Out of Her League (3 page)

Lachlan swallowed back the bile rising in his
throat. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah. Seriously,” Rhian agreed sadly. “The
worst part, I hear, is that at the end they’re cuddling, and she’s obviously in
love with this creep, and he’s winking at the camera that she clearly doesn’t
know is there.”

Lachlan rubbed his hand over his eyes.
“That’s really, really awful.”

If he’d been put in a position like that,
Lachlan didn’t think he’d have left the house again, ever, let alone gone on to
run a major philanthropic trust and—
shit
—enrolled in law school, just a
few blocks away from where he sat now.

Michaela walked across campus, head high,
her laptop and notebooks bouncing off her hip in their new messenger bag. Her
first class of her first semester was set to begin in just a few minutes and
she was more nervous than she could remember being in years.

This had been a really stupid idea. How had
she not figured out before today that this was a really, really stupid idea?

She marched on, eyes forward, and tried to
ignore the looks cast her way. They weren’t unusual, of course, but she
realized with a sinking heart that she hadn’t really thought about what they
would mean here. This wasn’t just random people on the street in a huge city
she could get lost in. This was a campus. A large one, but still a closed
community, and she was the outsider in their midst.

She could guess what they were thinking.
That she’d paid her way in. That she didn’t deserve to be there. They saw
themselves as the best and the brightest, and viewed her as something else
entirely.

And maybe they weren’t wrong. But she
was
here to learn just like everyone else. She didn’t want special treatment, and
would readily refuse it if it were offered. Her time here wasn’t supposed to be
about her name or her notoriety. She’d gladly leave both behind if she could.

Her sole purpose here was to learn everything
she could to help grow and protect the Price Foundation. Her brothers were both
in business, MBA’d up to their eyeballs and capable of making money in their
sleep. They were responsible for managing the Foundation’s funds, and they did
an amazing job.

Between Michaela and her two brothers,
they’d more than doubled what the foundation gave annually over the past five
years. With that came a lot more contracts, negotiations, and responsibility.
This, more than anything, was what kept Michaela moving forward and had brought
her here.

Her parents didn’t really understand why
she felt a law degree was necessary. They’d handed the reins over to her years
ago and were delighted with how things were going. Michaela thought they could
be going better.

Her brothers, at least, understood. They’d
been on her case for years to get out and do
something
. To get a life.
Going back to school, as far as they were concerned, was as good a place to
start as any.

They were kidding themselves, of course.
She’d never have a normal life, no matter how much she wanted to be a regular
student, stuck with hours of homework and freaking out about exams. Her
undergraduate studies had ended as a circus, the scandal breaking right before
the start of her senior year. She could barely remember how she’d gotten
through those last two semesters. Her friends, who’d been happy to party across
the city with her, using her name and fame to get into places most students
could never dream of accessing, had abandoned her. The faculty and staff had
made it clear they had no interest in her being at their school. The press
chasing her across campus.

It was a miracle she’d finished school at
all.

She looked at the groups of students sprawled
out over the lawns and each other with raw envy. She’d had that once. But she’d
blown it. And there was no way to get it back.

She wished, briefly, and not for the first
time, that she could go incognito. But the press had gotten wind of her enrollment
months ago, and people clearly knew she was here. Any hope that her fellow
students wouldn’t notice or care, that they might just
ignore
her, was futile.

As usual, her name and her reputation had
preceded her. She’d contemplated going full-on Legally Blonde and just embracing
the attention—garnering more of it, even. That way, at least, the stares would
make sense. Would be expected. And if people weren’t subtle—which they rarely
were—she could pretend it was how she wanted it.

Most times it was a lot easier to be who
people expected, rather than who you truly were.

She’d coped with unwanted attention that
way for over a decade, and it had worked for her. Mostly. Her notoriety had
brought a lot of attention, and through that, donors, to the Price Foundation
and the charities it supported.

But she was also exhausted by it.

So today she was marching across campus in jeans,
a t-shirt, and sandals, her hair in a pony-tail, much the same as everyone else.
It felt a lot like going to war without her armor. Or maybe to sea without a
boat. How hard would she have to keep swimming just to keep her head above
water this way, alone in an ocean of fellow students who saw her as “other”?

Worse come to worst, she supposed, she
could always bust out the pink suit, kitten heels, and Fang on his rhinestone
leash in a week when she cracked.

Lachlan looked out over his Philosophy 101
class and sighed. He
hated
these general education classes, crowded with
freshmen who’d had grand ideas when they’d signed up for this class from the
comfort of their mother’s kitchens over the summer. They’d soon realize that
they didn’t really give a shit about philosophy, let alone at nine o’clock in
the morning.

He clapped his hands together once, loudly,
giving all appearances of being enthusiastic about handing out the syllabus and
detailing what the homework would be.

Lachlan
was
excited about
philosophy. It was his passion. His
calling
, even. It was just hard to
believe he’d also been called to bore eighteen year olds out of their skulls.

At least half the class was nodding off,
and that one poor kid in the front row was actually drooling down his own chin,
the dark spot growing on his wrinkled, probably slept-in, t-shirt. Lachlan
walked past and caught the familiar scents of smoke and stale booze. This kid
was clearly settling into campus life quickly. Lachlan contemplated tapping his
shoulder, but he was secretly impressed the kid had managed to remain perfectly
upright, not even flinching at the sound of Lachlan’s clap.

He wished there was a subtle way to reach
for his phone and snap a picture. His brothers and Savannah would crack up.

Mentally scolding himself to stay on task,
he scanned the room. Every year, Lachlan hoped that there would be that one
spark. One bright light who he’d see nodding along instead of nodding off, who
would email him questions about the reading and write interesting papers that
showed real thought and promise.

It was early days yet, but he wasn’t
holding out a lot of hope. He knew one thing, though—it
definitely
was not
going to be the drooler.

His teaching assistant, Anna, caught his
eye and smirked. Lachlan turned his back to the class long enough to control his
answering smile and hide his eye roll. The one bright spot in this year’s
schedule was that Anna was able to be his TA. Five years ago, she’d been that
one spark. Now she was on her way to her PhD, and understood as well as he did
why these classes were torture for all involved.

Lachlan had once wondered, foolishly aloud,
if it were possible to interview incoming students to determine if they were
suited to the subject. This was, of course, met with a great deal of scorn from
his colleagues, many of whom still hoped that their presentation of self and
subject would be
so charismatic
they could convert anyone to their
passion.

Lachlan had no such illusions about
himself. Or philosophy, for that matter.

On that depressing note, he dismissed the
class and told himself not to take it personally that everyone, including the
drooler, fled the building like it was on fire.

He and Anna followed at a more sedate pace,
chatting about their plans for the new semester.

“Lachlan!”

Lachlan froze on the wide granite front
steps of the Emerson Building as every single person on the green turned to
stare. Not at him, but at the woman jogging their way and waving.

Anna’s eyes widened. “Is that Michaela
Price?”

“Fuck. I hope not.”

Anna giggle-snorted at his side.

“Hi!” Michaela said with a wide smile when
she reached them. “I’m so glad I found you.”

“Uh,” Lachlan stuttered, “what?”
Why?

Michaela’s smile didn’t falter, though her
eyes did narrow a little. Lachlan’s palms and forehead went damp. He locked his
knees but that only made him sway dangerously on the rock-hard stairs. Shit
shit shit. He did not want to do this in front of Anna. He was her advisor. He
was pretty sure that meant he was supposed to look intelligent in front of her.
Or at least
coherent
.

Unfortunately, these thoughts were not
helping the cause.

Anna looked at Lachlan, her eyebrows drawn together,
then back at Michaela with a hesitant smile. “Hello, I’m Anna. Dr. Morrison’s
TA this year.”

Michaela shook her hand. “Michaela Price,”
she offered, in case Anna lived under an even bigger rock than Lachlan, “I’m a friend
of the Morrison family.”

Anna’s mouth opened and closed a few times
before she muttered, “Callum Morrison.”

Michaela immediately looked contrite,
glancing at Lachlan as if to ascertain just how badly she’d fucked up.

“It’s not a secret,” he blurted. And wow, he’d
managed a whole sentence relevant to the discussion. Woo.

Michaela’s shoulders dropped several
inches. “Okay. Phew.” She turned back to Anna. “Callum suggested I look up
Lachlan once I arrived and I’m just getting a chance to now.” She glanced
around at their gathering audience. “Though I guess I should have called ahead.
I just figured I’d catch you after class.”

When he wasn’t expecting it. She was
clever, he’d give her that. He stared at her, his brain buzzing louder and
louder as the murmur of voices around them grew, and Anna and Michaela
continued to wait for him to say something. Anything. His legs shook with the
desire to just turn and walk away. He might have done it, had Anna not been
there.

“We were just headed back to the office,”
Anna said helpfully.

Michaela smiled at her gratefully. “Can I
walk with you?”

“Sure.” Anna sent Lachlan another concerned
look. “It’s just this way.”

The crowd parted as they moved down the stairs.
Lachlan didn’t think he was imagining hearing his last name repeated from a
number of directions. He’d never made any secret about having two brothers in
the NHL, one of whom had pretend-dated Michaela Price, but he hadn’t exactly
advertised it, either.

Not that he wasn’t proud of his brothers.
He was. Very. There were plenty of idiots on this campus who would find little
to respect about professional hockey players, but there were many more who
understood the brains and commitment that took. Lachlan had long ago consigned
the former to the very large of pool of people he didn’t give a shit about and
happily ignored.

“So, do you have another class today?”
Michaela asked.

Silence stretched before Lachlan realized
she was speaking to him. “No.”

“Great,” she said, her smile not slipping
an inch. The small part of his brain that wasn’t totally useless right now
could admire how hard she was working at this. “Do you have time for a coffee?
Or lunch?”

He almost said no again, but bit his tongue
just in the nick of time. He was socially challenged and objectively a total
nerd, but even he could see the desperate hope in Michaela’s eyes. He worried,
suddenly, that something was going on with Callum.

He tried to say, “Okay,” but it came out
more like, “Nhghgn.” Fortunately, he had retained the capacity to nod, so
Michaela understood him.

“Great. Do you need to go back to your
office first?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Anna said brightly,
tugging the box of extra syllabi from his arms and leaving him feeling even
more exposed. “I can take these, and you two can go on ahead.” She smiled up at
Lachlan. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Lachlan frowned, trying to make sense of
Anna’s face. Then his stomach clenched, because oh, holy hell, was Anna
matchmaking
?

Anna winked and his face went hot with mortification.
Oh, Christ,
she was.

“Ready?” Michaela asked.

He nodded, not even bothering to try speaking
aloud. He jerked his hand to the left in an attempt to find his manners and steer
them toward the nearest gate and out onto the streets of Cambridge. Hopefully
there, at least, they wouldn’t be surrounded by so many curious faces.

He didn’t have a destination in mind, but
Michaela’s earlier suggestion of coffee sounded good and it was something to
focus on. He led them toward the Square and the massive Starbucks in the heart
of it. With each step, he wondered if she was going to say something. If she
was waiting for him to say something to her. He tried to be subtle and glance
over quickly to gauge her expression, but she was always looking back at him, a
small smile on her face.

At least she didn’t look appalled. Or
alarmed. That was good, right?

Five minutes into their walk, Lachlan
stopped worrying about what he was expected to say, gratefully accepting that
Michaela was content to remain silent.

This did, however, leave Lachlan plenty of
opportunity to notice how many people were watching them as they entered the
bustle of Harvard Square. Some people were even taking pictures of them. Or
her, really. Lachlan suspected he could be walking along in a clown suit and no
one would notice.

“Oh, they’d notice. They’d take it as a
sign I was finally cracking up. Or cracking up
again
, depending on who
you asked.”

Lachlan hunched his shoulders in. “Did I
say that out loud?”

“The clown suit thing? Yeah.”

 “Sorry,” he muttered, wondering if this
wouldn’t be less painful for all parties involved if he simply took a hard
right out into traffic.

He walked a few more feet, turning over
what she’d said again and again, before curiosity trumped his nerves. “Why would
my wearing a clown suit be a sign that
you’re
cracking up?”

Her face remained neutral, but her shrug
was weary. He appreciated that kind of eloquent non-verbal communication. He
appreciated
all
non-verbal communication in social situations, now that
he considered it.

It didn’t, though, answer his question. He
thought about asking again, but pressing her to speak when he could barely
manage to string a few words together seemed hypocritical.

He opened the door to Starbucks and held it
for her, waiting. She seemed momentarily surprised, but he held on. Some women didn’t
appreciate this kind of thing, which he understood and was fine with, but he
was horrible at figuring out who did and who didn’t. Rather than question it to
the point of paralysis, he’d long ago decided to go with what his mother had
taught him.

Who said he couldn’t learn a social skill?

Michaela nodded, a silent “thank you”, and
slid past him into the cafe.

Michaela stood in line, staring at the menu
as if she hadn’t ordered essentially the exact same thing for the past decade.
She was trying to give Lachlan time and space to settle. She didn’t think she
was imagining that the silence stretching between them was becoming
increasingly comfortable. Well, okay, maybe increasingly less
uncomfortable
.

It was a start.

Callum had claimed that Lachlan was “shy”
around women—and theorized the more beautiful the woman, the worse it was.
Michaela had seen shy before, lots of times, and this wasn’t that. Also,
Callum’s assertion didn’t hold true. Lachlan was perfectly able to chat with
his frankly stunning TA, Anna. So why could he hardly say a single intelligible
word to Michaela? Except the clown suit thing, which was just weird.

Michaela ordered, then stepped aside for
Lachlan to do the same, ready to run interference if he struggled with it. He
didn’t. His smooth, deep voice washed over her, pushing back the buzz of the
crowd, his polite smile completely transforming his face.

The young man behind the counter blinked up
at Lachlan, wide eyed and pink cheeked as Lachlan made all kinds of eye contact
and used appropriate and articulate
words
through the course of their
transaction.

The cashier wasn’t the only one struck dumb
by how compelling and gorgeous Lachlan was like this.

Lachlan turned, still smiling, and Michaela
quickly paid for their drinks, pleased when he didn’t protest. Of course, that
might be because he couldn’t speak in her presence, but whatever. She was
taking it as a win. As far as she was concerned, going for coffee at all was a
win.

Lachlan took his cup from the barista and
gestured at the stairs to the large seating area above them. Michaela raised
her eyebrows and looked around at the dozen or so pairs of eyes on them—three
of whom were holding up their phones to take pictures or video to record this stunningly
mundane transaction for the internet—then looked back at Lachlan.

“Let’s walk,” he said quietly.

Maybe that was the trick to getting him to
talk, she thought as she held the door for him. She just had to shut up and
wait for it.

They wandered through Harvard Square,
listening to the street performers and dodging roving bands of excited
underclassmen, then started up Brattle Street. The houses were old and
well-maintained, the estates increasing in size and grandeur until the
neighborhood felt more like a park, the street shaded by trees and lined with
cast iron gates and fences.

The city noises fell away, but the silence
between them continued. It was nice, actually, not having to say much. She
spent a lot of time alone these days, especially in the two weeks since she’d
moved here. That was why she’d finally given in and looked up Lachlan’s class
schedule. Fang didn’t really satisfy the basic need for human companionship.

She’d previously believed she needed to
talk
to someone to get that, but it turned out it wasn’t strictly necessary.

After about a half hour of walking, she
realized Lachlan had circled them around the worst of the bustle and brought
them to the other side of the Square.

“I live just a few blocks from here,” she
said, waving to their left.

He immediately changed directions. “I’ll
drop you at your door.”

Huh. Were his manners so ingrained that falling
back on them made speaking in the process easier? She considered how polite
Callum was, even when he had been in full-on grumpy bastard mode back in Denver.
Then she pictured Lachlan and Callum’s parents, Mary and Bruce Morrison.