While I didn’t start training with my new team for another couple of weeks, I’d left Dublin early to get settled in Edinburgh before the season started. With Declan, Aidan, and I skipping our annual eat-drink-fuck pilgrimage to Santorini this year, I hadn’t felt like sticking around town.

I still couldn’t believe how drastically my two best friends’ lives had changed in the span of a year—but then again, mine wasn’t exactly business as usual either.

I wasn’t entirely certain Conor was going to keep his mouth shut, and I hadn’t been comfortable sitting around waiting for the other shoe to drop—especially once the press started making a big deal about my new contract.

Sean had managed to secure a pretty phenomenal deal for me with Edinburgh, and a certain loud-mouthed reporter who knew even less about rugby than he did about writing had had a field day blasting the team’s investment in what he’d called an “aging eight man prone to career-limiting injuries.”

With word of my increased salary having leaked, it was probably only a matter of time until Conor came crawling out of the woodwork to demand more cash. Sean was confident the NDA Conor had signed—paired with a sizable payoff I’d thrown in as extra incentive—would keep things under wraps long enough for me to get comfortable with my new teammates. We both knew Conor wasn’t going to stay silent forever, but I hoped before that time came, I’d have proved my value to the organization and made some friends who’d have my back.

But there was still plenty time for that.

So far I’d unpacked three boxes—one containing my sheets and towels, another with my cereal bowls and utensils, and (maybe the most important of all), the one that held my X-Box and all of my favorite games. I’d spent the last three nights staying up until 4 a.m. playing until my eyes were red and bleary and I could no longer see straight.

But now that my new furniture had been delivered this afternoon, it was time to man up and start acting like an adult. And that meant leaving my apartment to eat some real food.

When I’d moved here, a few people had cautioned me against living in Old Town, but since I didn’t know anyone, I wanted to be smack in the middle of the action. Now, I was happy I’d gone with my gut as I strolled down the slick cobbled streets of the Royal Mile, passing a number of restaurants and bars I could pop into whenever I felt like. Several were tourists traps, but many weren’t. In that way, Old Town Edinburgh wasn’t too different from Dublin, and I’d been happy enough there until things had gone tits up. No pun intended.

Stopping in front of a nondescript storefront—the small, retro lettering on the dark glass window the only indication the space was a restaurant—I decided to give it a try. I dropped the hood of my coat back and pulled the door open, the enticing smell of roasted meat hitting my nostrils and making my mouth water and my stomach growl.

“Hi, welcome to CAMP.” A beautiful redheaded girl in head-to-toe black greeted me with a smile.

Once inside, I saw it was an incredibly small space—only 20 or so tables and all of them occupied. The immaculately spotless kitchen was open to the dining room, separated by a long bar made of a single slab of burnished wood. There, a couple of solitary diners sat watching their meals being prepared.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a table available?”

And yet, I knew what she was going to say before she said it. I hated being relegated to the bar just because I was a single diner. There was nothing worse than wanting to unwind and relax while trying to keep your body perched on a precarious stool. I hated sitting at them in the pub, and I certainly didn’t want to spend £50 to spend the next hour trying to get comfortable and enjoy my meal.

She glanced over her shoulder, then down to the reservation book on the podium in front of her. “No, I’m sorry. I could put you at the bar though, if you’d like. Same menu.”

But it wasn’t just the stools I took exception to. Thanks to assholes like Gordon Ramsay and other chefs who’d hung up their knives to pursue fame and fortune on TV, diners who’d never given two shits about where their food came from had suddenly developed an obsession with watching chefs at work. Personally, I preferred a little mystery with my meals—I didn’t need to know where they came from or see them being made to appreciate the flavors. In fact, I’d rather not know. But I was hungry and the scents wafting from the kitchen made my mouth water, so I sucked up my prejudices and nodded.

“Right this way then.” She grabbed a menu printed on thick cream card stock, its red logo a set of crossed campfire logs. Once I was perched on a surprisingly comfortable stool, she set the menu down in front of me. “Chef MacLeod lived in America for several years as a boy. Our menu is meant to recapture the joy of his youth, including those years spent outdoors with friends and family.”

For fuck’s sake, I thought with an inward roll of my eyes. The name made perfect sense now, and I was immediately sorry I’d chosen to stop in.

I smiled thinly at the hostess, hoping she’d take a hint and leave. I didn’t want to have to be rude when she launched into some trite spiel about how this pretentious asshole used to cook his hot dogs over an open flame, the crickets creaking or whatever it was crickets did, or the beauty of a charred marshmallow for dessert. If there was one thing I hated more than watching a chef cook my meal, it was dining at a restaurant with a ridiculous theme.

When she took the hint and retreated to help another customer, I swiveled on my stool to face the open kitchen while I studied the menu. There were six cooks working in diligent silence, the one standing nearest to me looking over a small sheet of paper, his eyebrows pursed in disapproval.

“Three grilled trout, hold the brown butter on one, veg on the side,” he called out authoritatively before shoving the paper onto a large, metal spike atop several sheets just like it.

Then, his eyes lifted to mine. Smirking, he said, “I know what you’re thinking and I promise you, we don’t serve shitty fucking hot dogs. Or s’mores.”

I bit back a laugh. “That’s not what I was thinking.”

Okay, so that’s exactly what I’d been thinking.

“Yes, it was. You’re scowling at the menu.” His eyes raked over me and I tried not to flinch under his scrutiny.

Then, seeing the easy grin split his lips, I shared one of my own. “Okay, fine. Guilty as charged.”

“You wouldn’t be the first, and you certainly won’t be the last.” Another chef approached and said something to him that I couldn’t make out. The man who’d called me out on my bullshit grimaced, shook his head, and the other guy walked off, also shaking his head.

“See?” he asked, as if the exchange made any sort of sense to me.

“Sorry man,” I answered. “I don’t.”

He rolled his eyes. “A group of tourists heard about this place on some travel show and decided to come in for a special Scottish hot dog or something.” He scoffed to show his displeasure, the guttural roll of his throat sounding so very … Scottish.

And hot.

Don’t go there, I warned myself. My piqued interest in him was unexpected, and not entirely wanted.

Without missing a beat, he continued, “Maybe they grew up differently than me, but my family only ever cooked what we caught ourselves—and that meant a whole lot of salmon and trout.” He leaned across the bar, his tattooed forearms on display, and tapped the paper resting between us. “Hence, the heavy focus on fish.”

I scanned the rest of the items on the menu. “You also serve venison and wild boar,” I observed. I’d never been an outdoorsman, but if he took pride in growing up fishing, that probably meant … “Do I even want to know about that?”

He laughed, the deep rumbling sound causing my stomach to clench with longing—something I wasn’t prepared to experience.

Objectively speaking, this guy—Chef MacLeod, I assumed from his proprietary nature over the contents of the menu—was attractive in an unconventional sort of way. Nearly as tall as my six-foot-four-inch frame, he was much leaner than me though. Not skinny, but I was muscled in a way not many were. To my tidy, closely cropped blonde hair, his was wild, dark and pulled back from his face in a fucking man bun. I’d given Declan shit when he’d grown his hair out and started wearing one, but on this guy it worked. I’d only known him for a few minutes, but I didn’t get the impression his look was done to fit into some style or to look like anything other than what he was.

Briefly, I pictured him away from the kitchen, the longish locks falling recklessly in his face.

And while that formed a pretty fucking picture in my head, it was his eyes that really pulled me in. The color of brandy, they sparkled with mischief as we spoke, and maybe it was just me projecting my insecurity and fears, but I swore that when he looked at me, he saw everything I’d kept hidden for all these years. It wasn’t that he’d taken one long look at me and immediately known all my deepest, darkest fantasies. Rather, I thought he was probably a good judge of character; that he saw people for who they really were. That in an instant he’d sized me up and found me worthy.

Which was disconcerting in more ways than one. Because I wanted to be found worthy. I wanted someone to look at me and see a person worth investing his—or her—time.

He’s not your type, I reminded myself.

My type, I’d decided, being of the female persuasion.

I’d told myself I wasn’t going to indulge in my latent desires while in Edinburgh; promised myself that unless Conor outed me, I was going to stay on the strait and narrow for the next couple of years. Keep my head down, play rugby, and get as much pussy as I could, as often as I could. There was no room in my life right now for anyone best described as tall, dark, and handsome.

Pushing my unwelcome spike of lust aside, I tried to focus on what he was saying, and realized I hadn’t missed too much of the conversation.

“Yeah, he was a hunter too, but he spared us kids those trips. Something about whiny little shits and guns not mixing.”

I laughed because it was funny, and also because I was trying to hide my reaction to his nearness, his voice. The things it did to me against my will. Conor was the only guy I’d ever been instantly attracted to—Aidan Turner, notwithstanding—but there was something about this chef who made what I’d felt for Conor seem like child’s play.

I couldn’t quite put into words. He was … captivating. That was the only word I could come up with to describe the pull I felt toward him.

In only a matter of minutes, he’d captured my whole and undivided attention. I’d sat down thinking I’d made a huge mistake walking in here, but he’d made me completely reversed my initial impression. CAMP, it seemed, was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Even if it was a bad idea.

“I’m supposed to wait for a waitress to take your order and then relay it to me, but since you’re right there, and I’m right here, what will you have?”

I studied the menu again, taking in the meals listed with new appreciation after hearing how he’d caught and foraged for his own food as a kid. With only a few exceptions, everything sounded tasty. I couldn’t decide.

“Why don’t you pick?”

“You’re putting yourself in my capable hands then?” he asked with a quirk of his brow.

I tried not to read too much into those words, forced myself not to hear a double entendre where none existed. Still, with a quick flick of my eyes to the hands in question, I allowed myself to imagine them wrapped around my dick before pushing that dirty fantasy aside. My eyes flicked back up and I hoped my voice was steady when I said, “I’m sure they’re more capable.”

He cracked his knuckles and then splayed his large, work-roughened hands on the bar, my eyes darting to the ink trailing down over them.

“Oh, I assure you, they are,” he answered, his eyes sparking with … something heated and forbidden.

At least to me.

Holy fuck.

This was still so new to me, but I knew flirting when I saw it, and as improbable as it was, this chef was flirting with me. At least I thought he was. I could spot a woman flirting with me a mile away, but what if men were different? What if everything about this game was foreign?

Before I could make up my mind one way or the other, he extended an outreached hand. “Lachlan MacLeod. In case it wasn’t obvious, I own this joint.”

Reaching across the bar, I gripped his proffered hand and felt a flash of electricity shoot up my arm and down my spine to settle in my balls. Schooling my features to keep my surprise at such a visceral reaction to his touch from my face, I gave him a lazy grin. “Liam Donnelly.”

Pulling his hand away, Lachlan set to work wiping down a plate another chef had set in front of him. His eyes flicked up and our gazes locked. “Name your poison, Liam. Anything you like.”

Okay, yeah. He was definitely flirting with me.

But could I flirt back?

Apparently I could, because with another grin meant to entice, I asked, “Anything I like?”

I allowed my eyes to rove the planes of Lachlan’s face, not bothering to disguise my inspection, not bothering to hide my approval at what I saw.

“I’m sure we can figure something out,” he answered with his own lazy grin before turning to the rest of the aproned staff.

“Hey lads, this is Liam’s first time here. Let’s give him a meal to remember.” Turning back to me, he added meaningfully, “After all, we want him to come back.”