Jock Rule (Jock Hard 2)

“Where did you find this place? Jesus, it’s so nice.”

“The landlord takes great care of the place,” I joke, because I’m the landlord—but she doesn’t need to know that.

She scoffs. “Who the heck are you renting from? No one who owns anything around campus, that’s for sure. None of those guys give a shit—those houses are complete dumps.”

She’s correct; most of the houses are total shitholes, which is why I don’t rent. I own this place—well, my parents do, but that’s always been their thing: buying whatever house my sister and I happen to be living in at the time so we don’t have to deal with rent and landlords.

“Who do you rent from? It can’t be DuRand—his places might be nice, but they’re not this nice, and not in this neighborhood. What’d you do, rob a bank?”

“Yeah, it’s not DuRand.”

I feel her staring at my back—my bare back because I still haven’t put a clean shirt on—the wheels in her brain turning.

“You don’t own this place, do you?” She pauses, eyes getting a bit narrower. “It’s not a crime if you do, stranger person, I’m just curious. I’m not judging you for having a nice place to live in.”

Stranger person? Is she talking about me?

I finally turn to look at her. “Stranger person?”

She plucks a grape out of the bowl sitting on my sleek center island. “I have no idea what your name is.”

“It’s Sasquatch.”

“Stop it.” She snorts. “I’m not calling you that—it’s the dumbest name ever. What’s your real name?”

God, I hate when people ask that.

She rolls those pretty eyes at me. “Just tell me. Stop being a baby about it.”

“Kip.” I push the word out grudgingly, squeezing it through the thin line of my lips.

“What!”

“Yup.”

“Kip?”

“Yes,” I grind out, nostrils flaring.

“Stop it,” she repeats, wide eyed. “You’re making that up. That is not your name.”

“If I was going to give you a fake name, trust me, that wouldn’t be it.”

“Wow. Kip. Not at all what I pictured. I’ve been calling you Paul Bunyan in my head, sometimes Roy—you know, super redneck names.”

What the fuck? “I do not look like a redneck.”

“Yes you do.” She tinkles out a laugh.

“No I don’t.” Do I? “Paul Bunyan has black hair, and his hair and beard are short.”

“How would you know?”

“Haven’t you ever been to Paul Bunyan’s? The restaurant? There’s a giant picture of him on the sign out front. It’s like two stories high.” Duh.

One of her brown eyebrows rises. “Can’t say that I have.”

“He has short hair.” Why the hell am I repeating myself? Defending myself?

Christ.

She’s eyeing me up and down—she’s done it a few times tonight, always covertly, thinking I don’t notice.

I do.

“No man bun.”

I jerk my head and tug at my hair. “Nope.”

“Well then. Kip.” Her pert little mouth pulls into a smirk. “How very preppy of you.”

“Shut up.”

“Come on, it’s super Vacationing on Nantucket—admit it.” She’s thinking again. “What is it short for?”

“Are you ready for it? Because your next laugh is on me.” I sigh, long and loud. Rip off the proverbial bandage and wince. “It’s short for Kipling.”

She’s holding back a smile, biting down on her bottom lip—so fucking cute—crossing her arms over her beer-soaked dress when my eyes roam down the front. Over her high, round breasts and slim waist.

“Kipling. That’s a pretty fancy name, you know.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t sure that you did, Kipling.”

“Stop.”

“It’s also the name of a poet, Kipling,” she informs me, as if I didn’t already fucking know. “Rudyard Kipling—yikes, that’s a mouthful.”

“Can you not keep using it in sentences?”

Her brows go up, animated. “But it’s so, so good.”

“It’s really not though.”

“If you were wearing a polo shirt and khakis right now, it would make so much more sense to me, and maybe I’d lay off, but you’re not—you were in construction boots tonight, and you’re wearing a torn up T-shirt.” Her eyes roam across my chest. “And brown cargo shorts.”

When she averts her gaze, I’m surprisingly disappointed.

“I’m comfortable.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that.” She snickers, looking me up and down, pops another grape into her mouth and chews. Swallows. “You don’t mind that I’m stealing these, do you?”

I gesture widely. “By all means…” In goes another one, and I lean a hip against the counter, studying her. “Since we’re sharing, what’s your name?”

“Teddy.”

“Like—the bear?” I can’t help goading.

Teddy lets out a soft, lilting laugh. “Yeah, I guess. It’s short for Theodora, my grandmother’s name.”

Theodora.

Romantic and pretty—kind of like her.

She has on a dress tonight, this one a little more daring than last week’s cheerfully prim yellow one. It’s baby blue, the thin material now plastered to her skin, with one of those necklines that goes over the shoulders and ties around the neck. I don’t know what it’s fucking called—halter or some shit.

Whatever. It’s blue and short, and has matching ribbons in the back tied into a delicate bow, making the entire outfit way too feminine had it not been for the brown boots. I noticed them before she took them off in the laundry room. They’re cute.

Way too cute for the rugby house.

Way too cute to be soaked in cheap beer.

Goddammit.

I run a hand down my face—down my beard—to prevent myself from totally checking her out. Or looking too long and hard at her tits.

“You want to shower while you’re here, Theodora?”

“Teddy,” she corrects good-naturedly.

“Right, like I’m not going to latch onto that one.” I laugh. “Nice try.”

“For real, call me Teddy.”

“Only if you never call me Kipling ever again. Kip I can handle, but Kipling? Fuck that. No. Or just call me Sasquatch like everyone else does.”

“I will not be calling you by that hideous nickname, no matter how much it suits you, but I’ll call you Kip if you call me Teddy.”

A groan escapes my throat. “Fine.”

“Good.” My eyes shoot to the crown of her head as she nods curtly. “Then we agree.”

“Shake on it?” When I stick out my callused hand, she draws hers back.

Pushes an errant hair behind her ear, glancing down at her feet. “We’re good.”

She’s not scared of me, is she? I shove my hands inside the pockets of my cargo shorts.

“Shower?”

“I…yeah. I want to say no, because this whole thing is just so awkward for me, but since I’m starting to stink like a distillery, I probably should.”

“You already stank in the car.” My lips twitch at her shocked expression.

Her nose wrinkles. “Gee, thanks.”

“I’m just fucking with you.”

“Okay, well…” She hoists her clean clothes in the air. “Lead the way, I guess.”

I don’t. Instead, I point toward the staircase and flick my finger in that general direction. “Up the stairs, first door on the right. Root around for towels—I think there are some in there.”

There should be, because my mom and sister came one weekend and didn’t leave until the place was stocked and spotless. I had everything I needed when I moved in, like the pampered son of a billionaire would.

God I hope Teddy doesn’t get all weird on me after she spends the night.