“No one’s home,” a voice calls out. A South Welsh accented voice. I pretend my heart doesn’t flip-flop at his use of the wordhome.
“Your pie’s getting cold,” I reply.
There’s a pause—not long—and when the door squeaks open a crack, Mathias’s face presses into the gap half a foot above my own face. “Owen Bosley.”
He doesn’t say anything else, just my full name. I don’t fill the silence either. We simply stare at each other.
Mathias is tall . . . really tall. So tall in fact, that one of his nicknames is The Giant. He’s six-five, six-six, and has the lean, muscular frame of a twenty-nine-year-old fly-half. He’s still wearing his “slutty little shorts,” and I try not to let my gaze drift down to his thighs.
Mathias has propped the door open with his knee, so I can only see a sliver of him, but the sliver I can see is . . . well, it’s very pleasing to look at. Rewarding even. He has dark, richly tanned skin thanks to his Spanish heritage, black hair that falls in haphazard curls over his forehead, and the deepest, most luxurious, most lose-yourself-in-them brown eyes known to man. They’re framed by ludicrously thick feminine lashes, and topped by the frowniest pair of brows I’ve ever seen.
Still Mathias says nothing. I hold the tray higher, hoping some of that good meaty pie stink wafts his way. It must do, because the next second the door opens all the way, and he turns back inside the house.
I follow him and set the food down in the dining room. Fetch him some cutlery.
“I’m looking for somewhere else to live,” he says, hovering beside the table. The stark break in the silence causes me to drop the knife onto the tray. “I was just on the phone to my agent—fuck! My agent . . .”
Mathias runs to the front porch where he’d left his phone on the spindly antique table next to the door. He looks at the screen and then brings it to his ear. “Sim? Sim? You still there? You still—oh, sorry. Owen Bosley came round with pie and chips. I’ll call you back in a . . . No, he’s just come over . . . Yes, from the pub . . . No, I gotta go . . . Okay, bye.” He hangs up the phone as he’s walking through the living room and tosses it onto the sofa.
Hmm, he moved them. Put the big sofa under the window and the smaller one opposite the fireplace.
Feels off somehow.
“Don’t leave.” The words drop from my mouth, ungainly and bordering on begging.
I won’t beg, but I need him to stay. Need the property occupied.
Actually, fuck it, I’m not above begging. I turn away from him, focus my attention on the condensation building along the plastic dome covering his food. “Please.”
Mathias stops in his tracks. I don’t look at him—can’t bear to. Instead, I sit down at the table and stare steadfastly at the tray. I can feel his hesitancy and I can’t blame him. Imagine having the guy whose leg was broken duringyourtackle begyouto stay in a propertyheused to live in.
Cringe, as Daisy would put it. So fucking cringe.
Eventually Mathias sits opposite me, spares one longing glance for his food, and then spears me with his gaze, the“Why not? Why shouldn’t I leave?”evident in the upward tick of his brows and the pout of his lips.
I force myself not to stare at them, at their fullness, and I decide to be honest. “Listen, I know we have some . . . history.” History’s not the right word, but I’ll be fucked if I can find the right word. “I . . .” Shit, this is harder than I first assumed. “You’re my wild card.”
He snorts. If Mathias had been eating his pie already, I’d have been wearing it. “I’m your what now?”
My laughter is forced, nervous. “You know, like when all other options don’t work, try something completely different.”
“Believe it or not, I’m familiar with the concept of wild cards.”
Okay, here goes nothing. “After I left the Cents, I bought the pub across the road, which at the time seemed super fucking idyllic and cute, and yeah, it was—is, to be honest. It is cute, and I love it, but . . . the pub needs some work done. A new thatched roof, actually. Complete replacement, and at about forty grand . . . that’s not money I have lying around. I’ve tried a few other ways to raise the funds. Went to the bank, but I already remortgaged once to buy The Little Thatch . . . they won’t let me do it again. And I guess the other loan companies don’t want to take that kind of gamble on me.
“Someone suggested I needed a wild card. I needed to rent out Fernbank Cottage to contribute towards the roof money.” I realise I’ve said all of this to his food, and finally lift my gaze to him.
Pity. That’s what I see in his eyes, and I’m instantly transported tothatnight. That one fateful match. Lying on my back on the pitch, Mathias hovering above me, hands on hips, his mouth moving with words I couldn’t hear, but read on his lips nonetheless.
“What the fuck have I done?”
He’s quiet for a few moments. Processing, no doubt. “I can’t stay here, though. I can’t . . . be your wild card. You’re . . . you’re . . .” He shakes his head. “I’ve signed a six-month lease on this place so I will still pay your rent, but I can’t stay . . .”
I nod. Don’t need him to explain why. No concept had ever been more relatable. If our positions were switched, I’d feel exactly the same.
It doesn’t stop the weird pang of disappointment.
“Eat,” I say instead, and Mathias obediently picks up his cutlery. I lift the lid off the dish and set it aside, upside down to avoid the moisture pooling on the table.
