“Someone’s overcompensating for something, huh?” Rhys had winked at me, and I’d almost choked trying to stifle my laughter.
Now we were ready to play. Ten staff members plus their partners had shown up for paintball. The grounds were a forty-minute drive west of Boston, and to say it had been the most awkward forty-minute ride was an understatement. I’d rented an electric car to take me and Rhys to paintball and those babies were so quiet, they only enhanced the silence between me and my fake boyfriend.
So, I rambled. I rambled the entire way to distract myself from the memory of Rhys’s mouth, from his hands on me, and the delicious feel of his strong body against mine.
The kiss on our fake date had gotten out of hand.
Understatement.
My toes curled in my sneakers at the mere memory.
Rhys had offered to give me a ride home after we pretended like our kiss hadn’t been explosive and hot and pretty much the best kiss of my life.
Guilt suffused me.
It might have been epic for me, but I had to remind myself that it was probably nothing new to Rhys. He’d most likely had a million kisses with similar physical effect. It was a sexual kiss.
I’d had better romantic kisses.
I had.
Struggling to remember a specific one made me feel like hell.
My only recourse was to forget the night in Rhys’s awesome loft or die of self-flagellation.
“Let’s do this.” Jackson grinned at us, buzzing with energy. His fiancée, Camille, stood at his side, somehow still glamorous in her army fatigues. She and Jackson had taken dressing appropriately seriously. They both wore a light khaki T-shirt under a matching camouflage shirt and pants, and Camille had tied her shirt in a knot at her waist.
Except for Pete, who not only wore camouflage but a chest guard too, the rest of us dressed in comfortable green or khaki clothing to help us blend with the woodland. When Rhys and I arrived, we’d changed into our paintball clothes so as not to get paint on the seats of my rental car on our way home.
Upon advice from my colleague Stuart, I wore layers. Despite the nice weather, I had on yoga pants beneath loose-fitting cargo pants, and a long-sleeved T-shirt beneath a button-down shirt.
Rhys had come out of the changing rooms in a long-sleeved Henley and cargo pants, the muscles of his biceps flexing with every movement. He stood among my colleagues like Thor surrounded by fans at a comic book convention.
Our team included me, Rhys, my colleagues Stuart, Michael, Xander, and Ben, plus their respective partners, David, Freda, Laura, and Ben’s friend Nick because his wife was pregnant and couldn’t play. My colleagues and their partners could not have looked more overjoyed to be on Rhys’s team.
It was hard not to roll my eyes.
“Walkie-talkies.” Jackson handed me a bag and kept another for himself. “To communicate with your team. And your flag.” Ben took the bright red flag from our boss; Jackson held onto a bright yellow one. “First team to capture the other’s flag wins. We’ll split up. Yellow team goes east, red team west. We’ll both choose a team leader and where to hide the flag.” He grinned cockily. “May the best team win.”
“Yeah!” Yellow team shouted, following it up with lighthearted ribbing that my teammates responded to. Rhys and I stayed silent, although he smirked in amusement, listening to what must’ve sounded like tame banter compared to the insults he’d exchanged with opponents in the ring.
“Let’s go,” Rhys instructed our team as the yellow team departed.
We followed him and took off through the woods to the west side of the compound. The paintball face mask and visor were a little uncomfortable, and the gun was a foreign object in my hands.
“I vote Rhys as team leader,” Stuart said as we came to a stop. “Any objections?”
Xander chuckled. “None at all.”
Rhys assumed the role like it was a foregone conclusion. “Talkies.” He took the bag from me and handed one to each of us. “Everyone know how to use ’em?”
We all nodded.
My fake boyfriend suddenly frowned. “These are on a different frequency from the yellow team, right?”
He was so serious and into this.
It was not hot.
Okay, it was mildly warming.
“Yeah, Jackson plays fair,” Ben assured him.
Rhys gave a militant nod. “Ben, Nick, you’ll hide our flag and take the nearest position to protect it.”