Ronan ordered me champagne, water for himself, and was mercilessly teased for his choice in beverage. Just as I was about to claim the seat next to his, he grabbed my hips and placed me on his lap.

And, as such, there I happily sat—just like all the other ladies with their husbands or boyfriends or dates—and my head was lying against Ronan’s shoulder. I was playing with the open bow tie at his neck, trying to tickle him. My playfulness alone was evidence that I’d had far too much to drink. Not to mention Ronan kept giving me these tender looks that made me feel entirely intoxicated.

“My sister is none of your business,” Ronan said, his arm around my waist settling me more firmly against him, his hand on my thigh edging under the hem of my skirt.

So yeah, I was drunk.

Well, I was mostly drunk.

Okay, I wasn’t precisely drunk. But I was too tipsy to care about much other than how lovely Ronan’s arms felt around me.

“I’d like to see what’s at the end of that rainbow,” Bryan called back, eliciting several jeering shouts from those gathered—even some of the women—the comment obviously intended to ruffle Ronan’s feathers.

“You shut your fucking mouth before I break your jaw.” Ronan laughed as he said these violent words, and so did Bryan and everyone else in our party. They all obviously thought this threat was hilarious.

“Ah, Mother Fitzpatrick, we’ve missed your ugly mug.” Tevan Flynn, another of Ronan’s teammates, raised his beer in Ronan’s direction then added before taking a big gulp, “Here’s to Ronan, ugly as a sheep’s arse, and yet he finally managed to find himself a looker. May she always be blind to your hideousness.”

This was met with a few noises of agreement and chuckles.

“American girls like them ugly,” Bryan called from his spot, still stirring the shit. “It’s the accent they like.”

“That’s a load of crap, Bryan Leech.” Marta Goodwall, a transplant with her husband from Australia, gave him a teasing sneer. “Your voice is like nails on a chalkboard, son. Good thing you have such a pretty face. Listen to old Marta.” She leaned forward and patted Bryan’s hand yet still managed to keep her seat on her husband’s lap. “It’s in your best interest to say as little as possible when women are around. You ruin everything as soon as you open your trap.”

The entire table erupted in uproarious laughter; and Bryan chuckled along with the lot of them, though I noted his cheeks above his red beard were tinged a slight shade of pink. I even giggled a little from my spot, though I dared not laugh too hard. Otherwise, my atrocious guffaw might draw attention.

Meanwhile, Ronan’s chest vibrated against my cheek, and he threw his head back as his laughter filled the air, the sound curling around me. I closed my eyes to savor it and snuggled closer, placing my lips against his neck so I could feel, hear, and taste his delight.

He sucked in a startled breath, and I felt him stiffen which made me stiffen; and I worried that I’d gone too far.

“Sorry,” I whispered, pulling away slightly as I listened to the laughter taper off around us.

But Ronan wasn’t looking at me. He was looking beyond our little gathering, and his grip had tightened possessively on my body. His fingers moved a full two inches up my skirt. I blinked at his steely, stoic expression and then followed the direction of his gaze.

There at the periphery, just behind Marta Goodwall and her husband, David, stood none other than Brona O’Shea and Sean Cassidy—Ronan’s ex-girlfriend and the teammate of Ronan’s she’d cheated with.

A hush fell over our group, and eyes moved back and forth between Sean and Brona, and Ronan and me. Brona was looking at me…sorta. Rather, she was looking at Ronan’s hand where it gripped me immodestly beneath my skirt. Her pale blue eyes were flashing thunderbolts of malice at his hand and my thigh.

I didn’t know quite what to do, so I smiled, hoping the mask I’d abandoned earlier would slip seamlessly back into place.

Sean spoke first. “Hey, room for two more?”

All eyes swung to Ronan. His jaw ticked. I was sad to see that his earlier happiness had evaporated, leaving only disdain and suspicion.

Yet, a part of me—a very big, but as yet very silent, part of me—was pleased to see that Ronan didn’t look at all jealous.

“Of course.” Ronan nodded once, affixing an imitation of a smile to his face; his voice was hard and cold. “Always room for you, Sean.”

I glanced at Sean, found him looking unaffected and placid. He was taller than Ronan by two inches at least and had that rich-boy aura, like he was perpetually bored and plagued by ennui. He was very, very pretty—not handsome but pretty—and I wondered how someone so pretty could play rugby. Wasn’t he afraid of ruining his pretty face and pretty hands and pretty everything?

Brona moved to sit on his lap, and he lifted his hands up to give her space, to steady herself without his assistance, like he didn’t care where she sat just as long as she hurried up. I noticed that her eyes didn’t stray from Ronan’s hand up my skirt until she was settled, and then her glare lifted to mine. I got the distinct impression she wanted to cut me.

Ronan’s arm around my waist shifted to my shoulders, and he pulled me toward him, bringing my ear to his mouth so he could whisper, “You want to leave?”

I turned so that I could see his face and gave him my newly discovered smile mask. “Do you want to leave?”