“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.
We pull up to a stone building near what seems like the outskirts of downtown. I get out of the car, remembering to look right before I’m run over by a car and stare up at the sign above the dark wood door.
“Ruff Love Animal Shelter?” I repeat. I look at him in awe. “That is absolutely adorable.”
“Aye. It is. People were surprised how saccharine it was, considering it came from me. But most of these animals can use a sweet bit of PR. Having people view them as cute and adorable is what helps get them adopted.”
Agh. Once again, this man has found another way to sweep me off my feet. I look down the building, back up at the sign, then over to him, standing there on the street in black boots, black jeans, and a grey t-shirt, looking about as rough and rowdy as they come, and yet from the goodness of his heart he’s managed to do all of this.
“Shall we?” he asks, holding out his arm.
I eagerly latch on to it and let him lead me inside.
It’s not as chaotic as I would have thought. There’s a reception area where I spot Amara on the phone, giving us a quick wave, then a small row of prison-like cells. I know Lachlan is doing a wonderful thing, but I can’t help but cringe painfully, knowing how many animals spend their lives here.
“It’s all right,” he whispers to me, grabbing my hand and squeezing hard. “The dogs here are the dogs with a fighting chance. Most of them get adopted and go on to live full and happy lives.”
He takes me down the aisle, and even though my heart is breaking a little bit at the sight, he points out the good things the dogs have going for them. For one, they all get dog beds and toys in their kennel so they don’t have to sleep on concrete. They have more room than most shelter dogs do and the ones that are social can easily share with another. He tells me that thanks to their volunteers, and Amara, all the dogs are walked three times a day, four times for the high energy, and one of those walks is an hour long excursion to a nearby park. Sometimes they go in packs, sometimes they go alone where training is implemented.
We stop by an older pit bull named Jo, who loves to give sloppy kisses through the bars. She’s been there the longest because a lot of people don’t like to adopt senior dogs, even though she’s in good health and is easy going. He’s hopeful that she’ll be adopted soon.
“Sometimes I sneak her home,” he admits to me, while Jo stares adoringly up at him, tail swishing on the floor. “She’s spent a lot of weekends with me and Lionel, watching TV.”
“So why don’t you adopt her?” I ask him.
“If she doesn’t go at some point, I will do just that,” he says. “But the point of all this is to share the love. If someone adopts her and then discovers what a joy she is as a banned breed and as a senior dog, the odds of them doing it again, or at least encouraging others to do so, is very high. We have repeat customers here, you know, who adopt one dog and then realize how easy it is to make a difference. So they adopt another. Or they donate.” He pulls a dog treat out of his pocket and gives it to Jo, smiling at her as she happily eats. “Once people realize how easy it is to make a difference, they’re forever changed.”
He takes me past the rest of the dogs and I have a hard time keeping up with their names, though I’m falling in love with their beautiful faces. One dog, steel grey with a wide white chest, cowers in the corner until Lachlan crouches near the bars, casting the occasional glance his way. He speaks in low, furtive tones until, eventually, the dog comes over. He shies away when Lachlan reaches out to put a treat through the bars, but then hunger gets the best of him and he quickly gobbles it up.
“That’s Bubsy,” he says. “I found him, abused, beaten, hanging by a thread in a London alley. Someone had bashed his head in, his fur halfway gone from who knows what. I didn’t think he’d make it, but he pulled through. He’s terrified of people, obviously. The fuckers who did this to him ruined his trust in humans. And they say he’s a dangerous dog, just because of his breed. It’s those kind of people who should be banned, not the breed. People are cruel, so sick, far worse than any animal.” He sighs angrily, running his hand over his face. “To be honest, we didn’t think Bubsy would ever be integrated or adopted. We’ve had a few dogs that we’ve put our bloody hearts into and just…” He rubs his lips together, shaking his head. “It’s a fucking shame. But Bubsy is getting better, with time. With the right owner, someone patient and kind and strong, he’ll have a chance.”
My eyes are hot with tears that I’m managing to hold back. “I don’t know how you do it,” I tell him. “How can you be around all of this, all the time, and not be fucking gutted?”