***
When eight o’clock rolls around, I park in his empty space and sit in the car for a few minutes, just wringing my hands together and working up the nerve to go upstairs. It’s not that I’m scared. But I am nervous. I don’t even know why, but I am. Since I left the girls at the Lion, I’ve been thinking about Lachlan, about what we did. About what we might do again. I feel like I’m pining over a celebrity, someone larger than life, someone who makes me feel completely out of my element. It’s surreal.
“Get a fucking hold of yourself,” I say out loud and crane my neck to look up at the floor-to-ceiling windows of Lachlan’s apartment building, trying to count floors and see which one is his. I anxiously open my compact and dot more lip stain on my lips, wondering how fast it will be rubbed off once I get into his apartment.
Is he going to kiss me right away?
Will this be a Netflix and chill night?
Immediate fucking?
The possibilities have me on edge.
With a deep breath, I get out of the car and walk over to the entrance. My finger hovers at his apartment number. I take a moment to eye myself in the reflection of the glass doors. I sped home from work to change into a strappy black dress, something like the nightgown trend of the nineties, with hot pink platform heels. No bra. No underwear. What’s the point?
I press the buzzer and wait a few moments, my pulse pounding in my wrist. Lachlan’s distinct voice comes through, slightly drowsy and smooth as butter. “Kayla?”
“Hi,” I say. I’m about to say something else, probably something awkward, but he immediately buzzes me through. I exhale loudly, trying to release tension, but I remain a fidgety mess all the way up the elevator. Last time I was in here, we’d just rescued the dogs. He was shirtless. He’d felt so close at that time and yet oh so far away. To think that now, now, after I’d had my hands and lips all over him, my need for him was stronger than ever.
I knock on his door, biting my lip in anticipation, until it swings open and I see him leaning casually against it. The dulcet tones of Fiona Apple’s “Slow Like Honey” drift in from the room.
“You shouldn’t be wearing that,” he says, a faint smile on his lips. God, I’ve missed those lips.
“Why not?” I ask with a raise of my brow. In a second, all my nerves smooth out and I realize how easy it is to talk with him like this.
“You’ll make it impossible to get through the appetizer,” he answers, moving back and letting me inside. He’s back to casual wear—a white thermal shirt that’s partially unbuttoned just enough to show a glimpse of tanned skin, chest hair, and tattoos, a necklace with a small wooden cross, green cargo pants. I like him like this just as much as I like him in a suit.
I walk in, my heels echoing on the tiles. “I thought I was the appetizer,” I tell him, looking around. The two dogs are on the couch, curled up next to each other like sleeping mice. In unison, they both lift their heads to stare at me. The pit bull gives a thump of its tail but the scruffy mutt shivers slightly, showing teeth.
“Don’t mind them. They’re still adjusting,” he says, closing the door then gesturing to the table by the kitchen, where I had done my interview with him last week. “That’s the appetizer.”
On the table is a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a cheeseboard topped with brie, cheddar, camembert, figs, jam, honey, and crostini.
“Wow,” I say softly. “You did all this?”
He shrugs, making a dismissive noise. “It was nothing.”
“This is romantic,” I tell him. “I didn’t peg you as a romantic.”
He raises a perfectly arched brow. “Oh yeah? What did you peg me as?” He slowly pours a glass of wine.
I stand there, watching him pour a smaller amount into the other glass. His forearm flexes, the lion tattoo seeming to roar. His forehead is creased with concentration, perhaps in anticipation of my reply. He seems completely at ease with me, but there’s always that wildness in his eyes that never seems to go away. The only time I saw peace in them was after he came last night.
“I pegged you as a man who wouldn’t give me a second glance.”
He gives me a crooked smile and corks the bottle “Well, love, you know that isn’t true.”
I slowly walk toward him, looking up through my lashes like some kind of femme fatale. “Oh, it’s true. You wanted nothing to do with me.”
His look softens for a moment before he heads into the kitchen, grabbing two small plates from the glass cupboards. “I want nothing to do with most people. Never take it personal.”
“Tell that to old Kayla. She had no idea she’d get the chance to put your gorgeous cock in her mouth.”
The plates rattle against the counter. “You do have some mouth on you.”
“Exactly.”
He comes back into the room with his hulking swagger, setting the plates down. He nods at the pushed out seat. “Here. Sit down, please.”
I hook my purse on the corner of the chair and take a seat. Both dogs stare at me from the couch.
“So, how are they?” I ask him.
He looks behind him and I take a moment to appreciate every hardened, strained muscle in his neck and shoulders. “As I said, they’re adjusting.” He sits down and folds his hands in front of him. “Someone is coming by tomorrow to see about adopting Ed. But I think Emily will be coming home with me.”
“Which one is Ed?”
“The pit,” he says.
“Funny, I would have thought he’d be harder to find a home for.”
“Usually. But Ed is a big sweetie, and people in this city are a little more tolerant of bully breeds than people in the UK. Emily, however, as sweet as she looks,” he glances back at the scruffy dog, who immediately bares her teeth at me, “has behavior problems. She’ll need work.”
“And are you the one who teaches them?” I ask. “Because if so, then you are the dog whisperer, which means there’s pretty much nothing you can’t do.”
He looks down at his hands and gives a lazy one-shouldered shrug. “I found Lionel on the streets in Edinburgh. I was able to teach him. Maybe he taught me some things. You never know with dogs. But…it takes a special kind of person to train dogs, especially those who have been through trauma and abuse. I am not that kind of person. I will do whatever I can to save them, but I’m not the person who can school them on obedience.”
“Really?”
A quiet, almost uncomfortable smile tugs at his lips. “A dog with behavioral problems shouldn’t learn from someone with behavioral problems.”
I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. “Oh,” I say, trying to think of the right thing to say. “You just seem like a natural. These two were strays, and now look at them. Just like that.”
“I can get the dogs to trust me,” he says in a low voice. “Because I trust them. But I can’t get them to trust others.”
“Because you don’t trust people?”
He slowly blinks and then reaches for the stem of his wine glass. “I think I may trust you. Here’s to that.”
“Here’s to that,” I say, raising my glass and clinking it against his. I’m more than meeting him in the eyes—I’m diving in the green and grey. They seem darker somehow, moving shadows. Depthless. Behavioral problems? What kind? How much more can I learn about him before he’s gone?
I take a gulp of my wine and he barely touches his. Just a small sip, then puts the glass back down and pushes it away from him.
“I’ve never seen you drink much,” I tell him, hoping my tone is easy enough so he won’t take offense.
He gives me a long, measured look before he licks his lips and looks away. “No, I don’t.”
“Because of training,” I say, giving him an easy way out.
A slow nod. “Yes.”
He’s still not meeting my eyes. His focus is on the cheeseboard, and even though he’s not frowning like he usually is, his shoulders seem tense.
“What other things do you have to do for training?” I ask. I feel like we’ve regressed a little bit and I want that sexy, casual banter back.