The Play

  Of course, at the moment I’m not doing that either. Maybe that’s why I’m getting so worked up and frustrated about life.

  I leave my mom’s and head back into the city, my mind running over her words. She tells me not to be afraid of love, but it blows my mind how she can even say that. She said she would never be the same without my father…how can that not scare you? How can you just keep going with that loss, believing in love even when it’s left you? The amount of hope and faith involved is staggering.

  That night, I barely sleep a wink. It isn’t just what my mother said. It’s my nerves. Stupid nerves. I can’t remember the last time I was nervous. I don’t get nervous.

  And yet here I am, a nervous pervous, thinking about the interview tomorrow, feeling all the pressure that wasn’t there before.

  I’m still anxious when I wake up. I head into work, feeling like I swallowed a ball of electricity. I’m like this all the way until before lunch, then it intensifies until I’m practically jumping out of my skin.

  I have to admit, the excitement, even over something so simple, is intoxicating. I decide to roll with it, to stay positive. I’m going to win this man over. I’m going to get the best interview of my life. Well, so far, the only interview of my life.

  I grab my bag and head to the washroom to make sure I’m looking just right. I’m wearing skinny black capri pants with zebra print loafers, and an eggplant silk blouse that shows just a hint of what little cleavage I have. My hair is loose today, long and wavy, and so shiny it resembles a pool of oil (thanks to me going overboard this morning with hair glosser). My dad was from Iceland (that’s actually where my parents met), and while I inherited my mother’s thick black hair, I also inherited his wavy texture that goes AWOL when it’s humid.

  I look…respectable. Maybe even hot, especially if I toss my hair over my shoulder and slick on some nude lip gloss. I hope he’ll take me seriously and want to bone me at the same time.

  I make some last minute adjustments, ignore the texts coming in from Nicola and Stephanie and Bram who are all wishing me luck (and therefore making this out to be a bigger deal than it actually is), and make my way across the streetcar tracks to the ferry building.

  Blue Bottle Coffee is an SF institution and kind of a hipster mecca, and just as I suspected, there’s a giant line snaking out into the building’s airy hall. The café attached has limited seating, but I was hoping that once we got our coffees we could go outside and stare at the ferries and the Bay Bridge. I mean, pretend to stare at the ferries and the Bay Bridge, while I’ll be scoping out his ass. Thank god for dark sunglasses.

  But for the life of me, I don’t see Lachlan anywhere.

  I casually fish my phone out of my purse to check, but there’s nothing on the screen except for my Orphan Black wallpaper. I get in line for coffee instead and hope that I’m not being stood up.

  I’m almost at the cashier—five minutes have crawled by and I want to stab everyone in the line with a stir stick—when I feel a presence to the side of me. It’s more than a presence. I feel eclipsed.

  “Kayla?” Just one rough, Scotch-soaked word and I’m dessert all over again.

  Play it cool, play it cool.

  I turn to face him. I look up. And up. And I give him the biggest grin in the world. I’m surprised my tongue doesn’t loll out of my mouth.

  “Oh, hi!” I say, way too enthusiastically. “Lachlan, right?”

  He frowns. Obviously not endeared by my raging awkwardness.

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry I’m late. Still finding my way around.”

  I know I should look away. Say something else, even. Maybe, “It’s not a problem, what would you like to drink?”

  But I can’t. I am rendered speechless by this man. I am Jell-O, putty, and other soft, moldable substances. I am anything but Kayla Moore when I am around Lachlan McGregor.

  So I stare at him. Black jeans, nicely fitted, a dark grey flannel shirt that looks cozy enough to sleep in and plays up the breadth of his chest and shoulders. In the natural light of the ferry building, his eyes are lighter, leaning more towards grey-green, like the water of San Francisco Bay. The more he frowns at me, his lightly tanned forehead scrunching together into deep, craggy lines, the more I like it. I feel like I’m being examined. Scrutinized. And he looks rough. Dangerous. I want him to spill all his secrets.

  “Miss?”

  I barely hear the words uttered from behind me. Lachlan looks over my shoulder, then tilts his head at me.

  “You’re wanted,” he says in his thick brogue.

  “Oh?” I ask coyly.

  He jerks his chin at the barista at the counter. “It’s your turn.”

  Right. That. I smile again and I know it reads pure goof. So much for being sexy. Or even tolerable.

  I turn and give the barista my attention. I quickly order an almond milk latte for myself.

  “What would you like?” I ask Lachlan.

  “Tea, black,” he answers.

  “Oooh, black tea, living dangerously,” I tease him.

  He doesn’t smile back. He just stares at me, brow furrowed, like I’m too stupid to live.

  Well isn’t this going just great? I remind myself that I’m not here to win Lachlan over, to be sexy, cute, funny, or anything that I normally am. I’m here to write about Bram’s stupid charity. I find myself cursing the Scot once again.

  I pay and then step off to the side while we wait for our drinks.

  Lachlan reaches into his jeans and pulls out two rumpled dollar bills, holding it out for me.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “For the tea,” he says gruffly and shakes it at me.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, “but it’s on me. Don’t worry.”

  He grunts something then reaches over to the counter and sticks the money in the tip jar, which gets an appreciative thank you from the overworked barista.

  Thankfully he gets his tea right away and my latte doesn’t take long either, so we don’t have to stand around awkwardly while I think of things to say. I spent all morning going over questions I was going to ask him, but now that he’s here, standing in front of me, I can barely remember where I work.

  “So,” I say to him, wishing I had wrote my questions down on my phone instead of on the notepad. That I forgot at the office. Of course. “Do you want to take a stroll outside?”

  He nods, taking a sip of his tea, his eyes darting everywhere else except at me.

  I clear my throat and we walk away from the coffee shop and past the shops. It’s actually a good place to meet someone you don’t know—there’s lots to look at.

  But of course all I want to do is look at him, even though I get the feeling that my eyes constantly roving all over him isn’t that appreciated. It’s just that it’s hard when you’re walking beside a beast of a man. I feel so tiny in his shadow.

  “Have you done interviews before?” I ask.

  He gives me a sidelong glance. “Have you?”

  I grimace, feeling sheepish. “Uh, well, not really. This is my first one. I mean, legitimately. In university I wrote for the school paper, but that was a fucking long time ago.”

  He nods. Another sip of tea. “Bram mentioned that.”

  “What else did he mention?”

  “That this could help get him some attention.”

  “Him?” I repeat. “Aren’t you in this as much as he is?”

  Lachlan shrugs. “Not really. I just helped out with what I could.”

  We come to the doors leading outside to the docks and he holds one open for me. Well, at least he hasn’t forgotten his manners.

  “Thank you,” I tell him. He makes a dismissive noise in return.

  The air is beautifully fresh outside and seems to clear my head. The sun shines down with ferocity we rarely see this time of year.

  “So, back to you,” I say, bringing it around. “Have you done lots of interviews before? I mean, I don’t know, you must be used to it with rugby. Aren’t rugby p
layers celebrities over there?”

  Another nod. “I’ve done some.”

  We pause at the railing overlooking the ferries, watching seagulls wheel overhead, and I wonder if I should start taking notes. Then again, he hasn’t really given me any information.

  “And what rugby team do you play for back in Scotland? I heard you represented the country at the World Cup.”

  “I play for Edinburgh. And I was in the last two world cups.”

  “Did you win?” I ask hopefully.

  He turns his head to look at me and shakes it ever so slightly. I could swear he almost looks amused. “No.”

  “Aw, that sucks,” I say because I’m not really sure what the right response is.

  He shrugs. Leans against the railing and stares off into the distance. The breeze ruffles his hair slightly, golden brown highlights catching in the sun.

  I do the same and lean on the rail beside him, my arms looking like toothpicks in comparison to his, his sleeves rolled up to showcase thick forearms. I glance over the tattoos, words and images, and when I look up, he’s staring down at me. I’m not sure he realizes how intense his gaze can be, and it takes a lot for me to look away.

  “Do your tattoos tell a story?” I manage to ask.

  He keeps on staring, completely unreadable. Then he looks down at his arm and it flexes beautifully. “Everything tells a story.”

  Now it’s my turn to give him the eye. “Do you mind elaborating?”

  “Will my tattoos help with the article?”

  “It might,” I tell him, starting to get a bit frustrated at how unforthcoming he is.

  But still, he doesn’t elaborate.

  “So how was the no pants party?” he asks, adjusting his stance so he’s facing me.

  I blink at him. “What?”

  He looks me up and down. “When I first saw you, you had a shirt on that said ‘no pants party.’”

  He’s joking, right? I find myself scrutinizing him just as he does to me. Then his mouth, that gorgeous, luscious mouth, quirks up, just a bit. It’s subtle but it’s the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile.

  “Pants are usually a waste of time,” I tell him. “The only reason I’m wearing them now is because my work expects me to be ‘professional,’” I add, using air quotes.

  “How would they know if you’re wearing pants or not?” he asks, and then cranes his head to look at my ass.

  I’m both flattered that he’s looking and hella confused as to why. I frown. “Huh?”

  “Oh,” he says, bringing his gaze back to me. “In the UK, pants is another word for underwear. Thought you had a predisposition to go commando.”

  I laugh. “No, no. Well, I do. I mean, underwear is a waste of time, really. But no, the shirt was about…anyway it doesn’t matter.”

  “I agree,” he says.

  “About what?”

  “Pants being a waste of time.”

  My mind goes wild. I’m picturing him not only without any pants on, but with no underwear either. I try and keep my eyes focused on his upper body instead of looking for a dick imprint and getting an idea of what nude Lachlan really looks like.

  “Of course,” he continues, “it’s smart to wear them during a match. You’d be surprised how many times your shorts get pulled down during a tackle.”

  And my imagination explodes. “The other guys pull down your shorts?” My brain is suddenly bombarded by images of him wearing tight little shorts while other big, burly men pull them down. Dicks flying everywhere.

  He looks me over. “Have you ever seen a rugby game?”

  “No. But if you wear shorts and other men are constantly pulling them down, I may have to start watching it.”

  “Do you watch any sports?”

  I consider that. “I watch baseball. But only when the Giants play. But in general, no. I don’t think it’s good for my heart. I tend to get a little worked up. I’m known to throw things.”

  “You’d fit right in with Scotland, then. We’re a passionate bunch when it comes to our teams. Passionate and a little nuts.”

  “You consider yourself a little nuts?”

  “Well, of course. Isn’t everyone?”

  I nod. He has a point. “Yeah. I’m definitely not normal.”

  “No, you aren’t.”

  I glance at him sharply, not sure whether to be offended or not. “Hey.”

  He isn’t bothered. “Bram said you were a handful.”

  I roll my eyes and make a noise of disgust. “Of course Bram said that. But listen, your cousin is full of shit.”

  “He said you were thirteen going on thirty.” Again, his lips twitch into that almost smile. Well, I’m glad he finds that amusing above all else.

  “I am thirty,” I say bitterly. “And he’s the one who acts like a teenager. Same with Linden. Both your cousins are in a state of arrested development.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  “But they aren’t really your cousins, are they? That’s probably why you’re so different.”

  The air around us seems to sharpen. The line between his brows deepens and his gaze turns hard. “They aren’t really my cousins?” His voice is like flint.

  Oh shit. I feel like I’ve said the wrong thing.

  “Um, you’re adopted, right?”

  His jaw tenses and I’m absolutely terrified that maybe he didn’t even know he was adopted. Holy fuck, did I just ruin absolutely everything forever?

  A million beats pass. I feel like the pause goes on for eternity. This silence is deadly.

  Then he says, “Yes, I’m adopted.”

  How do I recover? What do I say?

  “Sorry,” I apologize. I put my hand on his forearm and feel the warmth of his skin. Then he stares down at my hand and I quickly remove it. “I didn’t mean to get personal.”

  “Mm-hmm,” he grumbles, and looks away. His posture is rigid, muscles strained. I pissed him off. I know it. Why do I have to be so good at pissing people off?

  “Sorry,” I say again, nearly helpless.

  He clears his throat and downs the rest of his tea. It must be scalding hot still but he doesn’t even wince. “Listen, I better get going. Hope you got what you wanted. I’m sure Bram would love to talk some more about the project.”

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He can’t go now! We didn’t even talk about the project at all! What the fuck am I supposed to write about?

  “Um, uh,” I stammer. “Maybe we can meet again when you have more time? I feel bad, I haven’t asked you anything important yet.”

  He straightens up and nods at me, avoiding my eyes. “I’ll see you later, aye.”

  And then he walks off. I stand there feeling stupid and watch his taught, perky ass disappear from sight.

  “Kayla, you are a total fucking idiot,” I say out loud, which prompts a cautious glance from a passerby. I sigh and lean against the railing, staring down at the choppy water. Bram hadn’t been kidding when he said I shouldn’t ask him anything too personal. And I guess adoption is always a personal thing. It just really sucks since I felt like we were finally having a good rapport with each other. Getting answers from him was like getting blood from a stone, and I finally felt like I was breaking through.

  And of course I had to go and mess it all up, because that’s what I do. Maybe if he wasn’t so damn good-looking, I would have been able to think better. I decide to blame my vagina for robbing my brain of its much-needed blood supply.

  I bring out my phone and text Bram.

  It didn’t go too well, I type and press send.

  He responds almost instantly. I had a feeling. What happened?

  I asked the wrong question and he pretty much shut it all down.

  What did you ask him?

  I groan as I type, I mentioned the fact that he was adopted. I guess he didn’t like that.

  Bram’s response takes a while. The dots flash as he types on his end, and I know he’s just going nuts. Finally it comes through as: That
was stupid. I guess he erased whatever he was going to originally say. Probably smart. I don’t normally feel bruised but after all this, I’m strangely fragile.

  Yeah, I fucked up. Sorry. But I’ll write what I can. I may come to you with some questions if that’s okay.

  No worries.

  And though Bram said no worries, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t worry.

  I take a deep breath and make my way back to the office where I sit down and pretend to concentrate on my real job for the rest of the day.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lachlan

  I hate interviews.

  I mean, I really, really despise them. So when Bram told me that his girl’s friend would be contacting me, wanting to interview me for some San Francisco weekly magazine, I immediately said no.

  Don’t get me wrong. I want to help him out. After all, I’m here, aren’t I? I’m supporting him the best I can, putting my own money in. I’ve always had a soft spot for charity, and even though I hadn’t seen my cousin for years, I have a soft spot for family too.

  But interviews are a whole other thing. Nothing is worse than having to talk about yourself, especially to someone who will twist your words around. The number of times I’ve been called “difficult” and “temperamental” by a news article or interview is high, high enough that I just full-on stopped doing them. It became less about the game and more about whatever salacious items they could drag up about me, and that’s a game that I just don’t play.

  And the main problem is, there’s a lot about me that they can bring into the light. Not necessarily things that I’m ashamed of, but stuff that shouldn’t concern anyone else except me. Privacy is everyone’s given right, and the problem with the world today is the fact that everyone thinks they have a right to it, too. So fucking what if I play for Edinburgh? Does that mean the public has a right to know about my personal life, my private life? No, it doesn’t.