Matt scowls, but says nothing more, just skulks out and shuffles off down the hall. I pinch the bridge of my nose and wonder what other hells this day will bring.
As someone who has actually called off a wedding, I can say with certainty that it was the right decision and not one I took lightly. What went through Lachlan’s mind six years ago, and does he regret Matty’s intervention? Does he wish he would have called it off? I have too much to do to think about this, and my endless speculation is never productive. However, I’m definitely capable of devoting a portion of my brain to a simmering, bubbling anger directed at Matt Fletcher. Sure, it means that I’ll have to redraft all the content I’m writing for the Mersey website (I’m sure the fans would not take kindly to me calling the team captain a “stupid meddling asshole”), but it feels good to vent my anger and angst in a particular direction.
By late morning, I’ve calmed down…a bit. I make myself a tea in the staff canteen and sip on it while staring out onto the empty training pitches, the rain falling in sheets. It’s there that Lachlan finds me.
His head is down and his shoulders are up; he’s almost bashful, like a naughty schoolboy just coming back from time-out. “Hey,” he says.
I’m not sure there’s anyone whose face I can read better than Lachlan’s at this point, but the questions I need answered are far too complicated to be hidden in his somewhat dimmed eyes or skirting around his shy smile. So I start with a simple one: “How was dinner?”
“The restaurant was fantastic, and I’m going to take you back there as a thank-you for falling on your sword.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “The dinner was…tense, despite Evie’s attempts to keep everything lighthearted.”
I chew on my lip. “When was the last time you saw Claire?”
“In person? Months ago. Early June, right before I left Madrid. Right before I met you.” He clears his throat. “So, uh, yeah, it was weird.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He slumps into a chair. “I don’t know what she was expecting coming up here without telling me. We barely spoke at dinner, and then she wanted to go straight back to Madrid but the last flight had gone, so we went home and immediately got into this massive row. It was all the greatest hits, over and over again, everything we’ve been fighting about for months. Years, really. We finally exhausted ourselves at three in the morning and she got into my bed but I just had this feeling of…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,repulsionis too strong a word, but it was this overwhelming sense that I did not want to sleep next to her.”
“I’m so sorry, Lachlan.”
“Well, hold on to that pity for a wee second, because you might take it right back. I waited until she fell asleep and then I, um…Well, I went into your room. The pillow smelled like your shampoo and it was so comforting to lie there and think about what you would say if you were there with me, if you had seen it all godown. And I know that’s a massive violation of your space and I should have gone to the guest room, but I really wished you were there, and sniffing your pillow like a weird little freak was unfortunately the best substitute.”
His words are a shot of adrenaline straight to my heart, a giant needle through my sternum. His bashfulness is so endearing, but it’s the thought of him in my bed while his wife is asleep down the hall that sends several parts of me into overdrive. It’s hard not to imagine us there together, his long fingers curled around the blanket, his mouth curled into a wicked smile as he lifts the duvet over our heads and we disappear into each other underneath, quietly, so as not to wake her.
My mouth falls open as I imagine what comes next, but I think Lachlan reads it as shock, rather than naked, blatant lust. He’s got worry in his eyes; he’s taking my silence as anger. I blink a few times, as if that could turn off the tap of filthy images streaming into my mind, then put on a sad smile and shake my head slowly, like a disappointed schoolmarm. “Unacceptable, Ramsay. And you should be especially ashamed of yourself given my traumatic history of people being in my bed without my permission.”
“I promise the only lopsided tits flopping around were mine.” His smile is tentative, hopeful.
“Well, that’s some consolation. I suppose I can forgive you, but in response to this flagrant violation of my rights, I won’t be paying rent this month.”
His eyelids flutter closed and the relief rolls off of him in a wave. He puts his hands over mine and squeezes them. “I’m so sorry I turfed you out like that.”
I try not to concentrate on how warm his hands are, how soft, what they’re doing to me under the dream duvet. “It’s not yourfault; you didn’t know she was coming.” Then I ask him something I’ve been wondering about since Amina brought it up. “But does she know about us? That I’m crashing with you, I mean.”
The tips of his ears go bright red. “Uh, no. Not as such. Is that a problem?”
My heart does a quick little tap dance and I shake my head.
“I thought it would make everything more complicated,” he says.
So he feels he has something to hide. In Amina’s view, that should thrill me; in reality, I’m greeted by the slow creep of guilt. Seeing how Lachlan interacted with Claire, hearing about their fight—those things give me hope that their marriage is really over. But if I’m a secret he feels he has to keep, what does that say? After all, I know what it’s like to be the one from whom such a secret is kept. I fidget and pull my hands away from his.
He doesn’t seem to notice, because he just sighs. “Anyway. I feel like shit. Did you make it to Amina’s okay? Is she good, is the parasite good?”
“Yes, yes, all good, despite the fact that she’s in the peanut butter and pickles phase of pregnancy.”
He laughs. “Okay, I’m glad. But will you…” He runs his hands through his hair again. “I mean, I know you might not want to because of how I’ve acted, but will you please think about coming home?”
I know I’m going to say yes, because itishome—heis home. But for a split second, my mind just screams, “DON’T!”
To drown out this brief klaxon, I adopt an overly light air. I cross my arms and tap a finger against my lips. “Now that I know you’ve been rolling around in my sheets, I may as well just go back to Fiona’s…but yes, I suppose.”
“Thank God.” He stands up and nods at the door. “Come on, I’ll drive.”
“Lachlan, it’s elevena.m.On a Wednesday.”
He blinks, confused, but then my old favorite grin spreads across his face, and all the hand-wringing and hangdog expressions of a minute ago have vanished. “Right, well, enjoy your time in the salt mines, peon. I’m off to bathe myself in hundred-pound notes.” And he skips—actually skips—out of the cafeteria, leaving me laughing into my mug.
