Title: The Play
Author: Karina Halle
A troubled Scottish rugby player who doesn't play by the
rules.
A vivacious man-eater who's given up on love.
When it comes to Lachlan and Kayla, opposites don't just
attract - they explode.
Kayla Moore has always been comfortable with her feisty,
maneating reputation. At least it was fine until she hit her thirties and saw
her best friends Stephanie and Nicola settle down with Linden and Bram
McGregor, leaving Kayla to be the odd one out. Tired of being the third wheel
with nothing but one-night stands and dead-end dates in San Francisco, Kayla
decides to take a vow of celibacy and put men on the backburner.
That is until she lays her eyes on Linden and Bram’s
cousin, hot Scot Lachlan McGregor. Lachlan is her sexual fantasy come to life –
tall, tatted, and built like a Mack truck. With a steely gaze and successful
rugby career back in Edinburgh, he’s the kind of man that makes her want to
throw her vow right out the window. But Lachlan’s quiet and intense demeanor
makes him a hard man to get to know, let alone get close to.
It isn’t until the two of them are thrown together one
long, unforgettable night that Kayla realizes there is so much more to this
brooding macho man than what meets the eye. But even with sparks flying between
the two, Lachlan can’t stay in America forever. Now, Kayla has to decide
whether to uproot her whole life and chance it all on someone she barely knows
or risk getting burned once again.
Sometimes love is a game that just needs to be
played.
Karina Halle has obliterated my almost unattainable expectations and delivered a story that is on a level beyond phenomenal with The Play. I dare you to read this book and not fall in love with these characters. Kayla and Lachlan's story will lure you in from the beginning and hold your attention captive until you've reached the end. If you haven't read The Pact or The Offer, it's okay. These stories are all stand alones, so you can read The Play and still get a grasp on all of the characters. However, once you read The Play, I bet you're tempted to get your hands on the previous stories.
I adore our heroine. She has sass and isn't a bit timid when it comes to taking what she wants. She's a maneater and unlike the other female leads from The Pact and The Offer. Sure the ladies share a few similarities, but I love how unique their characters and stories are from one another. Lachlan was who really won me over though. Where his family members are rugged and know what they want, Lachlan is quieter, more mysterious, and has a passion for rescue dogs. Excuse me while I melt. I love this pair's dynamic and how it never plateaued. There were plenty of ups and downs as these two navigated through discovering one another and the undeniable chemistry between them.
This story is another truly exceptional gem by Karina Halle. Nothing about the plot grows stagnant. I was enraptured by Halle's writing and her ability to create a story that made me feel such a variety of emotions. Her novels never disappoint and always exceed the expectations set by it's predecessor. If you haven't had the change to experience the McGregor men, I highly encourage you to pick up their stories and introduce yourself to these irresistible Scots.
With her USA Today Bestselling The Artists Trilogy published by Grand
Central Publishing, numerous foreign publication deals, and self-publishing
success with her Experiment in Terror series, Vancouver-born Karina Halle is a
true example of the term "Hybrid Author." Though her books showcase
her love of all things dark, sexy and edgy, she's a closet romantic at heart
and strives to give her characters a HEA...whenever possible.
Karina holds a screenwriting degree from Vancouver Film School and a Bachelor
of Journalism from TRU. Her travel writing, music reviews/interviews and
photography have appeared in publications such as Consequence of Sound, Mxdwn
and GoNomad Travel Guides. She currently lives on an island on the coast of
British Columbia where she’s preparing for the zombie apocalypse with her
fiancé and rescue pup.
“Get a fucking hold
of yourself,” I say out loud and crane my neck to look up at the
floor-to-ceiling windows of Lachlan’s apartment building, trying to count
floors and see which one is his. I anxiously open my compact and dot more lip
stain on my lips, wondering how fast it will be rubbed off once I get into his
apartment.
Is he going to kiss
me right away?
Will this be a Netflix
and chill night?
Immediate fucking?
The possibilities
have me on edge.
With a deep breath, I
get out of the car and walk over to the entrance. My finger hovers at the
apartment number. I take a moment to eye myself in the reflection of the glass
doors. I had sped home to change into a strappy black dress, something like the
nightgown-trend of the 90’s, with hot pink platform heels. No bra. No
underwear. What’s the point?
I press the buzzer
and wait for a few moments, my pulse pounding in my wrist. Lachlan’s distinct
voice comes through, - slightly drowsy, smooth as butter. “Kayla?”
“Hi,” I say. I’m
about to say something else, probably something awkward but he immediately
buzzes me through. I exhale loudly, trying to release tension and remain a
fidgety mess all the way up the elevator. Last time I was in here, we’d just
rescued the dogs. He was shirtless. He’d felt so close at that time and yet oh
so far away. To think now, now, I’d had my hands and lips all over him and my
need for him was stronger than ever before.
I knock on his door,
biting my lip in anticipation, until it swings open and I see Lachlan, leaning
casually against it. The dulcet tones of Fiona Apple’s “Slow like Honey” drift
in from the room.
“You shouldn’t be
wearing that,” he says, a faint smile on his lips. God, I’ve missed those lips.
“Why not?” I ask with
a raise of my brow. In a second, all my nerves smooth out and I realize how
easy it is to talk with him like this.
“You’ll make it
impossible to get through the appetizer,” he answers, moving back and letting
me inside. He’s back to casual gear, a white thermal shirt that’s partially
unbuttoned, just enough to show a glimpse of tanned skin, chest hair and
tattoos, a necklace with a small wooden cross, green cargo pants. I like him like
this just as much as I like him in a suit.
I walk in, my heels
echoing on the tiles. “I thought I was the appetizer,” I tell him, looking
around. The two dogs are on the couch, curled up into each other like sleeping
mice. In unison, they both lift their heads to stare at me. The pitbull gives a
thump of its tail but the scruffy mutt shivers slightly, showing teeth.
“Don’t mind them,
they’re still adjusting,” he says, closing the door and then gesturing to the
table by the kitchen, where I had done my interview with him last week. “That’s
the appetizer.”
On the table is a
bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a cheeseboard topped with brie, cheddar,
camembert, figs, jam, honey and crostini. “Wow,” I say softly. “You did all
this?”
He shrugs, making a
dismissive noise. “It was nothing.”
“This is romantic,” I
tell him. “I didn’t peg you for a romantic.”
He raises a perfectly
arched brow. “Oh yeah? What did you peg me for?” He slowly pours a glass of
wine.
I just stand there,
watching him pour a smaller amount into the other glass. His forearm flexes,
the lion tattoo seems to roar. His forehead is creased with concentration,
perhaps anticipation of my reply. He seems completely at ease with me but
there’s always that wildness in his eyes that never seems to go away. The only
time I saw peace in them was after he came last night.
“I pegged you for a
man who wouldn’t give me a second glance.”
He gives me a crooked
smile and corks the bottle “Well, love, you know that isn’t true.”
I slowly walk toward
him, looking up through my lashes like some femme fatale. “Oh, it was true. You
wanted nothing to do with me.”
His look softens for
a moment before he heads over into the kitchen, grabbing small plates from the
glass cupboards. “I want nothing to do with most people. Never take it
personal.”
“Tell that to Old
Kayla. She had no idea she’d get the chance to put your gorgeous cock in her
mouth.”
The plates rattle
against the counter. “You do have some mouth on you.”
“Exactly.”
He comes back in the
room with his hulking swagger, putting the plates down. He nods at the seat
pushed out. “Here, sit down. Please.”
I hook my purse on
the corner of the chair and take a seat. Both dogs stare at me from the couch.
“So how are they?” I
ask him.
He looks behind him
and I take a moment to appreciate every hardened, strained muscle on his neck
and shoulders. “As I said, adjusting.” He sits down and folds his hands in
front of him. “Someone is coming by tomorrow to see about adopting Ed. But I
think Emily will be coming home with me.”
“Which one is Ed?”
“The pit,” he says.
“Funny, I would have
thought he would have been harder to find a home for.”
“Usually. But Ed is a
big sweetie and people in this city are a little more tolerant of bully breeds
than people in the UK. Emily, however, as sweet as she looks,” he glances back
at the scruffy dog, who immediately bares her teeth to me, “has behaviour
problems. She’ll need work.”
“And are you the one
who teaches them?” I ask. “Because if so, then you are the dog whisperer, which
means there’s pretty much nothing you can’t do.”
He looks down at his
hands and gives a lazy one-shouldered shrug. “I found Lionel on the streets in
Edinburgh. I was able to teach him. Maybe he taught me some things, you never
know with dogs. But…it takes a special kind of person to train dogs, especially
those who have been through trauma and abuse. I am not that kind of person. I
will do whatever I can to save them but I’m not the person who can school them
on obedience.”
“Really?”
A quiet, almost
uncomfortable smile tugs on his lips. “A dog with behavioural problems
shouldn’t learn from someone with behavioural problems.”
I expect him to laugh
but he doesn’t. “Oh,” I say, trying to think of the right thing. “You just seem
like a natural. These two were strays and now look at them. Just like that.”
“I can get the dogs
to trust me,” he says in a low voice. “Because I trust them. But I can’t get
them to trust others.”
“Because you don’t
trust people…”
He slowly blinks and
then reaches for the stem of his wine glass. “I think I may trust you. Here’s
to that.”
“Here’s to that,” I
say, raising my glass and clinking it against his. I’m more than meeting him
the eyes, I’m diving in the green and grey. They seem darker somehow, moving
shadows. Depthless. Behavioural problems? What kind? How much more can I learn
about him before he’s gone?
I take a gulp of my
wine. He barely touches his. Just a small sip, then puts the glass back down
and pushes it away from him.
“I’ve never seen you
drink much,” I tell him, hoping my tone is easy enough so he won’t take
offense.
He gives me a long,
measured look before he licks his lips and looks away. “No, I don’t.”
“Because of
training,” I say, giving him an easy way out.
A slow nod. “Yes.”
He’s still not
meeting my eyes, his focus on the cheeseboard and even though he’s not frowning
like he usually his, his shoulders seem tense.
“What other things do
you have to do for training?” I ask. I feel we’ve regressed a little bit and I
want that sexy, casual banter back.
He drums his fingers
along the edge of the table and I lean forward, trying to get some cheese on my
plate. “Lot of work in the gym. Lot of work in the field. A good diet.”
“I assume it doesn’t
include loads of cheese,” I tell him, drizzling the honey on top of my brie.
“Nah, just boring
stuff. Chicken breasts, broccoli. It’s not a lot of fun but at my age, you have
to do it if you want to keep playing. When I was younger I could have eaten
whatever I wanted.”
“How old are you?” I
ask.
“Thirty-two,” he says
and I’m a little bit surprised. I guess because he looks so manly and
distinguished – the lines on his forehead, his scruffy beard – I pegged him for
someone in his mid-to-late thirties. Or maybe it’s his eyes.
I stare at them, even
though they are now staring sharply at the fig as he hacks his way into it, as
if the fig had done something personal to him. It’s those eyes that trip me up.
The eyes of an old soul, of someone who has seen too much, done too much.
There’s a war behind them at all times, a war I want to help him win.
“Does that surprise
you?” he asks, glancing up at me briefly.
I take a delicate
bite of the crostini. “Not really. You just seem more mature than that.”
He spreads the fig
over goat cheese. “In rugby, being in your thirties is asking for trouble. All
these years of being hit, all the injuries, the strain. It takes a toll. I
don’t know what happened, but when I turned thirty it all started to slip, just
a bit.” He offers me the fig and I take it from his hands, my fingers brushing
against his. One simple touch and I feel it travel down the length of my arm,
straight to my heart.
Bam. A shower of
sparks.
I swallow, trying to
ignore the feeling. “How long have you been playing for?”
He frowns, eyes
squinting in thought. “Twenty-two. Yeah.” He nods. “Ten years.”
I blink, impressed.
“That’s a long time. Is that normal?”
“I guess,” he says,
pursing his lips, considering. “I’m good at what I do. They need someone fast
and someone who will break everyone in their way. That’s my job. But I can’t do
it forever. After I fucked up my bloody tendon…I know I don’t have long.”
“You almost make it
seem like you’re dying.”
He briefly sucks in
his cheeks. “Rugby saved my life. I’m not sure what I’ll do when it’s over.”
“Coach?” I ask him
hopefully.
“Nah,” he says,
munching on the crostini and leaning back in the chair. When he swallows, he
adds, “I’m either in the game, or I’m not. There is no halfway. That’s not how
I’m built. Once I’m done, I’m done.”
And when this is
over? I think. Are we done?
But of course we
are…we aren’t even a thing.
“Maybe you’ll just do
the charity work…for the dogs.”
“Aye,” he says. He
reaches for his wine and takes a small sip. He almost puts it back down, then
takes another gulp, finishing the glass. “I’ll keep doing that. There’s no
expiration on helping others. As bloody cheesy as that sounds.”
“That’s not cheesy,”
I tell him. “That’s selfless and beautiful.”
“Come now,” he chides
me, seeming embarrassed. He looks away, folding his arms across his wide chest,
his unreal body stealing my attention again, turning my thoughts back into that
sexual whirlwind. Well played, Mr. McGregor, well played.
“What’s the lion
tattoo for?” I ask him. “What’s the story?”
That startles him.
“What are you on about?”
I point to his
forearm. “There. Lion. See. You said you would tell me some stories. About your
tattoos. Why you have them.”
He rakes his teeth
over his lower lip and looks me dead in the eye. “Did I now?”
“Yes,” I tell him
impatiently. “Last night…maybe this morning. After some good fucking.”
“Ah, yes. That
explains it.”
“Well give me
something.”
“If I give you
something, will you give me something?”
I can’t help but grin
like a fool. “Of course.”
“Okay then.” He
pushes his chair back slightly and takes his shirt off, tossing it on the floor
beside him. He spreads his legs and pats the crotch of his pants, his gaze
absolutely feral. “Have a seat.”
I am light-headed at
the sight of his torso again. I manage to get up, drawn to him like a magnet. I
put my hands on the hard breadth of his shoulders and straddle him. We are so
close. Our mouths inches away.
He’s breathing hard.
I’m breathless.
He’s a wall of muscle
and ink. I’m soft, yielding against him.
“So ask away,” he
says, that voice low, rough, yet cashmere cream. That voice I’ll hear in my
dreams long after he’s gone.
His eyes never leave
my lips.
I lean back to get a
better look at him, even though the distance pulls at me. I run my fingers over
his shoulder, taught, hard muscle. A storm rages in muted ink, an old ship with
tall sails is masterfully shaded, spreading onto his chest.
“This one,” I say
softly. “Why the storm? Why the ship?”
He chews on his lip
for a moment, searching my eyes. “I was twenty-four. I backpeddled with life
for a bit. I lost my edge in the game. But I pushed through and was better for
it. A ship in harbor is safe, but that’s not what ships are built for.” He
tilts his head, as if observing me, though I’m the one watching him. “It helps
me when I get scared. To keep going.”
“You get scared?” I
ask him, unable to picture him, this strong, powerful man, afraid of anything
at all.
“All the time,” he
says frankly. “How can life be anything except terrifying at times? We’re born
here. We don’t ask for it. And we’re expected to somehow get through it, living
each day without dying. We either live and if we don’t, we die.” He looks away,
gives his head a shake. “Nah. We’re all scared, every last one of us.”
I know I am. Of so
many things. My heart melts slightly to know that someone like him could feel
the same way as someone like me.
I trail my fingers
along the text on his collarbone. “Nunquam iterum,” I read out. “Latin, I
assume?”
“Yes,” he says
slowly, looking away. “It means never again.”
“Never again, what?”
His mouth quirks up
into a sour smile. “Never again to a lot of things.”
“Is that all I’m
going to get?”
“From that, yes,” he
says, finally meeting my gaze again. His pupils are so large, they hypnotize
me. “You get one more. Then you’re giving me something.”
I breathe in deeply
through my nose and look over every inch of him. The lion. Words across his
side “Hope before Death.” A paw print in his inner arm. A flock of ravens
swirling into a tribal pattern down one bicep, making a sleeve. A crest with
what looks like Latin on the other forearm. Another similar crest on his chest.
I press on the one on his chest, with a boar at the centre. “Corda. Serrata.
Pando,” I say, my finger tracing the words.
“I open locked
hearts,” he says.
I still, watching him
close. “What?”
“I open locked
hearts,” he repeats. “It’s the Lockhart crest. I was born a Lockhart. That is
the clan’s motto.”
“Again, that’s
terribly romantic,” I tell him. “That must be where you get it from.” I touch
his forearm, the other crest. “And I guess this is McGregor?”
“Aye, though it
should be MacGregor, or Clan Gregor.”
“'S rioghal mo
dhream,” I try to say but stumble over it. “What the hell.”
“Royal is my race,”
he translates. He gives me a dry smile. “However, it’s not my race. So that
explains a lot.”
I run my hand down
the side of his cheek and he briefly closes his eyes. “I think I’d rather you a
romantic warrior than one with fussy bloodlines.”
He leans in, slowly
opening his eyes, gazing at me through his lashes. “Who said I was a warrior?”
I lower my voice. “I
say you’re a warrior.”
You’re my warrior.
For now.
He lifts his chin.
“What else do you say?”
I adjust myself on
his hips, my hand slipping down toward his pants. I shift to undo the top
button, bracing myself on his shoulder. “I say you need to get your cock out,
warrior.”
He reaches out and
lets his hands drift down over my hair. “Lead you into battle?”
"Something like that." I bite my lip as I tug down his zipper.
