Until It Was Love (Copper Valley Pounders Rugby, #1)

by Pippa Grant

Fletcher Huxley’s upper lip is where Wyatt Earp’s mustache went to die.

“It’s the mustache then.” Ouch. I like my mustache. It’s a statement piece. And I’d keep it even if mustaches weren’t having a moment. You could say I started the mustache trend, considering how long I’ve been wearing one. And I was famous in Europe. Me being a trendsetter is a logical leap.

“Funeral home Steve?” Sheila asks. “Mailman Steve?” Evelyn says at the same time. “Drugstore Steve,” Odette replies. “Heart attack in the condom aisle. Do not question me, Evelyn. That is what happened, and if you don’t believe me, you can walk your little tush down there yourself and ask the pharmacist.”

“We’re going to need to see the security cameras,” Evelyn says dryly. Odette smirks. I know that smirk. She has the security camera footage.

“I hope she married him for his money. I can’t imagine heartbreak is any easier in your later years.” “Well, she certainly didn’t marry him for the D,” Odette murmurs.

What’s supposed to happen now is that I’ll go back to the table where Odette, Sheila, and Evelyn will each read the obituaries they’ve written for Drugstore Steve based on their knowledge of his life. Specifically, the juicier parts or the weirder parts or sometimes the very personal parts. We’ll laugh. We’ll gasp. One of them might actually shed a tear, because a man did die. And then they’ll vote on which obituary will get posted on their Mission: Outlive Our Ex-Boyfriends group blog.

Everyone around us watches his ass as he goes. And I don’t think it’s because he’s in sweatpants, or because said sweatpants have POUNDERS written across the ass.

Evelyn and Sheila share a look, then both look at me. Evelyn slides Fletcher’s card off the table and into her purse. The rest of us stare at her. “Oh, let an old lady get a thrill at telling the world a big hot rugby player personally invited her to a match. I’m demanding a backstage pass too. Or whatever it is in the sports world. I don’t have to like his mustache to take advantage of this situation.”

Don’t eat a lot of dairy, actually. Miss clotted cream though. Which I will not be confessing out loud here. Reputation to uphold and all that.

“Ohh, Margot, look at that ass,” someone whispers loudly behind me. Someone who sounds elderly. And horny. “What’s a pounder?” an equally elderly-sounding, though far more confused, voice replies. “Is that what each cheek weighs?” Goldie squeezes her eyes shut and pinches her lips together, and I can’t tell if she’s trying not to cringe or trying not to smile. Possibly both. “I don’t know, but he could pound me,” Margot’s friend says. “Greta. Steve’s barely been in his grave for a week.” “So add about forty years, and that’s how long it’s been since I had a good pounding. I didn’t marry him for his penis.”

Points to her for not asking what she owes me. It’s like she knows I’ll tell her nothing. Partially so that I know that I’ve won a game Silas doesn’t even know we’re playing where I get a point because I basically bought his dinner, and he’ll probably whine about it. Yes, it’s a dumb game. Shut up. I like it.

“If I agree to be your date for one public event, with the word public to be defined more clearly before I fully agree, I want you to know that I’m doing it for my own personal reasons that have nothing to do with you.” Yes. She totally wants to get with the Fletch-meister. “Fair enough.”

RugbyFletch: How do you feel about carousels? There’s that big one at Reynolds Park. And it’s next to an ice cream stand. We could eat and then ride and puke. CoachGoldie: That would be on-brand with how we met. RugbyFletch: I appreciate your openness to continuing to include bodily fluids and functions in our arrangement. CoachGoldie: Okay. I get it now. I see why the PR person is necessary. Kudos to you for recognizing your shortcomings.

Good distraction in case my face is doing what I suspect it would do at the idea of a mini dachshund getting a blow-out, having her toenails done, and lying on a massage table. I wonder if she’s in a little pink robe that matches her pink leash.

He’s in jeans tonight. I pause and slowly peer behind him. No letters on his ass. He dressed up for this. He flexes one ass cheek, then the other. Yep. Still Fletcher.

Which leaves Fletcher sitting next to Silas. Oh. Whoops. However could I have overlooked that detail? Silly, silly Goldie. Where is my brain?

“Oh, look at you,” Goldie exclaims to me. “Rosalia, look at how uniform Fletcher’s peppers are.” “Good knife grip,” I grunt. She pats my ass. She pats. My ass. Silas growls. My dick is at full mast. Crew, Porter, Tatum, and their dates are all watching us with varying degrees of amusement mixed with horror.

“If you fuck my sister, I will fuck you up so hard you won’t know where your mouth ends and your asshole starts,” Silas says to me. I turn and face him. And stare. And stare. And stare some more. I don’t blink. I don’t break eye contact. And I don’t say a single fucking word. Whiny-ass baby has good stare stamina. I’ll give him that. He’s not blinking either. I crack one knuckle. Then a second. Then a third. All without breaking eye contact. Kinda nice that the onions already lubed my eyeballs. Makes this easier.

I smile at my brother. He glowers back. I don’t say stay the fuck out of my love life. He doesn’t reply when hell freezes over. It’s all understood.

“The pinnacle of douchiness, though, was when he insisted on a double date at the fair, bullied my date who was afraid of heights into getting on the Ferris wheel, and then paid the operator to stop the ride for twenty minutes while we were at the top.” Nina gasps. Crew makes a noise behind me. I smile brightly at Fletcher. “But now I have you! It’s so awesome that you’re teammates. He has to get along with you.” The ’stache twitches again. I think it might have saluted me. As it should.

“This was worth being your date for the evening,” I hear Nina say to Silas. I can tell by the way Fletcher’s mustache twitches again that he heard it too. “Samesies,” I murmur. He gets as close to grinning at me as he’s ever come. I’m almost getting used to the ’stache. Or possibly I’m developing coping skills that block it out of my vision.

“Oh my god, the ’stache,” Crew says reverently behind me. “Do you think it survived?” Tatum whispers. Fletcher’s eyes flare wide. He rips my hand off his mouth and stares at me in absolute horror while the rest of the room falls silent. It’s not a comfortable silence either. This is the kind of silence that I’d assume comes with stumbling upon a cave full of moldy cheddar cheese. Or the kind of silence that comes when you get the phone call that your childhood home was eaten by a sharknado. I can hear my own heart beating. I might even hear Fletcher’s heart beating. I haven’t had the courage to drop my gaze from his deep, you did not set this up to light my mustache on fire, outraged glare to the carnage that may or may not be waiting beneath. Salsa. I threw mango salsa on him to try to put out the little smoky flames eating the ends of his mustache.

“Is your skin burnt?” she asks softly. “If your skin is burnt under the mustache⁠—” “I’m fine.” I didn’t realize I was on fire. I thought the cheese was still on fire. But the worst part of this? I don’t eat a lot of dairy, and I still wanted the bloody cheese. And the cheese and veggie quesadillas. And the flan. We were going to have flan.

And now all that’s left of my mustache is the ash part, and I had enough chips that my body will think we had our cheat night and I didn’t get my fucking flan.

“People who throw salsa at me to put out my flaming facial hair don’t get to accuse me of being a toddler.” “It was the first thing I saw. And nobody else was coming to your rescue. Probably because you can be a serious asshole when you want to be. Sorry, ma’am. Sorry. I don’t usually talk like this. He fired me from a job because it’s bad optics for us to slee—to go to dinner together when he’s the boss and I’m his assistant. But he’s worth it. Most of the time.” “I doubt that,” the young woman pushing a stroller sniffs. “None of them are worth it.” “I’m cheating on him with his best friend,” Goldie calls behind us. I don’t have a best friend. I have my dog.

He shifts and turns the stare into a glare. I casually take a bite of cheese and stare back. Sweet Pea looks at me and growls. And that breaks me. Not leveling with Fletcher? Whatever. His dog feeling betrayed? I absolutely crack. “My last serious ex-boyfriend will also be there,” I say around the cheese, hoping he doesn’t understand me. “And there we have it,” he mutters.

Not that I mind being a pawn. I’m a fucking good pawn and I know it. “You want a drink?” I ask her when we’ve found our table and I’ve verified that her facial expression doesn’t say fuck me, my ex and his wife and their three kids and their rescue dog and cat that does tricks and emotional support parrot are also sitting with us.

Full truth—I want to be in a concrete box without anything that produces pollens or allergens. After swimming in baking soda or oatmeal water.

After growing up in sports, I’ve dated more Renaissance men than cavemen by choice, but I like this. And it’s not just the priceless look on Miller’s face at being confronted by a guy whose forearm is bigger than Miller’s neck.

“The whole point of us being on this date tonight is for me to have all of the right information so that I’m justified when I break his nose,” Fletcher mutters as he pulls me closer. “No breaking noses at wedding receptions.” “It would be an accident. Those happen a lot when I’m around, as my face can attest.”

“I can still break his nose.” “I prefer psychological revenge, but again, thank you for the very kind offer.” “Want me to break her nose?” “Fletcher.”

“Do you have a photographer hiding in the wings waiting to snap a picture of us kissing to send directly to Silas?” I ask. “Yes.” I veer back and look around. He cracks a grin and lets out a single heh. “Why didn’t men look like that when I was dating?” an older lady mutters as her date sweeps her past us. Fletcher’s grin turns back into a smirk. “I cannot even imagine how you live with your own ego,” I murmur as I let him pull me closer again, still smiling. “I used to stare at my ’stache anytime I got too full of myself. Now there’s nothing between me being hot and me knowing I’m hot.” This might be the best date I’ve ever had.

“You’re a disaster, aren’t you?” “Every fucking day. Only way to live.”

Hello, left turn. “What kind of rash?” “This is the best date conversation I’ve ever had.” “Fletcher.” “I ate a food I’m allergic to and my skin is paying the price.” Oh my god. “Tonight?” He squeezes his eyes shut, and I get the impression this is the last conversation he wants to have. “No.” “Are you⁠—” “Yes, I’m sure.” How can he be—oh. “Have you had a rash all night?” I whisper. The plants might have ears.

“You fucking kissed my sister.” Here we go.

“How cute would their babies be? Heart-eye emoticon. Heart-eye emoticon. Heart-eye emoticon. Baby-face emoticon.” “It’s emoji, hon,” Evelyn says, patting Odette’s hand. “You’re the one who called it the internets.” “I did it ironically. Since I’m old.”

Oh, for the love of wine. “Hi, thanks for making the exact right scene as my wedding date when my ex decided he still has a say in any part of my life, sorry I gave you an allergy rash, I like you as a friend way more than I thought I would, how about you strip so I can rub itch cream all over your body? That’s what you wanted me to say?” They share a look, then nod as one. Even Sheila. “Yes.”

I rub my hands together. “Can we get back to business, please? Anyone have an ex-boyfriend croak recently?” “Just Jimbo,” Sheila says. Evelyn gasps. “Jimbo died? When? How? Why didn’t you say so?” “Talking about Goldie’s online love life is way more exciting than talking about a guy I had three dates with a decade ago.” “Wasn’t Jimbo the one who choked on a crab shell at dinner and then couldn’t stop clearing his throat on your second date?” “That’s him.” “Tell me it wasn’t a crab leg that did him in.” “Hit his head when he fell down a flight of stairs and never woke up again.” There’s a moment of silence at the table. Doesn’t help that Odette’s in a wheelchair.

Another point for Goldie. The last time I simultaneously wanted to hug someone and flip them off, I ended up married. And now I’m sweating.

I nod toward the sports section. “You should expand.” Not hi. Not nice to see you again. Just me man, me want sport book.

I grab three chocolate bars that are in a little display on the counter. “Add these. They’re consumable. You like chocolate, Hallie?” The child has a price at which she can be bought, and it’s apparently a dog, ten stickers, and a chocolate bar. “You my new fwend,” she tells me. “You pwetty. And nice. I wike your dog. We be fwends.” Bollocks and damnation. Silas’s kid should not want to be my friend. “That’s a bad idea.” Her chin wobbles and her eyes go shiny. “And I love bad ideas. And zombies,” I hear myself say. Goldie stifles a laugh with a fist to her mouth.

“Aunt Gow-die, he go ride horses wif us?” Hallie says. “I want fwends for my birfday.” This is a bad idea. This is the worst idea. “He might have to go do work things with your daddy,” Goldie replies. Yes. Yes, that. Hallie’s chin wobbles harder and a tear slips down her cheek. “Nope. Free for the rest of the day.” Once again, my mouth has not asked my brain’s permission to talk.

Do I want to go home and do exactly what she suggested? Honestly, yes. Pretty good recovery for tired, sore muscles. But Hallie’s sniffling. “I wan’ my fwend and da doggie to wide hooooooowses and come to teeeeaaa wif us.” How the hell do you say no to that? She’s crying. I might be an asshole, but I have a heart. Also, did she say tea? I’m not fluent in toddler—preschooler—whatever she is, but I swear she said tea.

“We need to hop the bus if we’re going to make it to tea. Can you tell Fletcher thank you for letting Sweet Pea play?” Wrong thing to say. Wrong wrong wrong. Hallie’s chin juts out and her eyes narrow and she gives me the three-year-old version of the what the fuck is wrong with you, lady? look. “Fetcher and Sweet Pea come to tea wif us.” “Our reservation is only for two, and they don’t let dogs in.” Logic is not my friend when it comes to almost-four-year-olds. Nor is any chance that she’ll forget she said she wanted him to come to tea.

His noble nose wrinkles for a split second before he hits me with another grin. “Fascinating.” “What?” “You haven’t once said you don’t want me to come along.” There’s an unfortunate reason for that. And it’s not the reason I give him. “I’m being polite.” He smiles broader.

We’re set up in under five minutes. Sweet Pea is still sleeping, which says something about how much fun she had today. Or possibly about how much she likes bedtime. I wish I slept half as well as my dog.

She smiles. Did I say suspicious? I meant this woman is wanted for murder.

He grunts once more. Rises a little. Something pops. His knee? And then he’s hauling me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Fletcher?” “I’m too old for this floor shit.” The world bounces. The rug disappears, replaced with gray wood floors. We go through a doorway. Clothes litter the floor. Oh, there’s Sweet Pea! She’s sleeping in a doggie

“What’s the last book you read?” “Nora Dawn’s final book in her Confucius series.” “Philosophical book?” “No, Nora Dawn is my friend Henri’s pen name. Luca Rossi’s long-time girlfriend? Confucius is the hero in her vampire romances.” Mental note, read Luca Rossi’s girlfriend’s romance novels. And hope it doesn’t get weird the next time I see the dude.

She shivers. I recognize that shiver. It’s a good shiver. She’s thinking about my penis.