I sigh loudly in relief, putting the kettle on and taking a moment to take it all in. There’s usually so much you can tell about a person judging by where they live, but Lachlan’s apartment doesn’t give me much. He told me he’s been living here for about five years now, but to be honest, it’s not that much different in terms of personal touches than the short-term rental he had in San Francisco. There’s some art on the walls, vintage concert posters framed extravagantly in the living room, and subdued modern art in the dining room, but none of that really seems to reflect his personality. The same goes for his furniture. While it’s all very nice, the only thing that seems to have any reflection of him is the wood dining table, with its knots and grains and imperfections.

The bookshelves hold mainly hardcover non-fiction books ranging from memoirs to travel, but there are just a few items and photos held on the shelves and on top of the fireplace mantel. The photos are of him and Edinburgh Rugby, one of him and Lionel, and then one of him and, who I’m guessing are his adopted parents after a game, his hair matted, barely smiling in his uniform. If this was my house, I would have my shit cluttered all over the place. All you need to do is walk inside, look around, and you immediately know that Kayla Moore lives there.

If I’d met Lachlan on the street, and by some good fortune strolled on home with him here, I’m not sure I could glean anything from his home that I didn’t already know. That said, his flat does have a nice feel to it, just as he does. I’m sure over time it will become more and more comfortable. I’ll adapt to it and it will adapt to me.

When he comes back from his walk, I hear him in the hallway talking to the dogs in a happy, playful tone. The coffee is ready, so I lean against the counter, slowly sipping from the cup while he walks into the kitchen.

“Wow,” he says when he sees me, stopping by the door to look me up and down, shaking his head slightly.

“What?” I ask, wanting to know why he’s staring at me with such awe.

He runs his hand over his chin. “You. Here. In my kitchen. In nothing but your knickers.”

I raise my coffee cup. “And with coffee.”

“Dream woman, that’s what you are,” he says, sauntering over to me with that ever present swagger. While he may be wowed by the sight of me, I’m equally wowed by him, particularly by the way his drawstring pants hang so low on his waist, showing that perfect V and giving me one hell of a dick imprint. I’m glad I can continue to wow him in every way possible.

He comes over, bracketing me in between his large hands, his body pressed up against mine. He gazes down at me through his lashes, eyes roaming my face, the smallest smirk on his lips. “I think I can get used to this,” he says, voice low and husky and reaching inside me. My spine liquefies at the sound of it, my skin dancing with anticipation because I know, I know, he’s going to touch me and my body is in constant need.

“What time do we have to head on out?” I ask him, closing my eyes as he leans down and kisses my neck.

He groans, sending shivers through me. “Where do I have to go again?”

“To practice,” I remind him. “And you’re taking me somewhere first. To your work. Though I suppose we could do that another day,” I add hopefully.

He sighs. “No.” He pulls back and peers at my face. “I wish, but if I don’t go back, I’ll be in big trouble.”

He doesn’t have to tell me. I know rugby is his career, and I know how important it is to him. The last thing I want is for him to feel guilty about it.

I decide to lighten the mood. I run my hands down his taut waist and gaze up at him sweetly. “What happens when you get in big trouble? Do the other boys pull down your shorts and give you a spanking?”

He raises his brow. “Filthy, filthy creature,” he murmurs.

I run my thumb under the waistband of his pants, feeling his warm, soft skin. “Well, don’t spoil my fantasy now.”

“Right. Well, yes, of course we pull down each other’s shorts and take turns beating each other with sticks. Sometimes we rub butter all over each other and have one big tackle.” He pauses. “Actually, that happened once, but I think we all had a bit too much to drink. It’s not easy to tackle a naked, oily man. Was good practice though.”

I study him, unable to figure out if he’s serious or not. “Rugby is a very weird sport.”

He reaches around me for the mug I set out for him. “You’ll come to practice sooner or later and see for yourself.”

“I can do that?” I ask, suddenly excited at the prospect of seeing him in action. I step to the side to let him pour the coffee.

“If you’d like,” he says. “I can’t say whether I’d be playing or at my full capacity, but I’ll arrange it. Hopefully on a good day. I don’t want you to start thinking I’m not the player you thought I was.”

“Oh, I never thought you were a player,” I tease him. “Gay, maybe.”

There’s just the slightest roll of his eyes. “Right, well that rubbing butter over our naked bodies didn’t really help now, did it?” He takes a sip of his coffee and closes his eyes. “By the way, love, this is bloody good. If you can make me coffee every morning for the rest of my life, I will die a happy man.”

There’s brevity in his eyes, but his words still hit me hard. God, could that even be possible? My thoughts trip and suddenly I’m imagining myself right here, in this kitchen, weeks from now, months from now, years from now. What would that be like? To be with someone like him for that long? Contrary to how I used to think, at least with Kyle, that thought doesn’t scare me anymore. Instead, it makes my heart warm, skipping a beat.

“Only thing is,” he continues, as if he hasn’t just put the most wonderful imagery in the world inside my head, “I wish you could actually be here to see me in action. Our first game starts the week you leave, and I highly doubt I’ll be put on the pitch.”

My heart may have been skipping a beat but now it’s sinking.

I swallow hard and grip the edge of his shirt. “New rule. Neither of us are to mention the fact that I’m leaving in three weeks.”

His eyes narrow and he nods. “All right. That’s fair. What about when you book your flight back?”

“Leave that to me,” I tell him, knowing he’s already offered to pay for my return. “I’ll take care of it when I do.”

“Or maybe you could not, and just stay here indefinitely,” he says, focused on his coffee cup until he briefly looks up at me. He shrugs one shoulder. “It might be an option.”

This man is tempting me at every turn. First it was coming here, now it’s the idea of never leaving.

“We both know I can’t do that,” I tell him. Then I playfully punch his rock hard shoulder. “And hey, what did I say about that? We don’t mention it, okay? Let’s just…enjoy this.”

“For as long as we can?” he says, and damn if I don’t see sorrow in the way he scrunches up his brow.

“For as long as we can.”

***

A couple of hours later, after a quick breakfast of sausage and eggs, courtesy of Lachlan (and no, that’s not an innuendo), we leave the dogs behind and pile into his car. I’ve never been inside a Range Rover before, but damn if it’s not a perfect car for him—big, tough, and rugged. But instead of taking it out into the wilderness, we cruise through the busy city streets, heading to his organization which is across town.

I can’t help but ogle out the window at everything we pass. The buildings are so different, so old, so charming and full of character you can’t duplicate. They bleed history, and I find myself getting antsy over exploring the city. Already it feels like there’s not enough time to do everything, and even though I want to soak up as much Lachlan as I can, I want to take in as much of Edinburgh as possible. It’s probably because of my present company, but it already feels like the city is leaving a stamp on my heart.