again as a familiar ache took up residence in the middle of her chest. It seemed important in this moment to show him she’d had no regrets about walking away from him.

  She raised her chin. “Best decision of my life.”

  He nodded, slowly. “Good.” He dragged his gaze off the watercolours, pushing to his feet, all efficiency again. “Where do you want them?”

  Matilda felt absurdly like crying. Or fleeing. He
could have been here for the last five years. They could have made a home together. She’d managed to forget the pain of their history this afternoon, or at least the full force of it, but it was back with a vengeance. Matilda’s hand trembled as she pointed to the expanse of wall behind her television. “I thought in two rows of three. They’re numbered one through six so…in order left to right?”

  He pulled his newly acquired tape measure out of his pocket as he strode over to the wall, planting the end of the retractable tape on the floor and running it vertically up the wall to a point about a foot above his head.

  “About this height for the top row?” he asked, not turning around.

  Matilda sucked in a breath, her lungs filling with the chemical fumes of turpentine still lingering in her clothes. “Whatever looks good,” she said dismissively. She needed to get away from him doing manly things in her apartment and the sudden crippling sensation of loss, of what could have been. “Do you mind starting without me? I really need a shower. I smell like a chemical factory.”

  “Go ahead,” he said, measuring horizontally now, obviously preoccupied enough not to make some quip about joining her or coming to scrub her back.

  Matilda fled to her room on unsteady legs. She sank down onto her bed when she was close enough, sucking in chemical-laden breaths as the ache beneath her sternum grew bigger. This was the kind of life she’d always envisioned with Tanner. Living together. Marrying at some point. Having kids.

  Over the years she’d told herself it didn’t matter. That she’d find that connection with someone else. But she hadn’t been able to let a man close enough emotionally after Tanner’s betrayal. And that had been fine, too. She wasn’t the kind of woman who felt her life was over because she didn’t have a guy in it.

  Until tonight. Until Tanner was walking around in her apartment with his tools, measuring her walls, being all handy, giving the space an overwhelming masculine air.

  A maelstrom of anger, bitterness, and regret churned in her gut. He’d not only broken her heart eight years ago, but he’d stolen a future from her.