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

by Pippa Grant

I don’t let women stay the night at my house. But I’m glad Goldie isn’t leaving.

“I live to destroy the lives of men who don’t kick me out of their beds and send me home at night.”

This is fun. Short-term. Only fun. The hot sauce is more serious than our relationship is.

And the three of them do what you do when you have no fucks left to give in the world, and they all turn and stare.

I don’t cackle. Out loud.

“You can’t be a parent and not fuck it up.” “I’d prefer to be a parent who can fix it.”

I’m obsessed with you. I want to screw around with you again. I want to be your friend.

Is it actually a snowstorm if you don’t participate in the emptying of the egg section?”

My father would choke on his own tongue at the idea of me getting involved with a senior citizen chocolate-smuggling ring.

“In early January, the facial hair catastrophe of Fletcher Huxley died a premature death despite also lasting too long in this world,”

She’s so forlorn. But she’s wrong. Sacrificing frozen cookies isn’t the worst part of her move. The worst part is that she’s leaving.

“Can I watch you eat your cookie?” I smile while every nerve in my body does a happy dance, which I wouldn’t have thought possible three hours ago. “Would that make you happy?” “If you ate it naked.”

Yeah. This. This is what’s been missing from every relationship I’ve ever had. The Goldie factor. And she’s leaving. Just fuck.

Find what you’re looking for in London, okay? Make it worthwhile that you’re leaving.”

Dammit. Is it raining inside this dome? Directly into my eyes?

I like this man. I like him entirely too much. He’s absolutely irresistible.

And I think I’d say that even if he were sporting that horrid mustache. Oh god. I would. I’d think he was handsome in his mustache.

And the first place I find that’s a little secluded, I pull over. Climb into the back seat with my dog. Hug her as tight as I can without hurting her. And force myself to not grab my phone and message Goldie. She’d get it. She’d listen. She’d understand. And she’s fucking leaving too.

CoachGoldie: Wanna know what’s annoying about you? RugbyFletch: You’ve already made your feelings on my mustache very clear.

I’m backtracking hardcore because I forgot rule number one with Fletcher: he will win at all costs.

It’s easy being with Fletcher because this has an end date. My heart doesn’t have to get involved. It’s torture being with Fletcher because my heart didn’t get that memo and has very much gotten involved.

Will he be okay? I love him. Can he love me back?

Goldie at a hockey game is a cutthroat competitive banshee.

How much I don’t want her to go. How much I need her to stay. If I can make her feel good enough, maybe she won’t leave. If I can promise her endless orgasms, maybe she’ll stay. If I’m just fucking enough, maybe she could love me.

Physically. Emotionally, I can’t let it out. I can’t say it. I can’t ask her for more. I shouldn’t want more. But she’s my Goldie.

And it wouldn’t matter if I was leaving for London or not. No matter what I could’ve done, no matter how much I could’ve tried, I was never going to be enough.

I have reached the stage of grief known as binge eating expensive as fuck cookies.

We had happiness and love and dog treats and you threw it all away because you were scared. That’s what my tiny-ass dog keeps saying to me. She packs a lot of attitude into every pound.

She left, I took it personally, then I took it out on her, and I don’t deserve her.

Nice would be smiling and nodding. Kind is telling you the truth.”

But when a man’s being a man, there’s only one thing to do. And that’s kiss him the way I’ve wanted to kiss him for weeks.

The ’stache is back. And even with that monstrosity on his upper lip, he’s never been more attractive than he is right now.

“I don’t tell you no.” She makes a noise that says you will be telling me no.

“Back off. I need my emotional support girlfriend.”