He nods. Another sip of tea. “Bram mentioned that.”
“What else did he mention?”
“That this could help get him some attention.”
“Him?” I repeat. “Aren’t you in this as much as he is?”
Lachlan shrugs. “Not really. I just helped out with what I could.”
We come to the doors leading outside to the docks and he holds one open for me. Well, at least he hasn’t forgotten his manners.
“Thank you,” I tell him. He makes a dismissive noise in return.
The air is beautifully fresh outside and seems to clear my head. The sun shines down with ferocity we rarely see this time of year.
“So, back to you,” I say, bringing it around. “Have you done lots of interviews before? I mean, I don’t know, you must be used to it with rugby. Aren’t rugby players celebrities over there?”
Another nod. “I’ve done some.”
We pause at the railing overlooking the ferries, watching seagulls wheel overhead, and I wonder if I should start taking notes. Then again, he hasn’t really given me any information.
“And what rugby team do you play for back in Scotland? I heard you represented the country at the World Cup.”
“I play for Edinburgh. And I was in the last two world cups.”
“Did you win?” I ask hopefully.
He turns his head to look at me and shakes it ever so slightly. I could swear he almost looks amused. “No.”
“Aw, that sucks,” I say because I’m not really sure what the right response is.
He shrugs. Leans against the railing and stares off into the distance. The breeze ruffles his hair slightly, golden brown highlights catching in the sun.
I do the same and lean on the rail beside him, my arms looking like toothpicks in comparison to his, his sleeves rolled up to showcase thick forearms. I glance over the tattoos, words and images, and when I look up, he’s staring down at me. I’m not sure he realizes how intense his gaze can be, and it takes a lot for me to look away.
“Do your tattoos tell a story?” I manage to ask.
He keeps on staring, completely unreadable. Then he looks down at his arm and it flexes beautifully. “Everything tells a story.”
Now it’s my turn to give him the eye. “Do you mind elaborating?”
“Will my tattoos help with the article?”
“It might,” I tell him, starting to get a bit frustrated at how unforthcoming he is.
But still, he doesn’t elaborate.
“So how was the no pants party?” he asks, adjusting his stance so he’s facing me.
I blink at him. “What?”
He looks me up and down. “When I first saw you, you had a shirt on that said ‘no pants party.’”
He’s joking, right? I find myself scrutinizing him just as he does to me. Then his mouth, that gorgeous, luscious mouth, quirks up, just a bit. It’s subtle but it’s the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile.
“Pants are usually a waste of time,” I tell him. “The only reason I’m wearing them now is because my work expects me to be ‘professional,’” I add, using air quotes.
“How would they know if you’re wearing pants or not?” he asks, and then cranes his head to look at my ass.
I’m both flattered that he’s looking and hella confused as to why. I frown. “Huh?”
“Oh,” he says, bringing his gaze back to me. “In the UK, pants is another word for underwear. Thought you had a predisposition to go commando.”
I laugh. “No, no. Well, I do. I mean, underwear is a waste of time, really. But no, the shirt was about…anyway it doesn’t matter.”
“I agree,” he says.
“About what?”
“Pants being a waste of time.”
My mind goes wild. I’m picturing him not only without any pants on, but with no underwear either. I try and keep my eyes focused on his upper body instead of looking for a dick imprint and getting an idea of what nude Lachlan really looks like.