Pitch Imperfect by Elise Alden Page A

it short and fast if you prefer, but I’d rather not, with you.”
    “Why do I get the feeling you’re an incorrigible flirt?”
    “Ah lass, you’re splicing my heart. All I want is a pint of the black stuff and a kiss from a beautiful woman. Those are the last two things on my list for a perfect St. Paddy’s Day.”
    She pointed at the wall calendar. “It’s the seventh, not the seventeenth.”
    He took her hand. “An Irishman always prepares in advance.”
    “So I’ve heard.”
    A dimple came out on his chin and his eyes gleamed. She’d never seen eyes that colour before, like a lion’s. No wonder he’d enthralled half the women in the village. His charm was cheeky and he seemed harmless. Unless, of course, you fell into his den.
    His clasp on her hand was firm, but he let her go as soon as she tugged free. “I never kiss men who rank me as the last thing on their to-do list.”
    “Then kissing you will be my top priority, Anjuli Carver.”
    Rob’s steel-edged voice cut across the bar. “A double Glenmorangie and a glass of Chardonnay, if it’s no’ too much trouble.”
    Startled, Anjuli straightened, feeling absurdly guilty. That is, until she noticed the statuesque blonde next to Rob. “I’ll get us a table,” the woman said.
    It was Sarah bloody Brunel, looking at him with a possessive glint to her eyes, just as she had done the day before. Anjuli stared at her sleek figure as she moved away, hating its slender lines. When she pulled her attention back, Rob was talking to Damien but staring at
her
. Unwaveringly, watching her every move.
    Why the hell was his face so stony? In he’d sauntered wearing a navy blue Scotland jersey and his informal kilt, destroying her peace of mind. Flaunting his masculinity and accompanied by his...whatever she was, and yet he was angry?
    Anjuli gave him her back and searched for a wine glass at the opposite end of the bar. Where had she put them? Ash offered her a glass, her voice chirpy. “Give it to her, Babes.”
    Anjuli grabbed the wine glass. “Where do you keep the arsenic?” Though she didn’t know whose glass it was for—the reporter who’d written the article, or Rob, for not seeming to care
.
    Ash grinned. “No killing my customers. Besides, I gave the last of it to Angus Buchanan, the old sod, but he’s as hard to get rid of as Foot and Mouth.”
    With a barely suppressed sigh, Anjuli poured out a 250 ml measure. Maybe the arsenic should be for herself. Rob’s brogue contrasted with Damien’s lilt, and as the two men discussed the Scottish and Irish teams, memories of other games, other sporting events at Rob’s side threatened her outward calm.
    She glanced at Rob and wished she hadn’t. Leaning against the bar, black hair tousled from the wind he looked relaxed and rugged. Ready for action. She remembered how he liked to celebrate a Scotland win. Exactly how he wanted her to console him when they lost.
    A small thrill worked its way between her thighs. How many times had Rob barely waited until the end of a game to be inside her? And after a match where he’d been playing, well, he’d forego the post-game, male camaraderie at the pub and take her home, sweaty and full of rampant testosterone. Perhaps a soapy shower, with her up against the wall...Anjuli’s hands trembled around his tumbler and she put it down and wiped her palms on her hips. No more shattering glass or staring at Rob or giving fodder for that bitch—err, Sarah—to write about.
    She put the drinks in front of Rob. “Whisky for you and wine for your date.”
    “Friend,” he said, and turned to Damien. “Why don’t you join us?”
    Damien winked at Anjuli. “I’ve got a kiss to collect first.”
    Rob looked between them, then settled his gaze on Anjuli. “Of course.”
    And what did he mean by that, exactly? Nothing good, by the congealed tone of his voice. Did he think she went around kissing any man who asked?
Duh
,
of course he does
,
and whose fault is