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.