Out of Her League

Destiny
Calls

With
Grace

Hat
Trick Book One: Fair Play

Hat
Trick Book Two: Two Man Advantage

Hat
Trick Book Three: End Game

Crashing
the Net

Home
& Away

Copyright © 2015 Samantha Wayland

Published by Loch Awe Press

P.O. Box 5481

Wayland, MA 01778

ISBN 978-1-940839-10-3

Edited by Meghan Miller

Cover Art by Caitlin Fry

This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author imagination
or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

With the exception of quotes used in
reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any
means existing without written permission from the publisher, Loch Awe Press,
PO Box 5481, Wayland, MA 01778.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or
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For
Lauren.

Welcome to the family. We're not exactly the Morrisons, but I promise we will
love and look after you as well as they love and look after their own.

I’ve been extraordinarily lucky to be able
to work with the same editor for all my books, and from that professional
relationship has come a friendship I cherish. I cannot begin to express how
grateful I am to Meghan Miller for all she’s done, and does, and probably will
do to not only make each of my books possible, but keep my life in some
semblance of order. I swore in a previous book that I just needed to find a way
to get her to move to Massachusetts and install her on the couch in my office
so that all would be perfect.

Having done so, I can attest it’s better
than that.

I also must thank my patient cover artist,
Caitlin Fry, for putting up with me on this book. As a rule, I defer to her in
all things cover-design related, but for some damn reason I had
ideas
I
just couldn’t let go of on this one. Fortunately, she’s still speaking to me.

A huge welcome and so much gratitude to the
newest member of Team Wayland — my copyeditor, Cindy. She jumped in on this at
the very end and made it infinitely better by catching all the little things my
eyes could no longer see.

Many thanks to Stephanie Kay, for being the
best cheerleader/ass-kicker a writer could ask for. And to my generous and
thorough critique partner, Victoria Morgan, who has been on this journey with
me the whole way and hasn’t given up on me yet. To Darth, for giving me access
to all the inspiration a girl could ask for. And Rosie, for talking me off more
than one ledge.

Finally, of course, I thank my family. If I
listed all the ways they make this possible and bring me joy, it would cost too
much to print this book.

“Holy shit, I just met the Queen of England.”

Michaela burst into laughter at the wild
look in Callum’s eyes. In all the years they’d been friends, she didn’t think
she’d ever seen him look more freaked out.

 “She’s nice,” Michaela offered, having met
the Queen before with her parents. Granted, the first time Michaela had been
too young to remember it, but the second, she’d been eighteen and far too
clueless about, well,
everything
, to appreciate what a great and rare
gift it had been.

She didn’t expect to ever have the honor
again—the price of a misspent youth.

“You met her yesterday, Cal,” Michaela said
with another chuckle. “Why are you freaking out now?”

“Because it’s easier than freaking out
about the fact that I’m going to walk down the aisle in ten minutes?”

Well, that was honest, anyway. Michaela was
more surprised Callum wasn’t standing at the door, trying to barrel through it
to get to Rupert and the boys.

“You getting cold feet?”

Callum shot out of his chair. “Of course
not!”

Michaela smirked. She hadn’t really thought
so, but at least Callum didn’t look nervous anymore. He looked pissed.

“Put it away, Grumpy,” she said
unsympathetically. “Yelling at your best man-lady-person won’t help.”

He grinned at Michaela. “You’re my best woman.
Accept it.”

“Maybe. It’s not like we all get to choose
what people call us, do we, Countess?”

“Don’t call me that,” Callum grumbled, his
cheeks turning pink.

“Why not? You’re marrying an earl in” —she
checked her watch— “seven minutes.”

Callum gulped audibly. “Holy crap.”

The thing was, that while Callum might have
been a mess of nerves, Michaela didn’t have a single worry about today.
Planning the bachelor party had been way more stressful than having to get
Callum to the back of the chapel in a few minutes. She looked out the windows
at the clear blue skies above Woodcock—the seat of the Weckfordham earldom and
Rupert’s childhood home—and thought how very far they’d come.

A year ago, Callum and Michaela had been
pretending to be in love, letting the world—and more specifically, the press—wonder
how long it would be before they married. It had seemed like an ideal setup,
allowing her to finally quash the rumors that no man would have her, while also
easing the scrutiny from Callum, who was exhausted after a decade of pretending
to be straight for the benefit of his NHL career.

In hindsight, she should have known that
when they stopped “dating” it would probably be a shit storm. But Callum was in
love. Stupidly, head-over-heels, sappy in love.

And for that reason alone, Michaela
wouldn’t change any of it.

She squinted at a black dot hovering in the
sky, her ears straining to hear the rhythmic whump of helicopter blades, her
heart not beating right until the bird dipped to the left and disappeared into
the trees.

She shook her head and turned back to
Callum. He and Rupert had hired a top-notch firm to handle the security for
this event. And what neither groom knew, or needed to know, was that Michaela
had then paid that firm to triple whatever they’d had planned.

She knew her role in today’s festivities
was adding to the press melee surrounding the entire thing. It wasn’t every day
an NHL star up and retired in order to marry his boyfriend and raise their
children together. It only added to the insanity that the already infamously
disgraced woman, the woman had pretended to be said NHL star’s girlfriend for
five years, was to stand in as best man-lady-person.

She refused to be called the best woman. It
just didn’t fit.

“Ready to go?” she asked, hooking her arm
through Callum’s.

“Yes,” he replied immediately, if a little
hoarsely.

She drew him out the wide french doors in the
study and across the lawn toward the chapel. The path was lined with a riot of
flowers to celebrate the perfect June day. The smell of roses wafted in the air,
both from the grounds and the nosegay of blood-red buds in Michaela’s hand.

She wore a simple dark blue strapless gown
that skimmed the gravel and tugged at the grass edging the path. A bright swath
of the green, blue, and red Morrison tartan was draped from her shoulder to the
opposite hip, matching Callum’s kilt.

It was a shame so few men had an excuse to
wear skirts anymore, because that look really worked for Michaela. She was very
happily anticipating seeing the rest of the Morrison clan in their finery, and
Rupert and the boys in the bright red of the Macalister colors.

Rupert had complained they would look like
a Christmas pageant gone wrong and had suggested he and the boys could wear
morning suits instead. Callum wouldn’t hear of it.

Apparently, Michaela wasn’t the only one
really into men wearing their skirts. She knew Callum was her best friend for a
reason.

The doors to the chapel opened as they
climbed the stairs, and there stood Callum’s five brothers, all grinning at the
unusually pale Callum. Michaela’s eyes sought out Kieran’s, and he nodded.

Rupert and the boys were ready.

The rest, as she’d known all along it would
be, was easy.

The wedding was beautiful. Lachlan had
never seen his brother look happier, even as the tears rolled down Callum’s
cheeks. Lachlan tried very hard to be subtle as he rubbed at his own eyes, but
failed, if the amused and affectionate look from his sister was anything to go
by.

At least he wasn’t as bad as Alexei Belov, the
very large Russian goalie manfully weeping into his handkerchief in Rupert’s
family pew.

Callum clung to Rupert’s hand, their two
boys standing between them, part of the ceremony instead of just standing up
for their dads. Michaela Price was Callum’s best woman, while Reese Lamont
stood up for Rupert. The rest of the ushers—a.k.a. Lachlan and his legion of brothers—sat
with their parents and sister.

The ceremony was short and, frankly,
unbearably sweet. If Lachlan hadn’t been so busy trying not to cry, he might
have been rolling his eyes.

The reception, on the other hand, was a
little bit like Lachlan’s version of hell on earth. Standing around in a skirt,
making small talk, and eating canapés was not his idea of a good time. Well,
okay, the skirt thing didn’t bother him in the slightest. Sure, his usual
khakis and a button up would be more comfortable. Or possibly even his hockey
gear, sweaty jock and all. But it wasn’t like this was unfamiliar territory.
His brother Kieran’s wedding had contained many of the same elements. Kilts.
Handsome husband staring at one of Lachlan’s brothers like he couldn’t believe his
good fortune. And lots of beautiful women decked out in fancy clothes, trying
to flirt with Lachlan—only to discover they’d have more luck conversing with
the statuary in the hedge maze just down the hill.

He watched his brothers with envy as they
moved through the crowd. Easy smiles, big laughs, and the ability to put
virtually everyone, from Rupert’s sour-faced aunts to the catering waitstaff,
at ease. The only one who remained reserved, even a little, was Angus. But he
was young and even he, when needed, could employ whatever magical Morrison gene
blessed the rest of the clan with social skills.

The gene Lachlan was missing.

He knew perfectly well that standing in the
corner, eyeing the door of the tent for a possible escape, wasn’t going to save
him. But it still made him feel better. Forcing himself to look around, he saw the
moment Callum noticed him there and cupped Michaela’s elbow to pull her toward
Lachlan.

Honestly, Lachlan thought bitterly, how did
Callum think this was going to work?

Lachlan was reserved with strangers, had
little interest in small talk with people he barely knew, and could more often be
found listening rather than contributing to conversations, even among the
people who he knew and loved best. But nothing turned him into more of a jabbering
idiot than being faced with a beautiful woman and being expected to actually
converse
.

And
Michaela fucking Price
?

Forget about it.

Lachlan darted his gaze to the door again, longing
for escape but knowing it was too far away. Then he searched the crowd for
Rhian, one of his sister’s two partners, and Lachlan’s good friend. Rhian would
bail him out. More than any of Lachlan’s brothers, Rhian seemed to understand
how to help Lachlan navigate tricky social waters.

He was also, apparently, one hell of a
dancer. If he, Savannah, or Garrick thought they were fooling anyone in this
tent, they had another think coming. Their half-blind great-uncle Milton could
probably guess the three of them were
awfully
good friends.

Was that Garrick’s hand on Rhian’s…?
Oh
geez.

“Lachlan!”

Callum’s voice jerked Lachlan out of his
amused fascination with Rhian’s gyrations and back to the problem at hand.
Shit.
The most beautiful woman Lachlan had ever laid eyes on was standing right in
front of him, smiling warmly and making an alarming amount of eye contact.

Of course, there wasn’t any amount of
contact—of any variety and involving any body part—that Lachlan
wouldn’t
find alarming.

Jesus Christ, she was gorgeous. Almost as
tall as Callum, so only a couple inches shorter than Lachlan’s six foot three,
with long brown hair curling softly around her bare shoulders and down her back.
He had to be imagining how her skin glowed from the fairy lights strung up in
the support beams.

Lachlan’s tongue stuck to the roof of his
now hideously dry mouth.

This was why he’d skipped the bachelor
party. This was why he skipped
all
the parties.

“Lachlan, this is Michaela,” Callum announced,
as if perhaps Lachlan had been living under a rock. “Michaela, this is my
brother Lachlan.”

“Hello,” Michaela said, her voice smoky and
low.

He blinked at her stupidly. Her smile warmed,
which he wouldn’t have thought was even possible. Her shoulder moved and he had
a terrible, terrible suspicion that she was holding out her hand for him to
take. Should he shake it? Kiss it? What was the etiquette here?

Forget that. He should stick with the
basics.

Hi.
That was
what he should do, he should say something like that.
Hello. Howdy.
Some
fucking greeting. He didn’t have to be fancy. He didn’t even have to bust out
anything as basically sociable as
nice to meet you.
Just fucking say
hello
.

He swallowed and forced his mouth open.

No sound came out.

Michaela looked at Callum, who stared at
his brother with obvious consternation.

She clung to her smile and pulled her hand
back from where it had been left hanging, mid-air. She pressed it instead to
her stomach as the silence stretched on, and on,
and on¸
until she was lifting
her foot with the intention of kicking Callum. For Christ’s sake, couldn’t he
help his brother out? Callum had warned her his brother was shy, but this was
ridiculous. The man looked like he was about to have a stroke.

“I know your name,” Lachlan blurted.

Michaela blinked and dropped her foot back
to the floor. It wasn’t exactly what she’d been expecting as an opening line,
but it was something, so she nodded, as if this were perfectly normal.

“Yes, well, I guess a lot of people do,”
she offered, and good god, now she was as awkward as he was. She should have
just said,
“Yes, I’m infamous. Have you seen my sex tape?”
and made this
as painful as humanly possible. They weren’t far off anyhow.

She gave into her earlier urge and clipped
Callum in the shin with her very pointy shoe.

“Lachlan,” Callum said, suddenly and a
shade too loudly, “Michaela is going to Harvard in the fall. I thought it might
be nice if you two knew each other, since you’ll be neighbors.” He smiled
encouragingly at his brother.

Lachlan’s eyes widened with horror. “You’re
moving to Trowbridge Street?”

“Um, no?” she replied, not sure if she
should be insulted. The expression on his face could hardly be called
flattering. “I think I’m going to buy a place on Massachusetts Avenue.”

Which was not something she should be
sharing, but she felt the instinctive need to set the poor man at ease.

He didn’t seem to have any response to her
comment, anyway.

She was caught in a conversational train
wreck and she couldn’t look away. She stared into Lachlan’s wide, bright green
eyes, the exact same color as Callum’s. They also had the same shape face, but
that was where the similarities ended. Lachlan’s nose was still straight and
unbroken, and his mouth was wider. His hair a lighter brown. And he was taller,
leaner than his brother. Just as handsome, but in a different way. Or, he would
be, if he weren’t turning scarlet and starting to sweat.

Eventually he had to blink, didn’t he?

Callum, the useless jerk, was doing nothing
to end the stand-off. He was still staring at his brother like he’d never seen
him before, head cocked to one side, eyes almost as wide and horrified as
Lachlan’s. She considered kicking him again.

“Mass Ave,” Lachlan said, apropos of
nothing.

“Pardon?”

“It’s called Mass Ave. That’s what people
call that road. The one you’re going to live on. In Cambridge.”

“Okay, um, that’s great. Great information.
Thank you.” Now
she
was stuttering. It was like Lachlan was a social
skill black hole, sucking the ability to make small talk right out of her.

“You’re welcome,” he said sincerely.

Okay, well, this had been a nice, if
totally ill-conceived idea, but she was done. She wasn’t going to keep
torturing this guy. It was starting to hurt to look at him. She wanted to put
her hand over his eyes and
force
him to blink.