Jock Reign (Jock Hard 5)

“You know what else sounds good? A sweet bun.”

Eliza lifts her brows. “A sweet bun? What’s that?”

Uh—a bun that’s sweet? What does she think it is? “I think you call them cinnamon rolls? Big bun smothered in butter and frosting…?”

Why do I keep talking about food? I haven’t spoken about anything else since she sat down—she’s going to think I have a one-track mind.

I think about other things, too, like movies and home and school. Three-dimensional as it were.

“I figured that’s what you meant,” she says with a smile and opens her laptop.

“Doing homework?”

“No, not really. I’m working on a graphic project, and I’m testing this new program I just bought so that I can do it digitally instead of by hand, but I’m not sure how I feel about it yet.” She shrugs with a laugh. “You know how it is.”

Do I?

I’ll have to take her word for it. Digitally doing anything isn’t in my wheelhouse—numbers and math are more my forte.

“I’m old school myself,” I admit. “I think I’d rather freehand something than try to learn a program.”

I’m utter shite at retention, which is one of the reasons I haven’t learned the bloody rules of rugby.

Four

Eliza

It feels weird to be sitting here with Jack, the same guy my roommate brought home last night. The same guy my roommate wanted to drag into her bedroom and make out with—and who knows what else.

The same guy who went home instead.

He’s still as good-looking as I remember him being, and polite too. Jack was kind enough to offer me a spot at his table when there were no other spots to be had, something he did not have to do. Then, he offered me some of his food. Still has it sitting in the center of the table should I change my mind and want to nibble on a scone.

I won’t lie—they do look awfully tempting…

I leave the plate be. Besides, I don’t need crumbs and butter on my laptop keys.

He sits across from me as I stare at my glowing computer screen, drawing a blank—no inspiration forthcoming—and I’m not sure how to proceed. Normally when I’m working on graphics, I do them on paper.

To do them modernly, I would also need a tablet and a stylus (similar to the one the waitress had to take our order on), except I don’t have the money for both.

It was either the fancy new laptop or a fancy new tablet—not both.

See, I’m working on a comic book—or rather, a graphic novel. One I don’t ever expect to finish, but it’s been a bucket list dream of mine forever, and I am determined to at least try.

I can feel his eyes watching me as I busy myself, trying to pretend I’m alone at this table.

It’s practically impossible.

Jack is big and imposing and larger than life, and it feels like he is occupying the entire room, let alone this entire table.

He picks up a scone from his plate and tears off the end, popping it in his mouth and chewing. Watching and chewing, watching and chewing.

It’s unsettling.

I don’t know why it’s bothering me so bad to have him stare—I don’t feel like he’s necessarily being rude, it’s just…weird? Disconcerting for sure. It’s as if he’s studying me. Like he’s trying to figure me out or something, but that can’t be, can it?

I want to say something, call him out or point out the staring, but I myself don’t want to be rude to this person I’ve only just met, even though I’m hogging most of his table. As if it were my table and he’s the one joining me for a late breakfast instead of the other way around.

Chew.

Stare.

He bites off another hunk of blueberry scone, and I notice he’s eaten several; then again, he is a big boy and probably could eat a dozen of them all by himself for one meal and still be hungry—which would explain why he added sausage when the server was taking our order.

Another thing I notice? Jack has a napkin in his lap. He has unrolled the silverware and placed the paper napkin it comes with on his lap, in its proper place. The thing is, I’ve never actually seen a young man do this in public without being told.

I have a brother. The only times I’ve ever seen him use manners is when he’s being scolded or reminded by our mother to do so.

I try not to gawk in awe, but I’m impressed.

Relax, Eliza—he’s British, he can’t help himself.

Still, a flush heats my face and I feel my cheeks get hot because I have not put my napkin on my own lap, my own manners lagging. Taking my utensils in hand, I tear off the little paper collar that’s holding everything together and unroll it to expose the fork and knife.