The Player and the Pixie(12)

I lifted my glass and took a sip of water before pointing out, “Years ago I was underage.”

Sean bit his lip, pulling it slowly between his perfect teeth, and allowed his gaze to wander from my eyes to my collarbone as he murmured, “Yes, you were, weren’t you? How old are you?

“Twenty-three.”

“You’re not that young.”

I didn’t like the husky quality to his voice right then, nor did I like the way his eyelids lowered, making me imagine he was having sexy thoughts. In an effort to distract myself, I picked up the small paper bag he’d placed at the side of the table when we’d arrived and pulled out the cream he’d bought. I didn’t ask permission, because that was just my way. Sean didn’t utter a word, but simply watched me as I twisted open the lid and took a sniff.

“Smells a bit like a church, but in a nice way,” I said.

“It’s sandalwood,” he replied. “Here, give it to me.”

I handed it across the table and he swiped his fingers in, extracting a small blob. Before I could react he took my hand and smoothed the cream into my wrist. His hands were very . . . large. My fingers felt completely encapsulated, minuscule by comparison. A tingling, nervous feeling buzzed in my belly as his fingertips massaged my sensitive skin. When he was done he lifted my wrist to his nose and inhaled deeply.

“Smells good on you,” he said. I was momentarily lost for words.

Uh, would it be too overfamiliar to request he do that again, this time all over my body?

The waiter arrived with our food and Sean dropped my hand. I placed it in my lap under the table, like it was now a thing of obscenity too sexual for prying eyes.

Digging into my yellowfin tuna, I tried to push my thoughts to a safer, non-sexually arousing place. Quickly, I imagined Ronan’s reaction if he knew I was here right now—his famous temper flaring—and yep, that did the trick.

Sean had ordered the steak, of course he had. The thing was almost as big as my head.

“You rugby boys sure know how to put food away,” I commented.

He was currently chewing a cleanly cut slice of meat, and there was something about it that had me squeezing my thighs together. Maybe the way his jaw moved? Not to mention he had the most sensual mouth I’d ever seen.

“Tell me about it,” he replied and patted his oh-so-flat stomach. “This is my second big meal today. Dropped by for a late breakfast with the fam earlier this afternoon.”

“Don’t call your family ‘the fam’, Sean. It sounds douchey. Another two syllables won’t kill you,” I chided playfully.

Sean’s smirk indicated he was enjoying my criticism, and I didn’t understand that, either. “This coming from the girl with hair like a packet of Skittles.”

“My hair isn’t douchey,” I said, and flicked a few locks over my shoulder. “It brings joy to all those who gaze upon it.”

“Is that what those hippies in Vermont tell you? At that Maharishi sanctuary on the mountain?”

“It’s not a Maharishi sanctuary, it’s a yoga retreat.”

“Is there a difference?”

I ignored him because he seemed to be trying to fluster me . . . or flirt . . . or both. “It’s a yoga retreat in New Hampshire, on a lake.”

“Squaw Lake, yes?”

“Squam Lake. And it’s really beautiful, peaceful, calm. Many of the cabins have docks on the water. It’s so quiet, especially at night, and the stars are so bright. They fill the sky and feel almost close enough to touch. It’s truly a retreat.”

He looked reluctantly interested. “That doesn’t sound entirely terrible.”

I pressed my lips together, trying not to smirk at his less than high praise. “Like I said last night, you should give it a try. Meditation would do you some good.”

“Getting in touch with my feminine side?” His eyes twinkled with a devilish glint.

“Oh no. You don’t have a feminine side—”

He barked a laugh.

“—but it might get you in touch with the missing syllables in family.”

Sean’s laugh waned, but his smile lingered. His lips really were sinful. I tried not to stare, instead tilting my chin upward in challenge. “I’m serious. Don’t underestimate the power of inner peace.”

His eyes narrowed on me. “Peace, eh?”

“That’s right.”

“And who will keep Goldilocks safe from the bears?”

I wrinkled my nose at him. “There are no bears in New Hampshire.”

“What about wolves?” he asked, leaning forward, looking wolfish, his eyes on my nose.

I lifted my chin higher, this time with false confidence. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”