Chapter 5: The Invitation
The world had narrowed to the warm weight of him, the taste of whisky and something uniquely his, the solid plane of his chest beneath her palms. Roz’s fingers were tangled in the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if he might vanish. His arms around her were an anchor, one hand splayed against the small of her back, the other cradling her head with a startling tenderness.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, he kept his forehead pressed to hers. His eyes were closed, his breathing ragged. “Roz,” he murmured, her name a rough sigh against her lips.
She couldn’t speak. She just traced the line of his jaw, her thumb brushing over the stubble, feeling the reality of him. This wasn’t the cautious, therapeutic space she was used to navigating. This was a freefall, and she had never felt more grounded.
He opened his eyes, the blue of them darkened, intense. “I should go,” he whispered, the words contradicting the way his hand tightened on her back.
“Why?” The question was out before she could temper it, raw and direct.
A faint, pained smile touched his mouth. “Because you’ve had a big night. Because you’ve just… You should have space to think. Without me crowding you.”
She understood the honour in it, the carefulness. It made her chest ache. She shook her head, just a tiny movement. “I don’t want space.”
“Roz…”
“I don’t.” She said it with more force, her own hands moving to frame his face. “I want this. I want you here.” The vulnerability of the admission sent a shock through her, but she held his gaze, refusing to look away.
He studied her face, searching for any hint of doubt. Seeing none, he let out a long, shaky breath. “Alright.” He kissed her again, soft and slow, a seal on the promise. Then, with a sudden, effortless motion, he stood, bringing her with him, her feet leaving the floor as he swept her up into his arms.
A startled laugh burst from her. “Alasdair! I can walk!”
“I know,” he said, starting toward the hallway, his stride sure. “But I don’t want you to.”
He carried her past the sleek, modern kitchen, down a short corridor to his bedroom. It was simpler than she expected—a large bed with a plain grey duvet, a row of books on a shelf, a stack of training gear neatly folded on a chair. The blinds were open, offering a grid of city lights, the soft, orange glow painting the room in stripes.
He laid her on the bed, the sequins of her dress whispering against the cotton. He stood beside it, looking down at her, his expression suddenly serious, almost reverent. “You are… breathtaking.”
The last of her shyness melted under the heat of his look. She reached for him, her hand finding his, pulling him down to her. “Then stop looking and come here.”
He followed, bracing himself above her, his weight settling in a way that made her breath catch. This time, the kisses were different. Less discovery, more intention. His mouth was hungry on hers, then trailing down her jaw, to the sensitive spot below her ear. She arched against him, her hands pushing his jumper up, eager to feel skin.
He broke away just long enough to pull the garment over his head and toss it aside. The city light sketched the powerful lines of his shoulders, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen. She’d seen him in rugby kit, but this was different. This was private, for her.
“Your turn,” he murmured, his fingers finding the thin strap of her dress. He slid it down her shoulder, his lips following the path his fingers took. The cool air hit her skin, then the heat of his mouth. Every touch was deliberate, worshipful.
They undressed each other with a clumsy, urgent grace. The sequined dress pooled on the floor like a fallen star. His clothes followed. And then it was just skin, the shocking, perfect heat of him against her, the rasp of his breath in her ear, the solid strength of his thighs between hers.
He paused, holding himself above her, his body trembling with the effort of restraint. “Tell me,” he breathed, his voice frayed at the edges. “Tell me what you want.”
She looked up into his face, etched with tension and desire, and felt a surge of power so profound it left her dizzy. She guided him to her, her legs wrapping around his hips. “You,” she said, the word a plea and a command. “Just you.”
The first, slow push drew a gasp from her, a sharp, sweet puncture of the familiar world. Her nails dug into the hard muscle of his back. He stilled, buried deep, his face buried in the curve of her neck. “Christ, Roz,” he choked out.
Then he began to move, and thought dissolved into sensation. The rhythm was not frantic, but deep and relentless, a tide pulling her under. Every stroke was a conversation, an answer to a question she hadn’t known she was asking. The room filled with the sounds of them—their ragged breathing, the soft, wet slide of skin, the creak of the bed, her own desperate, fragmented pleas against his shoulder.
She came apart quietly, a series of sharp, internal detonations that stole her breath and blurred her vision. He followed moments later, his body shuddering, a guttural sound ripped from his throat as he collapsed onto her, his full weight a welcome anchor in the spinning dark.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing slowing, the hum of the city beyond the window, the frantic beat of her heart against his. He rolled to his side, taking her with him, keeping her close. His hand drifted up and down her spine, a soothing, absent-minded rhythm.
Roz pressed her face into the hollow of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of sweat and skin and him. The complexity of it—the raw physicality, the shocking intimacy, the sheer trust of it—washed over her. She had never felt so known, or so safe to be so unraveled.
“That funding report,” he murmured into her hair, his voice drowsy and thick. “Is it actually due tomorrow?”
A laugh shook through her, a release of pure, uncomplicated joy. “No. I panicked.”
He chuckled, the sound a warm vibration against her cheek. “Good. Because I don’t think I can let you leave this bed for at least… twelve hours.”
“Arrogant,” she whispered, nipping gently at his collarbone.
“Realistic,” he corrected, pulling the duvet over them both. “Based on current data.”
She drifted, lulled by the warmth and his heartbeat. Just as sleep began to pull her under, she heard him speak again, his words soft and clear in the dark.
“You’re staying, right? For the night?”
She didn’t open her eyes. Just snuggled closer, her leg hooking over his. “Yes.”
“Good.” A kiss was pressed to the top of her head. “Sleep, sweetheart.”
Dawn seeped into the room, a pale, grey light that gradually defined the shapes of furniture, the line of his arm draped across her waist. Roz awoke by degrees, aware first of the profound warmth, then of the solid weight anchoring her, finally of the unfamiliar ceiling above.
His breath stirred the hair at her temple. He was still deeply asleep, his face relaxed in slumber, the fierce intensity of the night before softened into something younger, peaceful. She studied him, the dark sweep of his lashes, the slight parting of his lips. The rugby player, the spokesman, the gentle man who carried her to bed—they were all here, trustingly defenseless beside her.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, she extracted herself. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on her bare skin. Her dress was a glittering puddle on the floor. She found his discarded jumper and pulled it on. It drowned her, smelling of him, of wool and clean sweat.
Padding barefoot into the kitchen, she filled the kettle. The silence of the flat was profound, a companionable hush. She found two mugs, tea bags, sugar. As she waited for the water to boil, she leaned against the counter, looking out at the waking city. The memory of the night played behind her eyes—not in a blur, but in sharp, luminous fragments. The feel of his hands. The look in his eyes when he said breathtaking. The moment of joining, which felt less like a collision and more like a homecoming.
“Couldn’t find the coffee?”
His voice, sleep-rough and warm, came from behind her. She turned. He stood in the doorway, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, his hair ruffled, his bare chest and feet making him look like a rumpled god. Her breath caught all over again.
“I’m a tea woman,” she said, her voice still morning-soft.
“Aye, I remember.” He came to her, his steps quiet on the polished concrete floor. He didn’t kiss her, just wrapped his arms around her from behind, his chin resting on her head, his warmth enveloping her again. “Sleep okay?”
“Incredibly.” She leaned back into him, letting her head rest against his chest. The kettle clicked off. She made the tea, his presence a constant, comfortable pressure at her back.
They took their mugs to the sofa, sitting side-by-side in the grey dawn light, legs tucked underneath them. It should have been awkward, this morning-after quiet. It wasn’t. It felt like a continuation.
“I have training at ten,” he said after a long sip. “Murderously early video session. Ewan will be hungover and weeping.”
She smiled into her mug. “And I have a shift at the centre at one. Jamie’s been practising his passing. He’ll be desperate to show someone.”
“You should bring him to one of our outreach sessions. Let him show the pros.”
“He’d love that.” She paused. “You’re serious about that, aren’t you? The sessions.”
He looked at her, his blue eyes clear and focused. “Completely. It wasn’t just a line to get your number, Roz. Though,” a quick grin, “I’m not sad it worked as a side benefit.”
She nudged his foot with hers. “Good.”
They lapsed into silence again, but it was the good kind, the kind that needed no filling. He reached over and took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. His were scarred, knuckles slightly enlarged, a working man’s hands. Hers looked small and pale within their grasp.
“Last night…” he began, his thumb stroking her palm.
“Was perfect,” she finished quietly, looking at their joined hands.
“It was for me, too.” He squeezed her fingers. “I don’t… I’m not in the habit of this. Just so you know.”
“What, bringing women home for whisky and profound life conversations?” she teased, though her heart thumped.
“No,” he said, refusing the joke, his tone earnest. “Of wanting someone to stay. Of asking them to.”
The words hung in the quiet air. They were a commitment, a vulnerability offered as simply as the tea in her mug.
“I’m glad you asked,” she said, meeting his gaze.
He leaned in then, and kissed her, a soft, slow morning kiss that tasted of tea and sleep and a new, fragile hope. When he pulled back, he kept his forehead against hers. “I’ll drive you home. You can change, grab your things for work.”
An hour later, she was standing on her own doorstep, the well-worn brass knocker gleaming in the mid-morning light. He had walked her to her door, his windbreaker now zipped over his training gear. He’d kissed her once more, a chaste, lingering press of his lips to hers on the worn cobblestones.
“I’ll text you,” he said. “About the session details. And… other things.”
“Okay,” she said, her key in her hand.
He turned to leave, taking a few steps down the narrow, ivy-lined path.
“Alasdair.”
He stopped, looked back.
Roz stood on her threshold, the memory of the night a live wire in her veins, the ghost of his touch still on her skin. She saw the question in his eyes, the patience. She took a breath, the Edinburgh air cool and damp in her lungs.
“I had a really good time,” she said, the simple words carrying the weight of everything that had happened.
His smile started slow, then spread across his whole face, bright enough to rival the morning sun breaking through the clouds. “Me too, Roz Douglas,” he said. “Me too.”
He gave a final, small wave, and disappeared around the corner.
She let herself into her silent flat. It smelled of her own life—linseed oil from her abandoned canvases, lemon cleaning spray, the faint, ever-present scent of rain on stone. It was all familiar, and yet completely altered. She walked to her bedroom, shrugging off his jumper, holding the soft fabric to her face for a moment before folding it carefully on her bed.
She wouldn’t wash it, not yet. She wanted to keep the smell of him a little longer.
Outside her window, the city went about its business. She had a shift to get to, a young man named Jamie waiting to show her his progress. Her own life, with all its known contours, awaited. But as she stood there, a silent, private smile touched her lips. The contours had shifted. The map had redrawn itself. And for the first time in a long time, the prospect of the day ahead didn’t feel like a routine, but like a beginning.
The familiar clatter of keys in the lock broke her reverie. Catriona stumbled in, smelling of stale perfume and bacon, her mascara smudged into artistic shadows under her eyes. She froze in the doorway, taking in Roz still standing there in the middle of the room, wearing yesterday’s jeans and a soft, distant smile.
“Well,” Cat said, dumping her bag. “You’re home. And you’re… glowing. It’s obscene before coffee.” She padded to the kettle, then stopped, her detective’s brain clearly whirring. “Hold on. You’re home now. But you weren’t home when I texted at midnight. Or at two.” She turned, eyes wide. “You’ve never done this before. Roz stayed over. Like that. With a man.”
Roz leaned against the doorframe of her bedroom, the smile widening into a helpless grin. She could still feel the imprint of his sheets, the weight of his arm. “He’s special.”
Cat’s face softened from theatrical shock to genuine warmth. “Good.” She busied herself with two mugs, her back to Roz. “So,” she said, her voice carefully casual. “Is he as good in bed as he looks?”
Roz barked a laugh, surprised and loud in the quiet flat. “Better.” The word hung in the air, confident and true.
Cat spun around, pointing a teaspoon at her.“Details. Spare no detail. I require fuel.”
But Roz just shook her head, hugging herself. “Not a chance. Some things are mine.” The possessiveness in her own voice surprised her. This wasn’t gossip for the girls; it was a low, private hum in her blood she wanted to protect.“Fine. Be a romantic miser.” Cat sighed, pretending defeat. “But I’m getting a full debrief on the kissing alone. He has that mouth. It promises things.”
Later, showered and dressed in fresh clothes, the normalcy of her small flat felt both comforting and strange. She picked up the forgotten windbreaker from where it hung on her door knocker. She brought it inside, her fingers tracing the faint, worn embroidery on the sleeve—a tiny rugby club crest. She didn’t hang it in the cupboard. She draped it over the back of her reading chair, a dark blue splash against the cream linen.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.Not a text. An incoming call. Alasdair’s name lit up the screen. Her stomach did a quick, pleasant flip.
She answered. “Hello?” she said, hearing the slight breathlessness in her own voice.
“Hi.” His voice was warmer than it had been over text, a low rumble that vibrated through her. “Sorry, I know you’re heading to the centre. Just… wanted to hear you.”
She leaned against the counter, a ridiculous smile tugging at her lips. “You’re hearing me. I’m making tea and trying to find my other trainer.”
“Find it? Sounds chaotic.”
“It’s organised chaos.”
“I like your chaos.” There was a smile in his words. “Listen, the lads are confirmed for Thursday afternoon, if that works for Jamie and the others? Two o’clock at the centre. We’ll bring gear, keep it simple. Some passing, maybe a gentle tackle pad.”
“They’ll be over the moon. Jamie will have been waiting for you in the car park since yesterday.” She paused. “You don’t have to do this. I know your schedule is—”
“Roz.” He cut her off, gentle but firm. “I want to. Okay?”
“Okay.” She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Thursday. We’ll be ready.”
A beat of comfortable silence passed, full of the unspoken night before. “How’s the soreness?” she asked, a new, intimate teasing in her tone.
He gave a soft, pained groan that was half laugh. “Aches in places I forgot I had. Worth every single one. You?”
“I feel…” She searched for the right word, watching the steam curl from her mug.“Perturbed. In the best way.”
He laughed, a rich, genuine sound. “Perturbed. I’ll take that. Right, I’ll let you go. Don’t want you late because of me.”
“Alasdair?”
“Aye?”
“Thank you. For last night. For… this morning. For calling.”
Another silence, thicker this time. “Thank you for staying,” he said quietly. The line clicked, and he was gone.
The centre hummed with its usual mid-monday energy. The smell of microwave popcorn and poster paint hung in the air. Jamie met her at the door, his tablet held out like an offering. On the screen, a meticulously crafted schedule was displayed, every minute from 2:00 to 3:30 p.m. on Thursday accounted for in bold, blocky text.
“We have forty-five minutes for passing drills,” he stated, not looking at her but at his screen. “Then fifteen for water. Then tackling practice for twenty-five minutes. Then photos and autographs for five.”
Roz gently placed a hand on his arm, a signal they’d worked out. He glanced up. “Jamie, that’s a brilliant plan. We might need to let the rugby players have a say in the timing too, though. They’re the professionals.”
He considered this, his brow furrowing. “But my plan is more efficient.”
“It is,” she agreed. “We’ll use it as a guide. A very good guide.” His smile, when it came, was a swift, bright thing. He hurried off to inform everyone else of the impending professional visitation.
Her own phone buzzed in her pocket throughout the day. Not calls, but little irradiations of him.
A photo of a crushed protein bar wrapper on a gym bench. Caption: Gourmet. Missing your tea.
A screenshot of a tangled, furious-looking email from the club’s nutritionist. Caption: She knows about the bacon roll. I’m a dead man.
Then, later, as she was tidying art supplies: Thinking about that dress on my floor. A hazard. I nearly broke my neck this morning.
Each one was a tiny shock of pleasure, a private connection thrumming beneath the day’s routine tasks. She didn’t reply to all of them immediately, letting the anticipation build. She sent back a picture of Jamie’s intricate schedule.Your new boss. Prepare for strict timekeeping.
His reply was instant. Terrifying. I’ll be on my best behaviour.
On Wednesday night, the flutter in her stomach was less about memory and more about anticipation. He was coming into her world tomorrow. The thought sent a nervous thrill through her. Would he find it messy? Would he see the chaotic beauty in it, the frustration, the small triumphs?
She was polishing the same already-clean table for the third time when Cat wandered in, wine glass in hand. “You’re vibrating the floorboards.Sit. Drink.” She pushed a glass toward Roz. “He’s going to be brilliant tomorrow. The kids will adore him. You’ve already seen him with you. Now you’ll see him with them. It’s a different thing.”
“What if it’s too much?” The question slipped out. “What if the reality of my job, of all this…” She gestured around the room, at the sensory corners, the visual timetables, “...is just… a lot?”
Cat sat down, her expression losing its teasing edge. “Then he’s not the man you thought he was. But,” she took a sip, “I saw how he looked at you when you were talking about Jamie’s painting that time in the café. He wasn’t just listening to be polite. He was interested. That doesn’t switch off.”
Thursday dawned brittle and bright. Roz chose her clothes with ridiculous care—practical jeans, a soft burgundy jumper, trainers she could run in. She wanted to look professional, approachable, like herself. Not like someone trying to impress. The centre was abuzz, a tangible current of excitement zipping through the usual rhythms.
At five to two, a modest team van pulled into the small car park. Not a flashy bus, just a practical white vehicle with a small club logo. The doors slid open.
Alasdair emerged first, his size immediately commanding the space. But he didn’t stride. He unfolded himself from the van, his eyes scanning the building front until they found her, standing in the doorway. His smile was immediate, a private, quick thing just for her, before his professional mask settled into a warm, open friendliness.
Three other players piled out behind him, including Ewan, who was stretching with exaggerated groans. They were all huge, moving with the easy, contained power of large predators. But they stood loosely, waiting, letting Alasdair take the lead.
He walked toward her, his hand out. Not for a kiss, but for a handshake.A public greeting. “Roz. Good to see you.”
She took his hand, the warmth and strength of it a secret message. “You too. Welcome.” She turned to the group. “Everyone, this is Jamie, Leo, Maya, and Shannon. They’ve been planning your visit.”
Jamie stepped forward, tablet held tight. “Your schedule is inefficient,” he announced to Alasdair, without preamble. “We have revised it.”
Alasdair didn’t laugh. He crouched down, bringing himself to Jamie’s eye level, and gave the screen his full attention.“Right. Show me where I’ve gone wrong, mate. I’m always looking to improve.”
Roz watched, her heart thumping hard against her ribs. She watched Alasdair listen, truly listen, to Jamie’s detailed explanation. She watched him gently high-five Maya after she managed a wobbly pass. She saw him patiently hold a tackle pad for Leo, who shoved against it with all his might, over and over, his face alight with effort and joy.
He was a natural. Not performing, not condescending. He was just there, completely present, his large hands careful, his voice calm and encouraging. Ewan, she noticed, was surprisingly gentle with Shannon, showing her how to hold the ball, his usual boisterousness dialled right down.
For an hour, the centre was a symphony of thudding balls, shouted encouragement, and riotous laughter. It was messy and perfect.
As the session wound down, autographs were signed on forearms and tablet covers. The players were loading the spare balls back into the van when Alasdair lingered by her side, the public distance closing slightly.
“This place,” he said, his voice low, his gaze sweeping over the building, the kids now chattering excitedly inside. “It’s brilliant. What you do here… it’s amazing, Roz.”
The praise warmed her more than any compliment about her looks ever could. “They loved you. Jamie’s probably writing a ten-page review right now. You’ll get top marks for participatory engagement.”
He smiled, but his eyes were serious. “I meant it. About coming back. If you’ll have us.”
“Always.”
He glanced toward the van where Ewan was pretending to fumble every ball. “I’ve got to get this lot back. They’ve a media thing.” He shifted his weight. “What are you doing tonight?”
The question was casual, but the intent behind it was clear. It wasn’t a text. It was a direct ask, face-to-face.
“Nothing,” she said. “Laundry. Thrilling stuff.”
“Skip it.” His voice dropped another notch. “Come to mine. I’ll cook. Something that isn’t a protein bar. No expectations. Just… more of this.” He gestured vaguely between them, encompassing the day, the night before, the easy connection thrumming in the space between their bodies.
Before she could answer, Ewan’s voice boomed across the car park.“MacLeod! The PR woman is texting me threats! We’re late!”
Alasdair didn’t turn. He kept his eyes on hers, waiting.
“Yes,” she said.
He nodded, a quick, satisfied dip of his chin. “I’ll text you the address. Around seven.” He began to walk backward toward the van, his eyes still on her. “Wear something comfortable.”
Then he turned and loped toward the van, climbing into the passenger seat. As it pulled away, he looked back through the windshield, raising a single hand in a wave just for her.
Jamie materialized at her elbow, looking at the departing van, then up at her. “He is your preferred romantic partner,” he stated, matter-of-fact.
Roz felt a blush heat her cheeks. She put an arm around his shoulders. “He’s a friend, Jamie.”
Jamie looked unconvinced. “You have a specific smile for him. It has a different statistical frequency.” He walked back inside, already tapping on his tablet, likely to log the observation.
Roz stayed in the car park, the autumn sun weak on her face. The scent of damp grass and car exhaust mixed with the lingering echo of his voice. Wear something comfortable. It was a promise of ease, of continuation. The sequin dress was balled in her laundry bag. Tonight called for soft jeans, maybe the burgundy jumper again. Her phone vibrated. A new text. An address in Leith, followed by a single line.
I’ll leave the key under the plant pot. Let yourself in if I’m running late.
The trust in that simple instruction stole her breath. She leaned against the cool brick of the building, watching the traffic pass. The flutter in her stomach was still there, but it had changed. It wasn’t anxiety anymore. It was momentum.