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

by Pippa Grant

Until It Was Love A teammate’s sister / enemies-to-lovers / fake dating / grumpy-sunshine romantic comedy

This book is dedicated to mustaches everywhere. If you love them, I apologize. The book demanded this treatment for the ’stache. If you hate them, you’re welcome, but again, I can’t take credit. It’s all Fletcher and Goldie.

Is there anything more satisfying than watching someone you don’t like make a serious mistake with their facial hair?

yep. My petty glee meter overfloweth.

Outlive Our Ex-Boyfriends Club

For the record, there are very few people in this world that I genuinely dislike. Three, to be specific. My ex-boyfriend. My former best friend. And Fletcher Huxley.

I’m sure he doesn’t remember much about me either. Or if he does, the memory is stuck somewhere in that awful ’stache.

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

“I keep waiting for my mom to admit he actually arrived on a spaceship and is some kind of aliens-on-earth experiment they can’t talk about.”

It’s official. Even when he’s passed out cold after giving blood, I still actively dislike Fletcher Huxley.

Fletcher Huxley, aka a guy who doesn’t need to catch a break, because he’s making his own fate, dammit

Thought about putting her in the baby sling I sometimes use with her, but that’s overkill. For today. If Goldie says no today, I’ll try again in a few days with Sweet Pea in the sling.

“That was remarkably straightforward,” she finally says. “I don’t like bushes enough to beat around them.” “So ironic, considering your face,” she mutters.

today might be hard, but so was yesterday, and you did it. You can do it again today. I believe in you, and I want you to believe in yourself.

“Yes, Fletcher. I played soccer for UCLA. Went to the college showcase in London my senior year and didn’t play because I had a broken hip. So I was in the VIP box. With you.”

Goldie Collins has said all she intends to ever say to me for the rest of her life, and I am a complete and total wanker.

who, I suspect, is still sporting a mustache that could be a stunt double for Stuart Little.

But I’ve been on this earth for thirty-four trips around the sun, two divorces, at least three drinks in my face for voicing my opinion, and enough lectures from my father about how to treat a woman that I don’t say it out loud. Anymore. I don’t say it out loud anymore.

“What’s rugby?” “It’s a sport where men wear short shorts and no protective equipment, and they try to get a ball that’s like a bloated football down the field, which they call the pitch, to score while never throwing it forward but sometimes kicking it.”

’Stache of Glory

RugbyFletch: You’re not just a badass. You’re also a hardass.

She pats my ass. She pats. My ass. Silas growls. My dick is at full mast.

Whiny-ass baby has good stare stamina. I’ll give him that.

Silas is red as a stoplight. I’m hard as a steel plate. And I’m slowly realizing that I’m not in charge here. Goldie is. She’s playing both of us. And fuck me one last time, it makes me like her even more.

I’ve gone from Gleeful Revenge Goldie to full-up Giddy Goldie in ten seconds. Sometimes, I’m still a little kid.

The wanker. Burned. My mustache. Off.

“You look like you’re three seconds away from turning into the Incredible Hulk.” “Resting serial killer face is like that.”

I have Sweet Pea. I have rugby. I have a mission. I have new teammates to win over, which—fuck me again—has never been what I’m good at, but I’ll bloody well try until I’m dead. That’s all I need.

“But where am I going to find three seasoned ladies to have wine with while they write alternate obituaries for their ex-boyfriends?”

He stares, a silent question of who will be there. I don’t squirm. I have a full-on hot flash again. Fletcher definitely needs to regrow the ’stache.

Sweet Pea looks at me and growls. And that breaks me. Not leveling with Fletcher? Whatever. His dog feeling betrayed? I absolutely crack.

I didn’t ask what was in the salsa at the flaming cheese mustache murder class.

Fucking around with taking an asshole teammate’s sister on a date or two to make a point is one thing. Liking her is something entirely different.

I see red. No, red’s too good of a color. Too tame. Whatever I see, it’s the hellscape version of blood red. A burnt burgundy that I borrowed from the devil himself.

“Keep your fucking hands off my girlfriend, you useless fucking cunt fuck.”

“Your sister is a grown-ass adult who can decide for herself what she wants to do with her hands.” I want to pound this little shit into the ground so deep, he’ll never see the light of day again. Instead, I add a smirk. “And her mouth.”

“I’m leaving the country soon.” “And he’s twice-divorced and in a current long-term relationship with his sport that’s lasted exponentially longer than both of his marriages combined,”

Goldie Collins has officially overtaken her brother as my least-favorite person on the planet. How? By making me like her.

“You my new fwend,” she tells me. “You pwetty. And nice. I wike your dog. We be fwends.”

“He can come along, but he might be too big for the horses, and he might be too busy for tea.” She said tea. She said tea.

Despite every reason I should be as upset as she is over this turn of events, I grin. This is gonna be fun. Torture, but also fun.

Fletcher’s still watching me over his own tea cup. No milk or sugar for him. But I don’t feel judged. I feel understood. Right as I’m about to leave the country. Figures.

I don’t do that anymore. Not my lot in life to mess around with the love bullshit. All it does is break you when it ends.

This is a bad idea. Lucky for both of us, I love bad ideas.

I’m going to kiss Fletcher. Not in public where someone can jostle us. Not because I want to make a scene. Not because I want to prove a point. I’m going to kiss Fletcher because I want to kiss Fletcher.

“Kiss me,” he whispers back. My heart melts into a puddle of someone should love this man. And I do. Kiss him, I mean. Clearly, I don’t love him.

“Between meetings. Before bed. When I’m brushing my teeth. On the bus. Regularly when Silas gets me tickets to his matches and insists I go. I’ll hold my phone up like I’m recording the match or taking pictures and yell when everyone else does, but really, I’m reading.”

“One can both enjoy reading and be an extrovert. It happens.”

“You’re ridiculous and it’s adorable.” “You said studly sex god wrong.”

“I like all sports. Except lacrosse.” “Lacrosse?” “It’s a wussy sport.” “Oh my god, Fletcher.”