“Please?”

“You want to pose for a picture with me? Why don’t I just take one of you?”

Georgia considers this. “It’s such a pretty view.”

Pretty view.

She sure is.

It.

It sure is, not her.

Jesus, Ash, get a grip.

She’s busy retrieving her mobile and poking away on the screen with her finger, pulling up the camera and holding it as far out in front of her as she can.

“You need to get closer.”

Yeah, no.

My body stays rooted to the spot.

No need to move, as she does it for the both of us, scooting herself across the rock until we’re both in the picture.

“Would you smile?”

“I am smiling.” I’m not though—I’m gritting my teeth, gap taking center stage, causing me to frown.

This fucking gap.

Never used to be there; I stopped wearing my retainer a few years ago because what jackarse wants to wear a retainer to bed, and the gap appeared over the course of time.

“Maybe you should hold the phone—your arms are longer.”

They are indeed.

I outweigh her and am taller than her by at least eight inches, arm span like a set of wings, and now she wants me to take her mobile and take the picture with it.

The picture I didn’t want to be in to begin with.

“Fine.”

It’s dwarfed in my hand now as I extend my arm, thumb on the camera button—and when I snap the first selfie, Georgie smushes against me closer still, beaming up with that killer smile of hers.

I smell her.

She smells like sunshine and whatever fruity lotion she put on, her hair almost in my face. Up my nose.

It’s impossible not to take a whiff.

Before I know it, Georgia’s arm is sliding around my back, her hand throwing out the peace sign as I hit the dumb little camera button.

“Would you smile? You look like you have to take a shit.”

My mouth falls open, and for the second time since meeting her, I’m caught off guard—the first time being that night she approached me at the rugby house to ask me out on a dare.

And here she is telling me I look constipated.

I smile.

“Okay never mind.” She laughs. “It looks like I’m holding you here against your will.”

Her face is still facing the camera; this time she schools her expression so it matches mine and I snap away until she eventually snatches her mobile back to inspect the photos.

She doesn’t move over, doesn’t give me the space we had when we sat down, probably because she’s so busy going through the shots I took.

“This one is cute.”

The picture is thrust in my face.

“Cute?”

I sure as hell don’t look cute, but she does—then again, does it matter what my face is doing? Do girls care?

Another group makes their way to the top—four people, two couples—doing what we did when we made it. Looking around and oohing and aahing at the view.

Georgia offers to take their picture because she’s in the mood, I guess.

I watch as she laughs and places them, as if she’s a professional photographer that’s been hired. Moving one girl so her arm isn’t blocking her girlfriend, shifting the guy so he’s to the right. Over a little. No, that branch is in the way—everyone take one step to the left.

Georgia is a natural with people, rearranging the foursome for the second time, oblivious to me idly standing by, their laughter echoing through the valley.

We’re up high where the air is clean and the overlook goes on for miles and miles and miles.

“They’re from school,” she says, rejoining me, dusting the gravel off her knees because she knelt down to play photog. “Mostly liberal arts majors.”

“What does that mean?”

“Uh—music and art and I think…psychology? Gosh, I’m not actually sure, but they all seemed really nice.”

I glance over.

The group is still taking pictures, selfies mostly, the couples holding hands and doing lovey-dovey shit that makes me look away quickly.

No one needs to see that shite, least of all me.

There’s a picnic table at the far end away from the group and Georgia heads in that direction, reaching it before me and climbing to sit her arse on the tabletop, trainers on the sitting bench.

I join her as she stretches her legs, noticing that they look smooth.

She’s tan from being in the sun, on the track, legs long and toned in all the right places.

Muscular but feminine.

She flexes and her calf muscles tighten.

I avert my damn eyes so she doesn’t catch me staring; the last thing I need is for her to see me gawking at her—I don’t need her moving out because she feels creeped out.

It’s only been a day, but it’s already fucking fantastic having someone else in the house—less lonely.

Less silent.

Less monotonous.

“Thanks for bringing me up here—I love anything with a scenic view.” She glances over. “And thank you for breakfast.”

I picked up her coffee and the croissant she ordered, plus the extra granola bars she wanted for her backpack on the off chance we got hungry on our way up or down the bluffs.

“You’re welcome.” Is it just me or do I sound like I’m grunting?

“What are you up to tonight?”

“Sundays I usually lie around watching the telly, but I did that last night, so…I don’t know. I haven’t been downtown lately.”

Downtown to the bars.

Kind of fun if enough people are out.

“What’s your favorite?”

“Pub? Probably Nomads.”

It’s a little divey and loud, but they have peanuts in buckets on the tables and it’s usually busy with a fun crowd. Having a pint or two to knock off at the end of the week does my body good.

“I’ve never been there.”

Is she angling for an invitation, or is she simply telling me she’s never been to Nomads? It’s hard to know with females.

Some of them have ulterior motives.

“Wanna come?”

Georgia hesitates. “You want to hang out with me?”

I mean…she’s as good as any of my mates, and less drama, too, which is saying a lot. Stewart and Andy and the lads are great, but they’re so fucking sensitive. And if I hear one more word from Stew’s gob about dating or anyone from the team yapping about rugby on our days off, I’ll go stand in front of a moving bus.

Nope.

Georgia will do just fine as a sidekick.

“It’s Sunday so I probably won’t get pissed.”

She tilts her head. “Does that mean mad or something completely different?”

“Drunk,” I explain. “Trollied. Rat-arsed.”

“Rat-arsed?” she repeats. “Um, that’s maybe my new favorite word.”

That has me laughing. “You can’t just say it whenever you fancy.”

“Whenever I fancy? Love that, too.”

Wow. She’d be so easy to court, or romance, or whatever people call it. Putty in my British hands.

Or not.

Georgia is a hard one to figure out—plus, we have that roommate thing going on.

“What else do you fancy?” I ask, curious.