Chapter Four
“Holy shit, you’re Lachlan Ramsay.” I shoot out of my chair like the president has just walked into the room. And quite frankly, I’m more excited than if he actually had.
The extremely handsome international superstar in my doorway pulls a ridiculous face that does nothing to diminish his looks. “Damn, did they put my name on all my shirts?” He turns around to look at his back like a dog chasing its tail.
“No, I’ve just been staring at pictures of you for about seventeen hours straight, so seeing you in three dimensions is kind of disorienting.”
“Hmm, creepy?”
My face goes bright red and I smash my bangs down, as if they could conceal my embarrassment.
“Sorry, yes, not my best opening line there.” But how could I not be supremely awkward at a time like this?
The Lachlan Ramsay is here, in my office.
Mersey announced the signing the day I took the job.
He’s the man the club paid ￡30 million to get back, the man who’s going to lead them out of their prolonged slump.
The prodigal son returned. He’s here, lithe and toned and just as captivating as he was in the parking lot.
He’s here, and he’s not wearing his wedding ring.
Not that I’m letting myself get carried away or anything—though it is strange, since I’ve definitely seen pictures of him wearing it during the aforementioned hours of googling.
He narrows his eyes. “Hang on, you’re the girl from the car park. The Riddlemaster.”
“Congrats, you finally solved one.”
He laughs. “You know, I asked Matilda if she knew who you were, but she hadn’t even seen you standing there. Made me start to doubt my sanity, so I’m extremely glad that you exist.”
It’s a throwaway comment, but it fizzes inside my chest like a pinwheel. I’m extremely glad that you exist. I manage to stop myself from blurting, “You too!”—for some reason, the gods have given me a second chance at a first impression, and I don’t want to squander it.
“And I’m extremely glad I didn’t know who you were then,” I say. “Because I would have been even more awkward, if you can possibly imagine that.”
“You’re selling yourself short. ‘Maybe one day, but maybe never’—compelling stuff. Sphinx-like. I turned it over and over in my mind for days.” He leans against my doorframe. “I take it you got the job, then?”
“No, I broke into this office to google you. Faster internet. And more magazines to cut out the ransom note lettering.”
“Ah, yes, let’s get back to this.” He taps a finger on his chin. “Explain the extra-firm hold I seem to have on you.”
“Well, I do actually work here.”
“So does the geezer who washes the towels, and he’s not stuffing a tiny Lachlan Ramsay voodoo doll with my hair.”
“Not that you know of.”
“That’s a good—and terrifying—point.”
“But really, it’s just that I’m brand-new—to the club and the country and, if I’m being honest, the entire sport—so I’ve been cramming trying to memorize everyone’s faces. You’re my first celebrity sighting.”
“You’ve set the bar for ‘celebrity’ pretty low there,” he says.
“Yeah, but it turns out none of the Beatles live in Liverpool anymore.”
“Sellouts!”
“I know. So, underwhelming though it may be, that means you’re the best I’ve got. I wish I had something for you to sign so I could frame it and hang it up like bars do with the first dollars they ever earn.”
He pushes himself off the doorframe and steps into the office, bracing his hands on the back of the chair opposite my desk. “Bars? Dollars? Does the club know they’ve hired a Yank?”
“As is customary for all Americans, I did fly in to my interview on a bald eagle.”
His mouth hitches into a wry smile. “Always so subtle, you people.” He rummages in his pocket. “But you want me to sign something, and I can’t disappoint my fans—at least, not until they see me play. Do you have a pen?”
I toss him a Sharpie.
“Perfect. Now, I’m fresh out of notes—that first paycheck hasn’t landed yet, you know—but hopefully this will do.” He’s found a pound coin and is pinching it carefully between two fingers. “What’s your name, Riddlemaster?”
“Abby McIntyre.”
He flicks his eyes up from the coin. “You Scottish, McIntyre?” he asks, rolling the “r” extra hard.
“Historically, maybe, but my family came to America a million years ago, so it doesn’t count. But get me drunk and I promise I’ll do a better accent than Mel Gibson in Braveheart.”
I might be imagining it, but it looks like his cheeks flush pink. There’s definitely an extra little twinkle in his eyes. “Now that I would like to see.” He finishes scribbling and flicks the coin to me.
I turn it over to see a black scrawl resembling exactly nothing. “Already smeared. Consider me disappointed.”
“Damn. That’s one less shirt the club sells. Or is it one fewer? I don’t suppose you’re the club’s resident grammarian?”
“Worse: I’m the new social media manager. But, for the record, it’s ‘fewer.’ ”
“Ah, fuck, social media? So this whole exchange is going to end up on Twitter?”
“Not unless you say something interesting.”
“Damn, a devastating reply from the Yank!”
He’s still grinning, still sparkling, but all the blood drains from my face and our rapid-fire exchange grinds to a screeching halt.
Seriously, what am I doing, talking to this man like this?
I’ve gotten so carried away by the banter that I’ve forgotten the cardinal rule of working for a professional sports team: Do not piss off the athletes.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. That just slipped out.
I promise, you are the most interesting thing that has happened to me all day. Week. Millennium.”
“Well now, that’s just sad.”
“After the Spice Girls broke up, it was always going to be downhill for me.”
“Preaching to the choir there, my friend.”
“Seriously, though, I’m so sorry I said that, Mr. Ramsay.”
“If you apologize again, I will tell your boss, just as soon as you help me find her. I’ll not tell you the punishment for calling me Mr. Ramsay again, but it may or may not involve a boat back to the Colonies.”
All right, good, he’s not actually pissed. “To save you time, let me have a quick look at my contract to see if insulting the players makes it more or less likely I’ll be fired on my third day.”
“Actually, I think it’s more or fewer likely.”
I laugh. “Okay, that’s a good one.” We stand there in silence for a minute and I’m not sure what to do.
He’s looking at me funny, with a weird sort of gleam in his eyes, and my knees are beginning to feel distinctively gelatinous.
I clear my throat and pretend to notice something important on my computer screen, because anything is better than being on the receiving end of that piercing, curious gaze.
“So anyway, you were looking for Charlotte?”
He blinks. “Oh, uh, yeah. We’re supposed to be meeting, but I’m still finding my way around the gaff. It’s all changed from when I was last here.” He moves back to hover in my doorway.
“You’re close, don’t worry. Just go back down the hall, take your first left, and she’s in the office on the corner. Do you think you can handle that, or do you want me to find you some breadcrumbs to mark a trail?”
He laughs again, then narrows his eyes and cocks his head. It’s like he’s appraising me, like I’m a shirt he might want to buy. He looks on the verge of saying something but just closes his mouth, nods, and knocks twice on the doorframe before setting off down the hall.
I go back to Football Twitter with a smile tugging up the corners of my mouth. All of a sudden, I’m a little less hollow.