On Loverose Lane (Return to Dublin Street #1)

1. Beth

CHAPTER ONE

BETH

Edinburgh, Scotland

I was hungry, I was sweaty, I was late, and there were three incredibly sexy men blocking my way up to my flat with the ugliest sofa I’d ever seen.

“If you say pivot one more time, I might have to end you, mate,” the one with his back to me huffed. He had broad shoulders, a tapered waist, tattoos all down one arm, and a man bun.

“I’m just trying to ease the tension with some humor,” defended the one stuck in the middle with his back squashed between the wall and the sofa. He had a North American accent.

With a million tasks running through my mind, I hadn’t really registered the shiny black Land Rover I’d parked next to in the private car park on Loverose Lane. I’d also failed to fully process the moving truck partially blocking the entrance to my apartment building as I read a text from Cara about rehiring an influencer for one of our author clients.

Instead, I’d replied to her, then swiped my key card over the machine mounted on the wall beside the large, glass entrance doors, and they unlocked. One of the reasons my parents were more than happy to help me with the deposit on this flat was because of the security here. Key card access only, CCTV on the entrance, not to mention they were a mere ten-minute walk from my place. My parents still lived in the townhouse I’d grown up in on Dublin Street.

The swanky new apartment complex situated on the corner of Loverose Lane and Dundas Street had a lift on the ground floor. But I’d just come from the gym and wanted to keep my blood pumping, so I’d decided to take the stairs. My one-bed flat (because one bed was all I could afford in the heart of Edinburgh city) was four flights up. As I climbed, that’s when I heard the loud voices echoing down the stairwell. Men’s voices. Arguing.

As I turned the corner, I discovered why.

Three men were currently trapped on the section between the first and second floors with a three-seater navy and yellow floral sofa between them.

A glance at my phone told me I had exactly an hour to shower and eat before I was expected at the Leith food bank where I volunteered every Friday afternoon. We relied on donations of food from the public so we could distribute groceries to those who really needed it. Lynda, the manager, also relied on her volunteers to keep to their scheduled hours.

“Maybe if we lift it over our heads, we can get it around this corner.”

My annoyed gaze drifted to the man who stood at the other end of the sofa facing me. Light pouring in through the long rectangular window behind him lit his dark hair in a halo, and it took me a second to make out his features.

I felt a little jump in my chest as recognition scored through me.

Callan Keen.

Captain and top midfielder for Caledonia United, Edinburgh’s Scottish Professional Football League team that was giving the most successful teams, Dalmarnock Thistle and Kingston United, a run for their money. Now, how did a non-football fan like me know who Callan Keen was?

It wasn’t because he was too sexy for his own good and plastered over more ads in Scotland than one footballer had the right to be. Or that he’d played for Scotland in the world tournament thingie last year.

No.

It was because we were old acquaintances.

He was the son of the man who betrayed my father.

And he was in my apartment building, moving an ugly sofa precariously up my stairwell.

Horror filled me.

The penthouse apartment above my flat had been up for sale for two weeks when it sold last month.

Either Callan had bought that flat or one of the other two men with him had, and I would bet my beloved all-electric MINI Cooper that they were footballers too.

Which meant a Pro League footballer was moving into my building.

Great.

Irritated beyond measure at the thought of the parties and shenanigans that were about to ensue in the one place I could relax, I crossed my arms over my chest. “And why, oh why, are you carrying that monstrosity of a sofa up a stairwell when we have a generous-sized lift in this building?”

“Fuck!” Man Bun’s hands slipped on the sofa as he startled and whipped his head around. The other two yelled as they reached out to steady the piece of furniture. Man Bun grappled for hold as he craned his neck to study me. He was almost as attractive as Callan, with his warm, dark brown eyes and tan skin. Said eyes roamed me, and his mouth quirked into a flirty smile. “Hi there.”

“Well?” I threw my hands up in exasperation as my gaze zeroed past him and onto Callan.

I saw the moment he recognized me.

His green eyes narrowed. “You.” He said the word like he was confronting his ultimate nemesis.

My lips twitched, but I remembered who he was and how irritated I felt just in time to halt the smile. Hands on my hips, I jerked my chin toward the sofa. “Well? Lift?”

“Wait, what? Who is she?” Man Bun asked Callan.

“Can we maybe do the introductions once we have the sofa in Keen’s apartment?” Middle Guy grumbled.

Keen.

Callan was my new neighbor.

“Well, Miss Smarty Pants.” Callan glared. “The sofa doesn’t fit in the lift, so this was the only way.”

“You’re a professional footballer. You couldn’t afford to hire movers to do this?”

“Unlike some people, I don’t throw money at every problem.”

I rolled my eyes at the dig about my privileged upbringing. “Well, Captain, you’re blocking the way to my flat, and I’m running late.”

“Did she just call you Captain ?” Man Bun asked on a snort.

“He’s your captain, is he not? And as a captain of a major football team, I’m sure you can figure out how to get the heck out of my way so I’m not late.”

“Sorry about that, but I’m sure you can call the spa to cancel your facial. Or better yet, use the lift.” Callan turned to his friends. “Up and over our heads.”

I crossed my arms and watched as they struggled to grapple with the sofa. Eventually, with lots of intriguing grunts and groans, the three of them elevated the sofa above their heads. All those biceps bulging and straining definitely made me feel a wee bit less grumpy about being late.

And were also probably the reason I did not, in fact, use the lift.

There was a rough moment when I was worried Middle Guy might crash into the window along with the couch.

“So, who are you?” Man Bun asked on a grunt as they got the sofa around the bend in the stairwell.

I was right behind them. I knew at this point I should take the lift, but there was a part of me hoping that Callan would announce he was kidding about moving into my building and this was all a very bad dream.

Also, I hadn’t seen him in years—other than on TV and in ads—and I couldn’t help the way my eyes kept drifting to him as they carried the winner of the Ugliest Sofa of the Year award upstairs. Nostalgia flooded in, momentarily distracting me. I could still see him bending his head toward mine in class, murmuring funny comments under his breath to make me laugh. How every moment he gave me his attention had made me glow from the inside out.

“Well?” Man Bun pressed.

Shaking myself out of memory lane, I answered, “I’m Beth. This is an interesting choice of couch.”

“Don’t start,” Callan snapped.

Middle Guy grinned. “We’ve already given him shit for buying this ugly-ass thing.”

“Fuck!” Callan let out a curse as his head disappeared behind the sofa and the whole thing slid precariously toward Man Bun.

I rushed forward to help, bracing myself against it.

“Sorry,” came Callan’s muffled voice. “Tripped.”

“Thanks.” Man Bun’s dark eyes glittered flirtatiously down at me.

“No problem.” My tired muscles strained to hold the damn thing up with them, but I stayed put and helped as Callan centered himself.

As his head popped up and he saw me holding the sofa, his handsome features tightened. “What the hell are you doing?”

“She’s helping,” Man Bun answered, frowning incredulously. “What’s your problem with your hot neighbor?”

I beamed, flattered. “Thanks. You’re hot too.”

Man Bun grinned. “I know, but thanks.”

“No!” Callan released a hand from the sofa to point at us. “You are not friends.”

Shrugging, I looked up at Man Bun. “I don’t know. It feels like we could be besties.”

“Definitely,” he agreed. “I’m Baird, by the way. I’m the Caley goalie.”

That makes sense with his height and size , I thought, pretending I knew anything about football.

“Not that anyone asked, but I’m John.” Middle Guy smirked at me. Now that he was closer, I was surprised to discover we had remarkably similar coloring. Olive skin, dark blond hair, pale blue eyes. We could pass for siblings. John cocked his head, smirking, as if he’d noted the similarities between us too. “I play center forward.”

I had no idea what that meant but nodded. “And you’re American or Canadian.”

“Hey, most people just say American. I’m from Toronto.” He dropped the last t in Toronto.

“And you’re Beth?” Baird asked.

“And my arms are killing me,” Callan huffed. “Didn’t Beth say she was running late for a facial?”

“I never said that.”

“Aye, you did.”

“No, I said I was running late. You added in the facial.”

“Facial, nails, whatever. Can we just get my fucking sofa upstairs?”

“Wow. Nice way to talk to your friends.”

“You’re not my friend.”

A tiny flicker of something I wouldn’t call hurt zinged in my chest. I gave him a tight smile. “Baird and John are.”

“Up!” Callan pulled the sofa with such force we had no choice but to follow him. Finally, we were on my landing.

And they had another floor to go.

“Give me a minute, my arm’s going numb.” John lowered the sofa to the landing and all of us stepped away from it.

Callan and I finally came face-to-face for the first time in eight years.

He wore a T-shirt that hung loose on his torso but tight around his strong biceps, a pair of jeans, and pristine black trainers I knew were Dior because my younger brother, Luke, was obsessed with designer clothing. Callan Keen could wear a bin bag and make it look sexy as hell. I could understand why he got so many ad opportunities. Just over six feet, athletic, wore clothes well. And there was the matter of his face.

That bloody face.

It was one of the many reasons Callan Keen had been my first big crush.

The only difference now was that he sported sexy stubble, making him look a wee bit more rugged around the edges. Those familiar light green eyes that once looked at me with laughter and tenderness now hardened with wariness. Callan crossed his arms over his chest, and I tried not to let my attention stray to the flexing biceps. There was no need for him to know I still thought he was gorgeous. “So. You live here?”

I gestured to his sofa. “So. You paid money for that?”

Baird gave a bark of laughter that he turned into a pretend cough at Callan’s betrayed glare. “Must be dust floating around.” He patted his chest dramatically.

Amusement trembled on my lips. I couldn’t say I didn’t like Callan’s friends.

Callan rolled his eyes as he turned to me. “It is a very comfortable sofa. And unlike some people, I don’t buy things because they cost a lot and look good.”

“Says the guy wearing Dior trainers.”

“I like her,” John told Baird.

Baird nodded in agreement.

I grinned, pleased on multiple levels.

“Don’t.” Callan gestured between us and repeated, “You are not friends.” He turned to me now. “You better go or you’ll be late for your facial.”

He was right. I was so running late for the food bank. “You should know that you are never going to get laid owning a sofa like that.”

“Hey, that’s exactly what I said.” Baird held his hand up for a high-five. I cracked my hand against his, spitefully enjoying how much my bonding with his friends was annoying Callan.

“I’ll have you know that I could be drenched in cat piss and I’d still get laid,” Callan announced with an arrogant tilt of his gorgeous face.

What the ever lovin’… “Ew.”

“I mean, he’s not wrong,” John agreed, “but weird choice, man. Weird choice.”

“But he’s not wrong,” Baird reiterated. “Some birds just want to shag a footballer.”

“Each to their own, I guess.” I grimaced. “But cat pee? Really?”

Callan shrugged.

“Well, I’m choosing to believe you’re wrong.” It made me feel better about humanity. “Anyway, all that to say, I’d still think about having the sofa reupholstered. My pseudo-grandmother is cooler than you, Captain.”

“Bullshit.”

“What’s a pseudo-grandmother?” Baird asked, eyebrows raised.

“Grandma Elodie. She’s not my real grandmother, but she’s like one and the only thing I have that comes close to a grandma.”

“You don’t have a real grandmother?”

I shook my head. Both my maternal grandparents had died when my mum was a teenager, along with her little sister, for whom I was named. My paternal grandfather died before I was born, and my paternal grandmother hadn’t been in our lives. Dad had gotten word she passed away a few years ago. My dad’s half sister, my aunt Ellie … her mum, Elodie, and stepdad, Clark, were the closest thing I’d ever had to grandparents. They tried to be as good as. But it wasn’t the same as knowing the people who had a part in making me me .

“Sad.” Baird pouted adorably, but his eyes were filled with genuine sympathy.

“I think so.”

“My gran would love you,” he decided. “You should meet her. Also”—he turned to Callan—“Gran’s sofa is well cooler than yours, mate.”

“See!” I gave him an I told you so grin.

Callan gaped aghast at us. “No. No, no, no. She is not meeting your grandmother, and I’m not reupholstering my sofa. It could change its comfort level. Now grab the fucking thing, and you”—he pointed at me—“go away.”

I curled my lip. “Cat pee. Really? Because I’m doubtful they’d touch you if you were slathered in Nutella.”

John chuckled. “I dunno. Nutella, dude.”

“I’d lick that stuff off my own hairy balls,” Baird declared.

Silence reigned as we processed the hilarious imagery he’d created.

And then all burst into laughter.

Wiping tears from the corners of my eyes, I struggled to catch my breath.

Callan noted this and snapped out of his amusement. “No, no, no.” He pointed at me. “No joking with my friends.”

I wiped at the last of my misplaced mascara. “You are such a child. With an ugly sofa.”

“Wow. What an insult. How will I ever recover?” he deadpanned.

“Okay … how the hell do you two know each other?” John demanded.

“And hate each other?” Baird frowned at his friend. “She’s sick. And nice. And did I mention she’s a smoke show?”

“Aye. She seems it. You realize quite quickly, however, that she’s not. For instance, if you two weren’t professional footballers, she probably wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

Hurt pierced me, and guilt. Because I understood why Callan might think that, even though it was far from true.

Baird seemed dubious.

“That’s me.” I glowered at Callan to cover my shame. “If you’re not rolling in it, I’m not interested.”

“Facts.” Callan nodded grimly.

“She was being sarcastic,” Baird pointed out. “Mate, you’ve got to get better at recognizing tone.”

“Will you just lift my sofa?”

“Aye, but you’re telling the gaffer if I suffer an injury.”

Weirdly deflated for reasons I didn’t quite understand, I turned around and walked away.

“Oi, Beth.”

At Baird’s call, I glanced over my shoulder. “Aye?”

“Thanks for the help, gorgeous.” He winked at me.

His kindness soothed Callan’s animosity somewhat. “Anytime. I mean, for you. Not for cat piss over there.”

John and Baird both burst into laughter, and I could hear them ribbing Callan all the way up the next stairwell.

I didn’t look at Callan again. It was so strange to think I might bump into him regularly now. Eight years had passed between us. We were only kids then. For a moment, however, it felt like no time had passed at all. Perhaps for Callan, time didn’t matter. His guarded hostility seemed to be proof of that.