“He came over to talk to Lucas.”
“I bet that manky cow was green with envy. Lucas Carter is far better arm candy than Geoffrey Hawthorne-Douglas.”
That hadn’t occurred to me before, but I don’t think Katie’s right. Monica loves Geoff, and I don’t care anymore. As for Geoff, well I’m not so sure. Would he dump Monica if a better prospect came along?
I don’t even care about that, either. They made their bed, and all that.
“Anyway, I have to get ready for work. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Have fun tonight and do everything I would.”
“You bet.” And then some.
After I’ve changed into my work uniform, I call Mum.
“Hey, sweetie. Did you have a lovely time last night? Where did Lucas take you?” Although she knows I’m seeing Lucas, there’s no reason she needs to know I spent the night with him. I mean, obviously Mum and Dad know I slept with Geoff, but it’s not something we ever talked about, and I sure don’t want them speculating what I’m doing with Lucas.
Especially since the things I’m doing with him are so freaking amazing. With his reputation, I should’ve guessed he liked to talk dirty during sex, but I never imagined it would be such a turn on. Bloody hell, I’m getting hot just thinking about it. That’s wrong on so many levels when I’m talking to my mum.
I give myself a mental slap and answer her question, which leads to another, which leads to me accidentally telling her that Geoff and Monica were there, and that I confronted my former best friend in the ladies.
“Oh, good for you,” she says. “You needed to do that, Violet. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks. I’m a bit proud of myself, too.”
“You should be.” There’s a fierce note in her voice. “You’ve stayed in the shadows long enough. It’s time you spread your wings.”
I’m not sure what she means by that, but I don’t have time to discuss it or I’ll be late for work, and I still haven’t asked her how she is, which was the original reason why I rang.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she says, and I imagine her giving that dismissive wave that she does whenever anyone asks that question. Except this is me she’s talking to, and although she’s been good this last week, I wish she’d tell me exactly how she’s feeling. Sometimes I get the impression she and Dad deliberately keep me in the dark, as if I’m still that scared nine-year-old who needs protecting. “We’ll be back tomorrow evening. See you then.”
…
Lucas
After training, I meet up with Will at a vegetarian restaurant not far from the club. We’ve not seen each other since my birthday, and when he called, wanting to catch up, I suggested here, so I could grab something healthy to eat before meeting Violet later. He’s already there when I arrive, reading the menu with a gloomy expression.
“Hey.” I sit opposite him. Although my body aches, I feel fucking fantastic.
“I hope you’re not going vegan.” He drops the menu on the table. “All right, spill. What’s going on?”
I lean across the table so there’s no chance of being overheard. “I’m training again.”
He grins, and we high five. “Good for you, mate.” He keeps his voice low. “When’s it going public?”
“Soon.” Fuck, I wish I could tell him about the transfer.
“We’ll go somewhere tonight to celebrate. I’ll get smashed, and you can stick to orange juice.”
“Can’t. I’m seeing Violet.” It feels good saying that.
“Violet? The chick you took to the Toad?”
“She’s the only Violet I know.”
“Fuck me.” He leans back in his chair. “That’s a whole week. Must be a record.”
I shrug. “She’s different.”
“She’s got you by the balls, you mean.”
For some reason Will appears to find that amusing. I remember this morning, when Violet’s sweet, naked body was wrapped around mine, and how gorgeous she looks when she comes. My dick jerks to attention. If that’s having me by the balls, then I’m all for it.
“I don’t want to screw this up.”
Will’s smirk drops off his face. “You’re serious about her.”
I slouch in my chair and rake my hand through my hair. “What does that even mean?”
“Fucked if I know.” He broods for a few seconds, a frown slashing his forehead. “Harry’s the expert in relationships.”
We stare at each other before both snorting with laughter. A year ago, it wouldn’t have crossed either of our minds to link Harry and expert and relationships in the same sentence, but he’s right.
My brother knows what he’s doing when it comes to Alice.
Buggered if I’m going to ask him for relationship advice, though.
The following morning I’m in bed, with Violet sprawled on top of me tracing patterns with her finger over my shoulder. I’m still sated by our early morning fuck, and idly stoke her hip before cupping her sexy butt.
She wriggles, deliberately provocative, and smiles down at me. Her hair’s tangled and tumbles over her bare shoulders, and damn if I’m not getting hard again already.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” She folds one arm across my chest to brace her weight, while her other hand smooths back my hair.
“Ask me anything you like.” It’s kind of funny she asked permission, especially after the night we’ve just shared. But hey, this is Violet, and I need to get used to the unexpected with her.
“Is there a reason you don’t have any tattoos on your right arm?”
It’s not the first time I’ve been asked that, although it’s only a relatively recent question, since it’s become more obvious. I’ve always sidestepped the answer because the truth is it never started out as a conscious decision. Not until about three years ago, when I made the choice to not have my latest tat inked on my right bicep. Even now I’m not sure what made me do it, but since then it’s become almost a superstition.
“I guess I’m saving it for something special.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, yet.”
She smiles, like she doesn’t believe a word. “Will you go full sleeve on your left?”
“Oh, yeah.”
She tilts her head and watches her finger trail over my shoulder onto my bicep. The sheet’s slid to her waist, revealing her beautiful curves, and I’m captivated by the enticing freckles sprinkled across her chest and shoulders.
“I love your water lilies.”
I give a faint smile, but don’t respond. It’s hardly a secret I got that tat done on my eighteenth birthday, a double water lily to represent Harry and my birth month. She continues to swirl her finger over my ink, and something tightens deep in my gut. Don’t go there, Violet.
She lets out a breathy sigh. “I’m so fascinated by the language of flowers. Well, I would be, with my name, wouldn’t I?”
My tense muscles relax, and I abandon her butt and wrap my arm across her back. “I’ve never dated a flower before.”
A delicate blush heats her cheeks, and I forget what we’re talking about. Why are we talking? I should be buried balls-deep in her sweet body. Before I can do anything about that, she brushes an oddly chaste kiss across my lips. “I always thought the tribute you did to your mum was so beautiful.”
And she went there. Like all my tats, the story behind each one is common knowledge, but most girls avoid all mention of that one. And why wouldn’t they? No one wants to discuss my mum’s death, least of all me.
But Violet’s still gazing at me with her gorgeous green eyes, and I have to say something. “Thanks.” My voice is gruff, and I hope she gets the message. I don’t want to talk about it.
Gently, her finger traces across the top section of my bicep. I don’t have to see what’s she’s doing to know she’s outlining the blood-red rose, the crimson tipped thorns, and the aloe backdrop.
Rose, for Mum’s middle name, aloe for grief, and
I don’t think anyone needs an explanation for bloody thorns.
“It’s awful, living with the fear that your mum might…you know.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, and for a second a haunted look flashes over her face. “But for her to fall ill so suddenly and then… Well, I can’t even wrap my head around it.”
I’m suffocating, but instead of rolling Violet off me so I can breathe, I tighten my grip around her. Does she really expect me to answer? What the hell am I meant to say?
Yeah, it was fucking awful and even now the smell of a hospital makes me want to vomit.
I’m the gregarious brother, who’s never serious about anything and always has a ready quote for the press. But I’ve never been able to talk about my mum since the day she died. Not even to my own family.
I was only nineteen, and already United’s star player. The gutter press went crazy with their reporting, hassling me for some deep and meaningful insight into how this tragedy affected my life. When I didn’t bring the goods, they made up their own, all wrapped up in pseudo-empathy.
The only way I got through it was funneling everything into the game. When I was physically knackered, there was less time to think.
That was the theory, anyway. It didn’t work out so well in practice.
That’s why I got the tat. Screw the armchair psychoanalysts, even if they were too fucking close to the truth.
My phone rings, and I grab it from the side table without releasing Violet. It’s Bec, and any other time I’d let her go to voicemail because why would I want to speak to my agent while Violet’s in my bed? But right now, it’s a great excuse to get out of this excruciating conversation.
“Sorry, I need to take this.”
“Sure.” She rolls off me and pulls the sheet up to cover her chest.
Has Bec found out I’m dating her cousin’s daughter? Before signing the cleaning contract, she disclosed her personal connection, but it didn’t bother me. She wouldn’t let nepotism get in the way of business.
And I sure don’t mind who knows I’m seeing Violet.
“Hey.” I link my fingers through Violet’s as I answer the call. “What’s up?”
“Just a heads-up,” Bec says. “It’s obviously a slow week. You’re front page on the rags, but they’ve dragged up ancient history. Ignore it. They’ll have something meatier to dig their claws into once we announce the deal.”
“Okay.” I keep my voice neutral, even though Bec won’t be fooled. She’s known me too long and is one of the few people who witnessed what a mess I was after Mum died. It’s not the first time my private life’s been dissected under the spotlight for no better reason than they need to fill column inches.
We end the call. I’m guessing the article is linked to whoever took the photo of Violet and me when we left Overton’s. Which also means Violet’s face was hidden, otherwise Bec would have said something.
“Is everything okay?” Violet slides her other hand along my arm and it’s strangely comforting.
“Yeah, everything’s good.” I grin down at her. Putting on my mask. What the hell am I doing? Violet deserves more than my standard issue deflection when things get too personal. I sigh heavily. “It was my agent. Looks like that paparazzo sold a photo.”
Shit.
Chapter Seventeen
Violet
“Sold a photo?” I lick my lips and hope I don’t sound as nervous to Lucas as I do myself. And oh my God, does he even know I’m related to his agent? It’s never come up in conversation. Why would it? Who explains their family tree to a new boyfriend?
Lucas isn’t really my boyfriend. I ignore the little stab through my heart, because pretending something is real, doesn’t make it so.
My mind flies back to the other night when we left the restaurant, and I was the worse for drink. Heat sears my cheeks. Did Bec call because of me? Has she said anything to Mum yet?
How humiliating to be splashed across the Sunday newspapers when I could hardly stand up straight.
“Don’t worry.” He kisses my knuckles, which sends warm tremors through my chest. “I don’t think your name’s mentioned. Bec would’ve said something, otherwise.”
I stop myself from sagging with relief, and not because they didn’t get a good shot of me. “You know Bec and my mum are cousins, then?”
“Yep. Do you want a cup of tea?”
He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, so I nod. “Love one, thanks.”
He gives me a leisurely kiss, and I wind my arms around him. If there’s an option between tea and sex, then there’s no choice. I can drink tea any time.
His thirst must be greater than mine as he pulls back. “Hold that thought.” His voice is a sexy rumble as he pushes my hair back from my face. “I’ll be right back.”
He stands and stretches, his muscles bunching and flexing like a work of art. And his tight butt is a miracle of human perfection. I’m still smiling to myself when he pulls on a pair of boxer briefs and saunters out of the room.
I spy the saucy camisole I wore—briefly—to bed last night, and quickly tug it on before fishing my phone out of my bag to check for any messages.
Cross-legged on the bed, I chew my lip and glance at the half-open door. Why would Bec call him just to tell him he was in the papers? He’s always in the gossip columns. I search for the most salacious one, and sure enough, there’s the headline.
Lucas Carter’s Mystery Date
The photo beneath the heading shows Lucas, looking as hot as hell even though he doesn’t have his usual trademark smile, with his arm around me as we left Overton’s. I peer closer, enlarging the photo, but my face is pressed against him, and no one would guess it’s me.
Huh. My panicked heart rate settles. If I can barely recognize myself, there’s no reason why Bec would. Or anyone. Well, Dad might. Not that he follows gossip, but he might make an exception when the footballer in question is Lucas.
I squint at the screen, but it’s impossible to tell I’m clinging onto Lucas to keep myself upright. It looks as though we’re just kind of snuggling.
We were snuggling. I wasn’t that drunk, was I?
Since I’m not entirely sure about that, I push it aside. The important thing is, even if Mum does see this, all she’ll think is we were having a really great time. It’s not like I forgot to wear my knickers and gave the photographer a flash of my fanny, is it?
While his teammates in Harrington United slay the opposition in Hong Kong, Lucas Carter is all about slaying the ladies with his current mystery redhead.
Ugh. Nice. I cringe inside as I read a couple of sentences that scrutinize my dress, shoes, and hair jewelry, and speculation as to why both Lucas and I went to such lengths to hide my face.
Carter, who is recovering from a knee injury in January, was out on the town again on Friday night…
They make it sound like he decided to abandon the tour just so he could enjoy some nightlife. I skim over the paragraph, which is basically all conjecture and rubbish.
Recently, Carter’s star has become eclipsed by that of his brainy twin, Harry, the genius behind Blitz and The Plains of Exitium…
Seriously, who writes this crap? Lucas’s star isn’t eclipsed at all. I glare at the screen and keep seeing the word brainy jump out at me.
It’s not the first time I’ve read an article saying that, but it’s far more annoying than before, because the implication—that Lucas isn’t brainy—is blatant.
I shouldn’t have read it. It’s really pissed me off. They don’t know what they’re talking about. I pull on my jeans, shove my phone in my pocket, and make my way to the kitchen.
He has his back to me, but I can see he’s reading something on his phone, and as I approach he tugs on his earring. A strange pain knifes through my heart. He might not be reading the same article I was, but I’d bet my future degree he was.
“Need some help?” I inject a bouncy note in my voice even though I want to do the author of that article serious damage. Don
’t they care that Lucas has feelings?
“Sorry.” He sounds preoccupied, and I want to kiss away the frown that slashes across his forehead. “Got distracted.” He glances down at his phone, and I can’t help myself.
“They’re a bunch of wankers.”
“What?” He shoots me a bemused grin, and I give his phone a disdainful nod.
“If you’re reading the same rubbishy crap I just did. I don’t know how they have the nerve to call themselves journalists.”
“Right.” There’s a guarded tone in his voice, which I hate. “It doesn’t matter. I’m used to it.”
Somehow, that makes me madder than ever, and the injustice burns in my chest. Why should anyone have to get used to being continually compared to their brother?
“It sucks.” So eloquent, Violet. But if I said what I really think, the air would turn purple.
He shrugs then hooks his arm over my shoulder, and I snuggle against him. He’s naked, his skin is warm, and he smells so good I want to push him over the workbench and kiss him all over. I want to take away that resigned look in his eyes. Instead, I catch sight of his phone, and yes, it’s the same article.
Like I didn’t know that already.
The Carter twins, sons of Professor James Carter and the late Professor Madeleine Rose Sinclair, have both done phenomenally well in their chosen careers. But while Lucas’s ability on the pitch has won him many fans, no one can deny it’s Harry who inherited their parents’ brains…
I’m practically speechless, and bubbling with rage. How dare they insinuate—and not very subtly—that Lucas got the bum end of the elite Carter-Sinclair genetic code?
He closes the page and drops his phone onto the workbench. “Don’t worry about it, Violet.” He gives me his famous smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ve never said anything I don’t already know.”
Wait. Is he agreeing with this load of drivel? Why would he do that? Doesn’t he know how great he is? And I’m not talking about his ability on the pitch.
“You can’t be serious. Just because your brother isn’t athletic, doesn’t mean he’s better than you.”
He pulls me closer, and this time his eyes glint with humor. “No one’s ever put it that way before.”
Once Upon a Player Page 13
