The Player and the Pixie(19)

Again I thought of our dinner together, and how I’d so foolishly told him all the details of where I’d be spending my break. It seemed to me that Sean was up to something, something decidedly fishy.

I refused to look at him again for the remainder of the class. The hour was a complete and total write-off though, because my thoughts were a scrambled mess and I couldn’t focus. When Maria finished up, wishing us all a good day, I shot out of the room like a rabbit on speed. I didn’t even wait around for Rick. No, I took my mat and my water bottle and strode right out of the building, heading for the peaceful waters of the lake.

For a second I considered finding a phone to call Ronan and request he come and extract Sean from my haven of solitude. His very presence turned it into a place of tension and anxiety . . . and yes, unwanted sexual urges.

But no, I couldn’t go crying to my brother every time something didn’t go my way. I was a confident grown woman, and I could a handle a little problem like Sean Cassidy.

Piece of cake.

With this renewed determination, I took several deep breaths and enjoyed a few more minutes of blessed silence before spinning around toward the house. Unfortunately, as soon as I turned I found Sean standing there with his arms folded, leaning casually against the trunk of a tree.

Startled, I almost tripped over a branch.

“Jesus, what are you doing out here?” I asked, my hand flying to my rapidly beating heart.

“As of the last few minutes I’ve been watching you have a conversation with yourself. It’s a tad worrying, truth be told. I assume you answer your own questions?” He tutted.

I inhaled, my mouth opening to deny his assumption, but nothing came out. Had I been talking to myself? I’d been in such a tizzy, I couldn’t remember.

I began fidgeting with the hem of my top, staring at the ground as I said, “Look, whatever game you’re playing by coming here, I want no part of it. I’ve been looking forward to this trip for months and I won’t have anyone ruin it for me.”

When I finally lifted my head to meet his eyes, Sean’s masculine brows drew together in a frown. I reluctantly traced the contours of his arms beneath his long-sleeved gray T-shirt, savoring the way his waist tapered into a pair of dark workout pants. God, he was attractive.

“I’m not here to ruin anything. You invited me to come.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You would.”

I scowled at him. “Why would I do that?”

“Because, deep down, you like me.” He grinned. The grin looked entirely sincere, but also a little dangerous, and a lot sexy.

I crossed my arms over my chest, my water bottle dangling from my fingers, unimpressed with Sean Cassidy’s insincere smiles. “I would never—”

“Don’t you remember? At the end of season party back in Dublin?”

“I, uh . . .” I blinked, finally remembering. Okay, I had to admit, he had me there. “Look, maybe I did technically invite you, but that was before you bad-mouthed my brother over tuna.”

“I didn’t have tuna,” he denied as though tuna were horrifying.

“No, you had steak. I had tuna.”

“Oh yeah . . .” He nodded, his eyes shifting to the side, perhaps recalling his steak. Or my tuna. Or both. After a moment he shook himself and refocused on me. “And I’m sorry for that. Truly. I came here to de-stress, hoping to find a modicum of enlightenment and become less of a prick. Let’s be friends? Forgiveness is a virtue, Mini-Fitzpatrick.”

I pursed my lips and eyed him, trying to decide if he were being genuine. If he were faking the white flag routine then he certainly put on a good show. And really, if he was so determined to stay then there was nothing I could do to stop him.

What would it hurt to call a truce? Peace was the least stressful option available.

Huffing a breath, I replied, “Fine, we can be friends, just try to keep the prick side of your personality to yourself for a few days.”

He grinned again. “You’re in a lively mood.”

“Mmm-hmm, that’s what happens when people decide to gatecrash my sanctuary.”

I took a few steps forward and passed him by, uncapping my water bottle and taking a small gulp. Sean began to follow me through the trees, his shadow looming as we walked.

“So,” he broached, “who’s the Mocha Frappuccino back inside? Your boyfriend?”

I stopped immediately and turned to face him, my expression devoid of humor. “Could you be any more racist?”

“I’m not being racist. I’m being descriptive. I’ll have you know that some of the warmest nights of my life have been spent with women of color. Lovely, lovely colors.”