“Look at you with the footy terminology! I’m so proud. But come over when you’re finished. I need to do a quick workout, but then maybe let’s go see a midday film like a couple of old geezers.”
We settle on a time to meet, nearly two hours from now. Italready feels like an eternity. I shower and dress and manage to slip out of the flat without running into Fiona and Oliver, which is a small miracle. And then the bus that takes me to Lachlan’s neighborhood pulls up right as I get to the stop, and my day is decidedly on the upswing.
In Lachlan’s building, I approach Joe the security guard and give him a little wave. I’m sure he recognizes me at this point, but I always announce myself just in case.
“Welcome, Ms. McIntyre,” he says. “Mr. Ramsay told me to give you a set of keys so you can let yourself up whenever you want.”
“Oh, wow, okay, great, thanks, terrific.” I cannot stop saying words, even as the lift doors close. Then I’m rocketing up to the penthouse and opening the door and trying to let my excitement shout down my nervousness. Lachlan Ramsay gave me keys to his flat. It took Steven more than a year to give me a key to his apartment; it has taken Lachlan less than three months. Totally different situations, of course. And maybe he doesn’t actually want me to keep the keys; maybe it was just expediency. Or he wants me to water his plants or something. Yeah, probably that.
There’s no sign of Lachlan in the main room, but from the music blaring down the hallway, I guess he’s still working out. There’s a bowl of grapes on the counter, which I pick up as I head toward the gym.
He’s in there—shirtless, naturally—doing pull-ups or chin-ups; I’ve never known the difference. His back is to the door, though, so I can briefly ogle him before he notices, which I do while feeding myself grapes. It’s so decadent of me, like a Greco-Roman queen lounging on her chaise; Sadie would love it. A ray of autumn sunshine filters through the windows, illuminating the fine, light hair that covers Lachlan’s forearms and the thousand tiny freckles dotted all over his body. I have the oddest urge tograb a pen and connect the dots, tracing swirling lines from shoulder blade to ankle and back again.
Thankfully he notices me before I can act on this impulse. He smiles and lowers himself to the floor. “You’re early.”
I turn down the volume on the speaker a few notches. “No, I’m right on time.Youare late, as usual. But now I can sit here and heckle you. Which of these surfaces is least covered in your bodily fluids?”
“Fluids, plural? What exactly do you think I get up to in here?”
I put up the hand not holding the bowl. “Your routine is your routine.”
“Okay, then sit on that bench there. I haven’t spaffed on it in at least twenty minutes.”
I do as I’m told and watch him hop back up on the bar, this time facing me. He’s doing some sort of mega-pull-up now with his legs extended straight out in front of him; I literally cannot conceive of the series of commands it would take to get my muscles to do that.
“So you gave me keys, huh?”
“I did. Has that sent you into some sort of overthinking-slash-apologizing tailspin I’ll have to deal with for the next three weeks?”
“You know what? I resent…how accurate that is, yes.”
He laughs at me. “Just a recommendation: If you’re going to sell them to the highest bidder, hold out for at least seven figures. I think I’m worth it.”
“You should be more worried about me sneaking in here in the dead of night to eat whatever treats Moira has sent down.”
“I would absolutely love it if you did that. I hate rattling around in this big empty place all by myself.” He dips again and smiles at me.
Several of my internal organs flip-flop and I change the subject before I can think or say nasty things about Claire, who has the right and the opportunity to be here and watch him do this every day and yet for some reason chooses not to. Unfathomable. “What are we listening to?”
His face lights up, glimmering all the more for being covered in a thin sheen of sweat. “This, Abigail, is Scotland’s greatest band.”
“The Proclaimers?”
“Fuck the Proclaimers! Why are they the only ones anyone has ever heard of? They can get tae fuck with that ‘500 Miles’ pish.”
Hating on Scotland’s most famous band has really brought out the Scot in Lachlan; he sounds more like Bashie than ever, and I love it. I needle him further. “Come on, I love that song. ‘Da-da-da-da!’ ” I scream the chorus.
“If you sing another note, I will forcibly remove you from my property.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got keys now.” I dangle them in front of my face.
He just rolls his eyes. “This is Biffy Clyro. Do you like it? And bear in mind that the fate of our friendship hinges on this answer.”
Though I haven’t thought about them in months, I’d recognize that terrible name anywhere, and I just have to laugh, because ofcoursethat’s his favorite band.
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, at the risk ofyouturning the Serial Killer Alarm on forme,I used one of their songs for a video montage of you that I made.”
