Текст книги "The Play"

Автор книги: Karina Halle

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Unfortunately, as they get closer and Lachlan’s eyes finally meet mine, I see nothing but indifference in them.

I quickly look away, suddenly aware of how I must appear, and curse myself once again for letting my friends drag me out here when I could be watching Damon Salvatore instead. At least I don’t care if he sees me in my pajamas.

All the better for your vow, I tell myself. I refrain from adding a shut up rebuttal. See, talking to myself again.

“Hey sweetie,” Steph says to Linden, grinning at him like an idiot, just as I called it. I ignore the pleasantries the couples make and stare down at my wine instead, waiting for the dreaded introduction. My eyes slide over to the floor and I take in their shoes—shiny dressy ones for Bram, Keds for Linden, and hiking boots for Lachlan. They look worn and beaten and oh so large.

“Kayla,” Bram says, almost delicately. I love how they treat me like I’m a bomb they’re about to diffuse.

I slowly look up to meet his dark eyes.

“This is our cousin, Lachlan.” He steps aside slightly and gestures to the beast of a man. “Lach, this is Kayla.”

I play it cool. I nod and say, “Nice to meet you.”

What I really want to say is, “Can I please lick your face?” Because it’s a damn good face, especially up close. He’s all frowny, like he’s trying to figure out why he should care who I am, and it makes a deep line appear between his eyes and I kind of want to run my finger over it. His eyes themselves are this vivid, sharp hazel, leaning more toward green. There’s a deep hollow beneath his cheekbones, his wide jaw is lined with a perfectly scruffy beard, and his hair is brown and thick and tuggable. Then there are his lips. They’re show-stopping lips. They are lips I need between my legs.

At that thought, the heat builds in my core, and I can feel my face flushing.

It just makes him frown more.

“Kayla,” he acknowledges. His voice is very low and very rough, like he belongs in a 40s noir film, and his Scottish brogue is a million times thicker than Linden or Bram’s. My name coming from his mouth sounds like some kind of Gaelic dessert. Naturally that thought puts an image of him spreading me open on the table and eating me like a dessert.

Jesus. I need a cold shower, stat.

“We should get a bigger booth,” Nicola says, and her voice brings me back to reality. Even though I don’t want to tear my eyes away from Lachlan and all his brooding, hulking glory, this is the perfect time for me to be smart and get the hell out of here.

I quickly finish the rest of my wine before getting out of the booth. I move myself away from Lachlan, afraid that being close to him is something like orbiting around a black hole, and prepare my excuses to leave when Bram reaches out and touches my arm.

“Kayla, can I talk to you for a moment?” he asks, and I stare at him in surprise. He looks serious for once, and for some reason I feel like a little girl who’s gotten herself into trouble. Probably because I’m usually getting into trouble.

“Okay,” I say quickly and shoot Nicola a worried look. She just shrugs, seeming surprised herself, and the rest of them move over to a bigger booth.

Bram pats the table of the booth where we were just sitting. “Have a seat. I have something to ask you.”

“If you’re asking me to move in with you, the answer is no,” I tell him, reluctantly sitting back down.

“Ha ha,” he says dryly. “Actually, I wanted to ask you a favor.” He pauses, his dark brows coming together “You work for The Bay Weekly, right?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly. I think about quitting my job every day, but I don’t tell him that.

He clasps his hands in front of him, showing off a shiny silver watch that probably cost a fortune. “As you know, I’m still trying to get funding for the apartment complex. Lachlan is here to help—he’s made a lot of smart investments himself over the years, so he has money, and charity is dear to his heart as it turns out. But we’re missing more investors, and we’ve been trying to do everything to secure more.”

I nod along, not understanding how I can help at all. Even though Bram has rubbed me the wrong way a few times, the guy actually has a heart of gold and has been trying to get funding for his apartment complex in the city. He bought it all with his own money, and he’s been opening the apartments to lower income families, the sick and elderly, and other people in need. As Nicola explained it, he can only do this on his own for so long before he runs out of money, and so far the city of San Francisco hasn’t been so giving with something it so desperately needs.

“So I was thinking,” Bram goes on, “that maybe you could put in a good word in the magazine. We need all the publicity we can get.”

I grimace in disappointment. “I’m sorry. I’d help if I could, but I work in advertising. I handle the retail ad accounts. I mean, I can maybe get an ad or something…”

Bram shakes his head. “Thank you. I can get ads. It’s just…an article, an editorial, anything would really help.”

Even though I don’t mind my boss Lucy, it’s Joe, the editor of the paper who is a real asshole. If I could get what Bram is talking about, I’d have to go to him.

Still, Nicola is my friend and Bram’s heart is in the right place. I sigh. “Okay. I’ll talk to the editor tomorrow and see what I can do. I couldn’t write the article, but I’m sure someone else could. If they’re interested.”

“Nicola said you went to school for journalism. Why couldn’t you write it? It would give it more of a personal spin, don’t you think?”

I feel a familiar pinch of regret in my stomach. “I went to school for communications,” I correct him, “and got sucked into the ad world. I can write, but…they wouldn’t let me, even if I tried. They’ll give it to a staff writer. But they’re all good. I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

He smiles at me. Handsome devil. “Thank you, Kayla. You’re not as black-hearted as they say you are.”

I raise my brow. “I beg to differ. I’m in advertising, after all.”

Even though I’m ready to leave, something makes me sit down with the rest of them. Linden, Steph, and Lachlan are on one side of the booth, so Bram and I slide in beside Nicola, just as a waitress comes by bringing more drinks. The glass of wine slides toward me, and I groan inwardly knowing it would be rude of me to leave now.

“What was that about?” Steph asks us.

“Just seeing if Kayla can pull some strings at the Weekly,” he explains, then looks over to Lachlan.

His cousin gives a sharp nod, his eyes flitting to me and back to Bram. I’ve barely made an impression on the man, and usually people say I’m forgettable (not always in the most flattering way, but still).

“That would be great if you could,” Nicola says from down the table. “Would save Lachlan from going on another date with Justine.”

Bram laughs at that, and Lachlan leans back in his seat, palming his light beer. Holy crap. His hands. I get such a lady boner for men’s hands, and his are large, wide, and strong looking. If he could touch me like he’s touching his beer, I’d be in so much trouble.

Lachlan gives Bram a dry look, and I notice the light scarring on his forehead and cheekbones, the way the middle of his nose is just a bit crooked. He looks like a bruiser, a fighter, a player. My mind adds that information to the recent discovery about his hands, and I feel like I’m about to implode.

“The things I do for my cousin,” Lachlan comments, and I’m lost in the roughness of his accent. His tone borders on amusement, even if his face remains as stony as ever.

“More like the women you do for your cousin,” Linden jokes. Lachlan doesn’t say anything to that.

Ah, so he’s a womanizer like the other McGregors. I thought as much. I mean, how can you look like that, all manly, primal, rugged, with those lips and eyes, and not have women falling at your feet. Hell, if I hadn’t made a vow and actually had makeup on and fresh breath and didn’t have a live audience, I would be under the table, trying to put his dick in my mouth. I bet it’s glorious.

I sigh inwardly. It doesn’t bother me that he’s a player because I am too. Or I used to be. So I guess that’s what bothers me. I’ll never be able to sample the goods. Even though abstaining is for the best, I need to get laid something fierce, and Lachlan McGregor would be the man to do it. Over and over again.

That is, of course, if he even finds me attractive. Or anything at all. And from the way I catch his gaze briefly from time to time and see nothing readable in those hard, mossy eyes, I know that’s not a possibility. Maybe he really is hung up on this Justine girl, despite the joke that Nicola made it out to be.

Thankfully James comes over to join our group and asks if we want more drinks, and I take the opportunity to escape. Steph and Nicola protest, saying they’ll cab with me later, but I can’t sit there for a single moment longer with the Scottish beast across from me.

I quickly wave goodbye, barely focusing on Lachlan, and then I hightail it out of there. As soon as the cab drops me off, I head straight to my apartment and into my burgeoning stash of battery operated boyfriends.

I don’t waste any time whatsoever. I didn’t need any more foreplay, I got enough staring at Lachlan, as one-sided as that seemed. I’m already wet from just thinking about him, so I lie back on the bed, plunge the dildo deep inside, and imagine it’s his cock slowly pounding me. I imagine his taut, hard, impossibly sculpted muscles above me, a feverish intensity in his eyes, his brogue calling out my name.

Then the fucking batteries in my vibrator die, and I’m left with a stuttering fake penis. I groan in frustration, throwing it to the side, then finish myself off with my hand.

First the men in this city disappoint me, then my vibrator does.

I fall asleep reinstating the thought that anything penis-shaped needs to stay far, far away from me.

CHAPTER TWO

Kayla

The next morning I wake up feeling slightly worse for wear. This is my punishment for having three glasses of wine last night. It doesn’t take much to get me tipsy, and unfortunately that also means it doesn’t take much for me to feel like shit the next day either.

Somehow I manage to get up before my last snooze alarm goes off, and I take a cold shower. Literally. Some days I feel it’s the only way to really wake up and knock some sense into myself, which means I’m subjected to freezing cold water at least a couple of times a week. It’s no secret that I’m, how does my mom put it, a “fanciful girl,” and that I need to regroup my thoughts from time to time. Also, it makes your hair extra shiny.

Afterward, I decide to take some extra care with my appearance to make up for looking like crap last night, and I drive to the office just before I can get reamed out for being late.

Not that my boss, Lucy, would ever yell at me, even though I’m late constantly. She doesn’t really say anything half the time, which is both a good thing and a bad thing. No criticism, but no praise, either.

When I first graduated university, I had all these grand ambitions. I mean, who didn’t? I thought I was going to waltz out of school and straight into an amazing new career. Bram hadn’t been too far off with his presumption that I could write. In school, my major was in journalism, with a minor in advertising. Both of those careers seemed to appeal to the two different sides of me—one visual, one internal. Both creative.

But the world was a cruel bitch, and the job market was flooded with thousands of naïve dreamers like myself. I was lucky as hell that, after interning on the production side of things at the Bay Area Weekly, a position opened up. I was an assistant to retail and classifieds advertising. I worked three long years, taking any shifts possible, under two different bosses, until finally I was able to move on up. I took over the classified’s account, then eventually the retail account.

It’s an okay job. Nothing exciting whatsoever, which I guess makes it less than okay. But from the point of view of someone who just wants a job for the sake of having a job, I’m doing all right. Since I’ve worked there so long I have full benefits, three weeks’ vacation a year, and a paycheck that allows me to pay rent in San Francisco, which is a miracle on its own.

But it’s not what I want to be doing with my life, even though I haven’t really allowed myself to dream about that. I mean, I’m thirty. I know I’m immature as anything, but even so, I should have that shit figured out already. Hell, I thought I would have a lot of things figured out by this point.

Steph and Nicola had it easy in a way. Both of them knew they wanted to work in fashion, and though they’ve had to jump through hoops to get where they are, they made it work. Stephanie owns her own successful clothing store and Nicola, even though she’s still working as a bartender, is branching out with her own designs.

Then there is me, who wants to help and create and express, but isn’t sure how. All I know is that working from nine to five in something I don’t care about is creating an even bigger void in my heart. When I’ve complained about this to my friends, they both tell me to take the leap and find out what I want to do. When I complain to my mother or brothers, they tell me I should be grateful to have the job I have, to be able to pay rent and put food on the table. The problem is, in this scenario, everyone is right.

I will say, ever since Bram brought up the whole interview feature piece thing that he propositioned me with, something inside of me has been waking up, like a dormant volcano. At first I thought it was because I was also thinking of erotic scenarios involving Lachlan, but now I realize that it’s because I’m imagining what it would be like to write something. See my name in print. Have my words seen. Make a difference in people’s lives in one way or another.

So while I’m sitting at my desk, twirling my ponytail around my pen, and pretending to read emails, I’m really wondering what it would be like to sit in the open offices across the hall, where all the writers are, pursuing something with passion.

I look at Candace, the ambitious assistant that I share with classifieds girl, and tell her I’ll be right back. I gather up my courage and head down the hall to my boss’s office. My courage isn’t for her, it’s for who I know I’ll have to talk to after.

Her glass door is open so I knock on it lightly. “Lucy?” I say, and open it to see her peering at me over the top of her computer through her large glasses.

“Hey Kayla,” she says. “What’s up? How was Margarita Monday?”

“Didn’t happen,” I say. “Just went to the usual bar for a bit.” I’ve become somewhat known for Margarita Mondays. I don’t even like the taste of tequila all that much, but I love fruity cocktails and Mexican food, so for the last few years, I’ve been going out every Monday to a Mexican restaurant. Sometimes Steph and Nicola go with me, sometimes people from work, sometimes a guy I’m screwing. But obviously since I made the decision to abstain from dick, I haven’t been out lately.

“Listen,” I continue. “I have a friend who has this apartment complex in SOMA and he’s renting the units out to people in need. You know, affordable housing. But he’s fronting the bill all himself because he can’t get any investors. I think he just needs a bit of extra help. I was wondering if maybe someone, one of the writers, would be able to write about it. Give it some publicity. It’s a worthy cause and I think it’s something the city really needs.”

Lucy shrugs. “I’d help if I could. Unless he wants to put in an ad. You’ll have to ask Joe. Maybe he can find someone.” She shoots me a quick smile. “That’s really nice of you to want to help the cause.”

I nod and roll my eyes at her before leaving her office and stalking off down the hall. Why is everyone so surprised when I try and do something nice? It’s not like I’m one hundred percent pure evil. Just like forty percent. That’s less than half.

Taking in a deep breath, I seek out Joe’s office, which is located at the end of the floor, between all the different departments. I’ve only been in there a few times, and Joe is pretty much the stereotype of your disgruntled, ornery editor. You would think I’d know how to work him a bit better because of that, but maybe we were too much alike.

His door is closed and I can hear him yelling at someone inside, so I wait a few minutes. I watch some of my colleagues in their cubicles. Some are furiously typing while wearing ginormous headphones, others are on their cellphones while talking and transcribing notes, others are just staring blankly at their screen. Then there is my friend Neil who is running a file over his nails, his expertly arched brows furrowed in concentration.

Every one of the writers—Neil excluded—looks invested, involved, and dedicated to what they are doing. It stings, just a bit, knowing I don’t have that in my own life.

Finally the door opens and Mia, a writer I know, scampers away with her eyes down, papers in her hand, her cheeks flush with either anger or humiliation.

Oh great. So he’s in a bad mood, too.

Before I can change my mind, I knock on his door and call out, “Sir?”

“What?” he barks, and I take that as a sign to come on in.

Joe sits at his desk, dress-shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows, showing off the ape-like quality of his hairy forearms. His hair is slicked back which only accentuates his crazy widow’s peak, and it looks like he has some kind of food stains on his collar. His office is a mess of loose papers, copies of the magazine, and discarded paper coffee cups.

“Oh, you,” he says, derisive. He barely looks at me. “You work with the ads. Why are you here?”

I step in, just a foot, in case I get sucked into his vortex of mess, and say, “Actually, I have a story idea and Lucy told me to run it past you.”

That makes him pause. “Story idea? You? Let me guess, you want to make your margarita Mondays into a column?”

How the hell did he know about that?

“No, wait,” he goes on. “Something about dating in the city and what a drag it is.”

I frown. I have no idea how he knows about my dating woes either. Maybe I’m more of an open book than I thought.

“No,” I say slowly, crossing my arms. “It’s actually for a charity of sorts.” I go on and explain about Bram’s project, hoping that by the end of it he’ll be somewhat impressed.

No such luck. His eyes have totally glazed over. He rubs at them and sighs.

“See if someone will write about it. If no one will, you’re out of luck.”

“Well, what if I write it?” I ask.

“You?” He practically stutters. “No, no. We may be laughed at from time to time, but we’re trying to bolster our serious image, not detract from it. Writing isn’t your forte.”

“How do you know?” I ask, unable to bite my tongue.

He looks at me sharply. “I’d ask for you to prove me wrong, but I don’t have the time.” He sighs and looks down at last week’s copy in his hand. “But the story does fit into our new agenda. Go find someone to write it for you.”

At that moment I want to kill Bram for putting me in this position. Still, I thank Joe and leave the office. I set my eyes on Neil and march over to him.

“Neil,” I say sweetly, putting my hands on his shoulders and giving them a massage.

“What did I tell you about sexual harassment in the workplace?” he says mildly, his nails nice and shiny, his attention focused on an inbox of a million emails.

“You told me it only counts if I have a cock.”

He makes a small sound of agreement. “And if you had a cock, I’d be all over you. Remind me again why you haven’t set me up with your brother?”

I squeeze his shoulders extra hard, hoping I’m hurting him. “Because you’re a total manwhore and I love Toshio to death. I’d hate to have his heart discarded on the streets of the Castro.”

“For one,” he says, wincing at my touch, “that’s so cliché. The Castro? Get with the times, Lieutenant Sulu. That’s where the uncouth hang out. For two, he’d find someone else in a minute. I’ve seen how cute he is. Just like you. And by the way, if I’m a manwhore, you’re a cockslut. Own it, bitch.”

I roll my eyes. “Look, before we get all racist and crude—“

“Whatever, I’ve called you Sulu for the last five years. Just like you won’t stop calling me Diego. And I’m not even Hispanic.”

I ignore him. “I need a favor from you. Actually, I need a favor for a friend, but I’m having troubles, um, fulfilling it.”

“Ugh, favors,” he says. I take my hands away. “Don’t stop,” he commands, patting his shoulder quickly.

I keep massaging. “It’s a good deed.”

“Double ugh. And why are you doing good deeds?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, I just am. But I need your help.” For the third time that day, I explain Bram’s predicament.

“But this isn’t even the guy you’re fucking,” he points out. “Aren’t you still on that stupid vow of cocklessness?”

“Yes I am, and no, I’m not fucking him, but he is my friend’s boyfriend.”

“I don’t buy it. Why are you really interested?”

Because he asked me, I want to say. Because it’s nice to feel needed, like I have the power to make a difference. And because, well, maybe because there is a hot piece of rugby playing ass attached to the deal.

“Because I just am,” I say. “Now can you write it up?”

“No,” he says.

I groan loudly and step away, throwing my hands dramatically in the air. “Why not? Please?”

“Kayla, honey, I’m swamped as it is. Why don’t you ask someone else?”

I look around me. Even though half the people in the office seem to be a big fan of Margarita Mondays and enjoy it when I have too many tequila sunrises and end up dancing on rickety tables, I don’t think they like me enough to write something I suggested. It’s kind of their job to come up with ideas, not mine.

“Or, why don’t you write it?” he suggests.

I glance at him, raising my brow. “Really? I said that to Joe but he laughed at me.”

“Joe laughs at everyone. It’s his thing. Along with being a grumpy old man who either needs to fuck or get fucked, I’m not sure which one.” I grimace. “I say write it anyway and hand it in. I’ll even help you with it, editing and all that. Clean it up. You said you went to school for journalism, didn’t you?”

“Communications,” I mutter. “Majoring in journalism.”

He waves his hand at me, stopping to admire his nails as they catch the light. “That’s good enough. Half the people in here don’t even have degrees. I don’t. Just blind luck and a pretty face.”

“Well.” I lean against his desk and give him a pleading look. “Can you give me some pointers?”

Neil spins around in his chair, hands folded at his stomach over his crisp, deep purple shirt. His lips twist into an amused smile and I’m reminded of a villain in a movie. “First, honey, you need an angle.”

“I just told you the angle. Rich guy does good.”

He makes a sound of disgust and throws his head back. “Boring!” he yells. Someone in the background yells at him to shut up but he just waves at them dismissively. He props his elbows on his knees and points his fingers at me. “No. No rich guy does good. No one cares about rich dudes, and unless they’re an Oscar-winning actress by the name of Susan Sarandon, people generally don’t care what rich people are doing, good or not.”

“Not true,” I point out. “All the gossip mags are about the rich and all they are doing wrong.”

“Find another angle,” he says.

I try and rack my brain. “The city needs this though. Everyone is always complaining about the lack of affordable housing. People all over the world poke fun at our homeless populations. This is a solution. It should be a good thing no matter who does it.”

“Look, there are tons of people doing good every day. Most people don’t care unless you make them care. We’re all too trained to shut down from all the shitty, shitty details of life and the billions it screws over. We’re all selfish and self-centered, serving our own needs until someone makes it affect us personally. So, how can you do that?”

Jeez. All these years I worked with Neil, partied with him at clubs, held his hand while he cried over some guy with a mustache, and he’s never seemed as smart as he is right now.

“Well, Bram is hot.”

“That helps…” he says, perking up noticeably.

“And his partner is even more so,” I tell him, and I find myself smiling dreamily as Lachlan filled my head. “He’s a rugby player from Scotland.”

He sat up straight. “Is he a big deal?”

“Oh,” I say with a smirk. “He’s big.”

“You know this personally? What about your vow?”

I exhale, loud and exaggerated. “No, I do not know this personally. I just saw him last night at the bar. And he…he’s…just such a man. I can’t explain it. He’s probably the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. And he’s built like a redwood.”

“Like a North Cali redwood?” he asks excitedly.

“Just like,” I tell him, happy I have someone to talk about my sudden obsession with. “He’s covered in tattoos, he’s got money, he’s got lips you just want to suck on.”

“Amongst other things.”

“And I think someone mentioned he’s good at what he does. He was in the World Cup for Scotland a few times I think.”

“Shiiiiit,” Neil says with a grin, waving his hand in the air like he’s sprinkling pixie dust on me. “Kayla, there’s your angle. The hotness. And the celebrity.”

“You just said no one cares about celebs doing good. And I’m not sure he’s a celebrity just because he was in the World Cup of Rugby. No one watches that.”

“Well, he’s a celebrity back home, maybe. And if he’s not, you’ll write him as one. That’s always more interesting. Besides, you know the audience for this magazine—women and the gays.”

I smirk at him. “Has anyone ever told you that if you weren’t so gay and cute, you’d be totally offensive?”

“That’s how I get away with it,” he says with a wag of his brows. “So, go and do this. Interview him. Forget the other guy. And see if you can get some photos of Mr. Redwood. Nude, preferably. You know lots of rugby players pose for nude calendars. It’s, like, their thing.”

My smile suddenly fades. Interview Lachlan? “Can’t I just, you know, write about him without actually talking to him?”

He stares at me like I’m a moron. “How will you know what to write if you don’t know him at all?”

“I could ask Bram,” I say hopefully.

“No,” he says. “You have to interview the guy. Why is this an issue? You should be jumping all over this. And then him.”

I tug at my hair nervously. “Well, it’s just that…he’s not, like, super friendly. Or talkative. And I don’t think he likes me.”

“You mean he hasn’t fallen for your charm yet?” he asks caustically.

I give him all the glares. “Not yet,” I tell him. “But it’s not like I was even trying last night.”

He shrugs. “So go try. You want this story, you have to work for it. Looks like writing it might be the easiest part.” He wiggles in his chair, all self-assured, seeming happy that I’ll learn what a hard job he actually has. I won’t give Neil the satisfaction.

“Fine, I will,” I say, then strut back to my office. I hear him hollering “Good luck!” behind me.

It isn’t until I get back to my desk that the butterflies start swarming in my stomach, and not the good kind. The nervous kind. Ugh. This is so unlike me.

Before I can think it over, I dial Bram’s number and hope I don’t catch him in the middle of doing something with Nicola. You can never predict her hours, nor their horniness.

“Kayla?” he asks, obviously surprised.

I plop down in my seat and wheel it away from Candace who is pretending not to watch me. The girl watches everything I do, like she’s taken job shadowing just a little too far.

“Yeah. Hi, Bram.”

“Did you talk to your boss?”

“I did, but listen…I’m going to write the article.”

“That’s fucking fantastic.”

“But I have to interview Lachlan, not you.”

He pauses. “Lach? Why? What’s wrong with me?”

“Because you’re not newsworthy.”

“And my cousin is?”

“Well yeah. I mean, have you seen him?”

“Have you seen me?”

“I have Bram. Sorry. You’re not my type.”

He snorts in disbelief. “Anyone with a cock is your type.”

“Hey!” I yell into the phone. Candace jumps and a pen clatters on her desk. “I’m telling you how it is. Now give me Lachlan’s number or there won’t be any kind of story on your apartment at all.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” he says quickly. “Calm your tits.”

“You calm your tits,” I retort. He gives it to me, and I write it down. It’s international, obviously.

“Can I just text him, since it’s long distance?” I ask.

“Sure,” says Bram. “But I think you’ll get more out of him if you talk in person. He’s not very talkative on the phone.”

“You don’t say.”

“Aye,” he says. “But listen, whatever you guys end up talking about, don’t ask Lachlan anything too personal, okay?”

I straighten up, my interest piqued. “Why?”

He sighs, loud and exaggerated. “Just don’t, Kayla. I know you. You’re all up in everyone’s faces and privates lives, and we all think it’s cute, but he’s not like that. If you be yourself, you’ll just scare him. He’s a private person. He’s got…well, just be professional. If you dig too deep, he’ll probably snap at you and you won’t get anything.”

“Snap at me?” I repeat. “Is he a dog?”

Or a beast?

“Eh,” Bram says. “He’s just guarded, and he has no time for bullshit. So keep the focus on what’s important.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which is…”

Those lips. Those hands. Those eyes. But I say, “The housing situation.”

“Correct. Hey, did I ever say thank you for doing this?”

“No. You didn’t.”

Then I hang up on him before he gets a chance to say anything. He deserves it for that dig about how I shouldn’t be myself around Lachlan, as if my personality is some sort of plague.

Before I lose my nerve again, I enter the long ass number into my iPhone and text him. Well, actually I stare at the screen for a few minutes, then I type a few different sentences and erase them, and then I stare some more. Everything that Bram said about him makes me even more anxious than I was before. I mean, I can handle people. Believe me. I’m not afraid. But I’m out of my element here. I’m not a journalist, despite what I learned in school, and suddenly I feel a whole load of pressure on my shoulders.

Finally I text him: Hey, it’s Kayla, Nicola’s friend. I met you at the bar last night. Bram wanted my weekly magazine to do a story on the housing situation and my editor thought it would be a good idea if I interview you. Is that okay?