Beauty of Your Name

"Where've you been, Bella?" Emmett asked, throwing his arm around her and dropping a brotherly kiss to the top of her head. "You missed the end of a royal ass-kicking!"

Bella had just come back from helping Edward cool down to find that Nashville had just defeated Roanoke. She felt somewhat guilty for leaving her team while they were playing their third match of the day, but…who could really blame her?

"Sorry, Em," she said. "I was just—"

"Swan!" Whitlock interrupted, pressing a beer into Emmett's hand. "You killed it, man."

Bella chewed on the inside of her cheek as she stood tucked under her brother's arm. She was grateful for Whitlock's intrusion. In all honesty, she hadn't actually thought of a good excuse for being absent for the last twenty or so minutes. She glanced over at the Lexington tent again to see the blonde girl sneering at an exhausted Edward. The girl seemed to have a major heap of contempt for him. She'd all but kicked him in the side when he'd collapsed from the heat, and even though he'd carried their team to victory three times that day, she seemed to be downright cruel to him. Was this girl connected with the mafia thing Edward had told her about? Bella still felt silly thinking the word, but from the looks of things, the situation was no laughing matter. For some reason, she believed every word he had told her.

At the pub later that night, Bella wondered how Edward was feeling and whether she'd see him there. When she was on her second whiskey of the night—Jameson this time—she spied him across the room, holding a Guinness and chatting with one of his teammates. He didn't look unwell at all. He was downright handsome. His hair looked darker and damp, like he'd only recently showered, and he wore those fitted jeans and t-shirt like nobody's business. Edward seemed to search the room when his conversation ended, and she hoped with everything in her that he was looking for her. Even if she knew he could only bring trouble with him, she wanted to be near him, if only to hear him call her pretty in that gorgeous accent.

His gaze finally landed on her, and his face seemed to brighten. He didn't hesitate to approach her, greeting her with a nod.

"Bella."

"Edw—Anthony," she said, heart stuttering at her near slip-up.

He furrowed his brow and took a pull from his glass. "Americans. Can't pour a pint to save their lives."

"No good?" she asked, taking a sip from her own drink.

He wrinkled his nose. "It's not the worst, but not like back home. What about you? Still drinkin' that shite near-whiskey?"

"No," she said, holding her glass to her chest. "It's Jameson tonight. And Tullamore Dew's not shite."

"Good to see you step up your game with a real drink. And aye, it is shite."

"It's cheaper."

"It's shite." A grin spread over his face, and she knew he was teasing her. His green eyes held her gaze just a beat too long before he looked around the pub. There was another cover band playing, different from the night before but just as bad. "What do you reckon about this place?"

"Not the worst," she answered, copying his expression and returning his flirty grin.

"Well, you're here, anyway. And that, Pretty Bella, makes it my favorite place in the world right now."

A self-conscious heat spread over her face, sending a tingling heat down her neck and into her chest. His pretty words would be the death of her.

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