He was trying to kill you.
That was the only conclusion that you could come to for what you were witnessing right now. He was flat out, with a smile, trying to fucking kill you.
And he was succeeding.
You sucked in a breath as he walked past you, a smug smirk on his face, a bottle of beer at his lips. You narrowed your eyes to a glare as he winked.
Fucking asshole.
"You alright there Y/N?" Your attention was captured by your friend beside you.
"Fine." You muttered, taking a large swig from your glass of wine. "Just fucking fine."
"You're looking at him like you want to eat him." she laughed. "What's the deal?'
"I'm looking at him like I'm pissed off at him."
"Why? Did he do something? Do I have to kill him?"
"Because he's an ass. He wore a fucking kilt to a barbeque and no, I'm going to kill him myself."
"Why on earth would you be upset that he wore a kilt?" she wondered aloud, tilting her head as Jack ran across the lawn. "He looks amazing in it."
"That's just the fucking problem." you downed the last of your wine, sending a baleful glance in his direction.
She was apparently oblivious as she sighed, watching Jack bend over to grab a bag of charcoal, kilt riding up the back of his bare legs.
"You think he wears underwear under that thing?"
You knew full well Jack wasn't wearing a damn thing under it, he was nothing if not traditional and your raised brow had her moaning in appreciation.
"Y/N you might just well be the luckiest woman on earth."
"Yeah, right, that's me....lucky, lucky, lucky."
You watched him from behind the rim of a new glass, feeling a slight buzz coming on. You were lucky, you reminded yourself. In the grand scheme of things you were incredibly lucky, you loved your job, you lived in a city that you loved and you had arguably the world's most perfect man.
You just weren't.....lucky.
He'd been away in New Zealand filming for 8 weeks and had only flown in the night before, dead on his feet and passing out before even reaching his bed. There hadn't been time for a proper hello this morning before you'd had to be here, the engagement party for two of your best friends, the couple who'd introduced you.
While he's been away it had been easier to deal with the need. Long torrid phone calls, Skype, there had been many occasions to relieve some of the tension that came from missing one another. But after missing his physical touch for so long, having him within arm's reach was killing you.
And he knew it.
Just like he knew, from one phone call in particular that you had a definite and strong thing for him in a kilt. He'd never worn one as long as you'd known him, but you had seen pictures and they served to drive you crazy.
So the fact that he was walking around your friend's backyard wearing one, after not having put his hands on you in two months had you all hot and bothered. In more ways than one.
The smug bastard was playing a game. He liked to tease, he loved to taunt and he lived to rile you up because he knew that you couldn't stay mad at him for more than a few minutes. He was certainly testing those limits today.
Everytime he bent down, ran or even moved he would look over to you, that smirk on his face, laughing to himself when you would look away which red cheeks. When the guys all got together and pulled out a table for ping pong you knew you were going to be a goner.
