The World is a Stage

by Tamara Morgan

  Molly let out a squeal and clapped her hands before drawing Rachel into a crushing embrace. “Of course it’s okay. I can’t do this without my big sister.”

  They held each other for a moment longer. Rachel hadn’t been lying—she was staying for her sister, and she was staying for herself too. But a huge part of her also hoped there was one more person who might be willing to give her a reason to stick around.

  “I might need your help getting Mom to the facility, though,” Rachel warned, eventually pulling back. “She’ll fight every step of the way.”

  “Of course,” Molly agreed, her curls bouncing. “She said something about going only if her Tonys could come with her. We could use them as bait.”

  “She said that? Well, that would explain why she spent the better part of the evening in the homage room.”

  Molly shuddered. “You don’t still go in there, do you?”

  “I did once,” Rachel admitted. She surveyed her outfit and laughed, the pair of them heading out from the bleachers back to the field. Training in this thing was going to be ridiculous. “But it wasn’t so bad—Michael was with me at the time. He kind of makes everything better, you know?”

  Molly rubbed her stomach and beamed. “Yeah. I know.”

  “First up, Peterson,” Michael announced.

  He had to keep moving his mouth in order to prevent it from falling all the way to the ground. Rachel was wearing it. She’d actually put on the kilt and bra and was doing jumping jacks in the middle of the field as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

  He hadn’t actually expected her to put it on—he’d ordered it with the rest of the uniforms weeks ago, a gag he thought would piss her off, maybe get a good rise out of her.

  Things were rising, all right.

  “What am I first up on?” Peterson asked.

  “One-on-one combat. Against Rachel.” He blew his whistle. The men gaped—there wasn’t a single one of them Peterson couldn’t take with one hand behind his back. Even with her sexy kilt look going on over there, Rachel didn’t stand a chance.

  “She can’t fight Eric,” Molly cried, bolting up out of the bleachers. “He’ll kill her.”

  “I think maybe we should ease her into that kind of conflict,” Julian suggested, agreeing with Molly. “Why don’t we start with me?”

  Even McClellan shook his head. “Seems a bit much, Mikey.”

  Rachel jogged up, delicious parts bouncing, oblivious to the demands Michael was about to place on her. “What’s a bit much?”

  “You and Peterson in the pit,” Julian said, nodding in the direction of the soccer goal. “Michael wants to work on the one-on-one.”

  She swallowed heavily, her eyes not quite meeting Michael’s. “And you want me to go up against Eric?”

  “Yes,” Michael said, resolute. She’d apologized, she’d shown up to practice, and she’d worn the kilt. He wanted to know how far she’d go.

  “Okay,” Rachel said, shaking her limbs, still avoiding his gaze. “Let’s do it.”

  With a spring in her step and a defiant toss of the head, she moved to the circle at the goal line where they’d been holding the challenges. She placed her hands on her hips and swung her body lightly, her skirt slapping against the outsides of her thighs.

  Michael bit back a groan. It had to be all of forty degrees outside today, and most of the guys had put their T-shirts back on after a brief display of manliness. Not her. She was milking it, teasing him. They were half-naked Antony and Cleopatra all over again.

  Peterson shook his head. “I’m not fighting her, Michael. This is crazy.”

  “Just stop before you break her neck,” Michael said casually. “It’s not that hard.”

  “That’s not funny,” Peterson mumbled. “Seriously. I get what you’re doing, but you can stop pushing now.”

  Michael stood a little bit taller. He was not going to stop pushing. Not until he reached the end.

  Michael blew his whistle right in Peterson’s face.

  “I have had it with this whistle,” Peterson grumbled. He pulled it straight off Michael’s neck and crushed it underneath his heel.

  Rachel clapped her hands, slowly at first and then gaining momentum. Eventually, everyone else joined in.

  “Thank God, somebody finally destroyed that thing,” she called. “For your act of heroism, Eric, I’ll even promise to take it easy on you.”

  It was the right thing to say. No amount of goading and whistle-blowing on Michael’s part would compel Peterson to face Rachel in the ring. Peterson still had a lot of anger, and he was the type of man who didn’t like to let it go without a fight. But this kind of playful challenge, uttered with confidence and good cheer—it was something none of them could walk away from. It was what they did. They were Team Win. They were brothers.

  With only a few more grumbles and kicks at the broken pieces of Michael’s favorite whistle, Peterson gave in and joined her inside the circle, lowering himself into a fighting stance and standing opposite her.

  “Don’t worry,” Rachel said. “I plan on being a much better fighter now. No more kicking in the groin—if there’s something I want said or done, I’ll do it face-to-face, man-to-man.”

  Michael stared at her, and he could have sworn she stole a glance at him before directing all her attention at Peterson.

  “I’ve learned a lot,” she added. “About a lot of things.”

  “I think we both have,” Peterson admitted, meeting Rachel squarely. They shared a mutual nod, sharp and over almost before it began. “Now will someone please start the damn fight?”

  Bereft of his whistle, Michael let out a high-pitched yell, signaling the starting bell. It was one he was interested in watching, and for more than the skin show. Rachel and Peterson circled one another for a few moments, gauging each other’s reactions. The training they’d given Rachel was mostly about stealth and sneak attacks, about using her smaller size against a larger foe. And for a second, he thought it was going to work.

  But Rachel was still green and slow. Peterson had her flipped over and on her back in a matter of seconds.

  Michael could hear the heavy thud of her body landing in the dirt, the gasp that could only mean all the air had left her lungs. He hobbled to her side, leaning anxiously over her eyes. They looked all right. Bewildered, maybe, but still intact and seeing things clearly.

  “Can you sit up?” he asked, placing a gentle hand behind her head.

  It wasn’t necessary. She took a deep breath and sprang to her feet.

  “Again.”

  Peterson’s face spread into a grin at the same time Michael’s did. Thatta girl.

  The two of them grappled three more times, and each time, Rachel got a little bit closer to landing a blow. The final round, she even got a clean sweep under his leg, bringing him crashing to the ground before Peterson pinned her easily against the dirt. Michael would have liked to have said he was paying attention to her movements, making notes of things to work on, but all he could see was the mud spattering over her bare stomach, her thighs flashing as she sprang and moved and bounced her way around her larger opponent.

  Even in his stupor, he noticed the change coming over Peterson with each round. It wasn’t forgiveness—that would take a while, especially with a man like that one. But from where Michael stood, it looked an awful lot like respect.

  And that was the next best thing.

  Rachel spit out a mouthful of grass when they were done, large chunks of dirt embedded into her teeth as she smiled. Michael had never wanted to kiss her more.

  “We’re never going to win,” Julian muttered, but he was smiling too.

  “We don’t have to win,” Rachel said, beaming. Her eyes met Michael’s. “We just have to try.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  My Only Love

  Michael wanted a chance to talk to Rachel before she left practice for the night, but she rushed out of there before he could do much more than instruct her on the proper c
leaning and care of woolen fabrics.

  They all made plans to meet the next day for a last-minute strategy session before the Race. And by strategy session, they meant several pitchers of beer and a lot of trash talk that probably wouldn’t come to fruition. Michael figured he’d have to try to take her aside then. Maybe she’d even wear her kilt.

  It was past eight o’clock, so Jennings was in bed when Michael got home. He was too wound up to watch a movie or consider the possibility of sleep, so he headed out to the old barn to get the Frogger game going.

  He’d already started researching where he could buy a few more vintage arcade games and maybe even a pool table. A game barn probably shouldn’t have been first on his to-do list for the Second Chance Ranch, as they’d formally named their company on the business license applications, but if there was one thing Michael knew, it was that every man needed somewhere to unwind and let loose.

  He pulled open the door of the barn and stopped, on immediate alert. It was usually dark in there and smelled of a combination of old things. Jennings’s recent manure purchase added an earthy tang.

  But a light flickered toward the back, and it actually smelled kind of good. Like food and flowers.

  His stomach rumbled, and his chest clenched.

  Moving quickly through the barely cleared path to the back, Michael realized there was a hell of a lot more than a video game waiting for him.

  “Rachel? Is that you?”

  She looked up from the blanket she’d spread on the ground, the soft glow of candles all around her. The flickers made it hard to see the details about her—the stuff Michael didn’t give a damn about anyway, things like clothes and jewelry or anything about her hair other than the vibrant length of it.

  But he could still make out the important parts. Her face, illuminated on just one side; her hesitant smile all the greeting a man ever needed. The softness around her mouth and eyes, the direct result of a woman who was finally learning to let go. Not to mention…

  “Is that a bucket of chicken between your legs?”

  She started to stand to greet him, but Michael sank to the ground in front of her. “Don’t you dare move,” he commanded. “I’ve never seen anything so perfect in my entire life.”

  She laughed. It was a sound he hadn’t realized he’d missed so much. “My legs or the chicken?”

  “Both.” He leaned in as if for a quick kiss but thought better of it, going for a wing instead. It seemed safer. “What are you doing here?”

  “I owe you an apology.”

  “You already did that,” he said gruffly. His throat felt sore, and it was painful to hold back all the things he suddenly wanted to say.

  “No, I didn’t.” Her smile was tentative, unsure—but it was still recognizable as hers and hers alone. “I told you what I did and why I did it. I didn’t tell you how sorry I am for it.”

  Her hands came up and cradled each side of his head, her fingers weaving through the threads of his hair. For a moment, he thought she was going to kiss him, but she only held him, keeping their eyes level and locked. “So I want to do this right.”

  “Okay.” He braced himself, waiting.

  “You scare the crap out of me.”

  He laughed, and their foreheads came together with a soft touch. “That’s not an apology.”

  “I know,” she said, pulling back but not away. “It’s an explanation. That day on the hill, when we were together…I freaked out.”

  “Yes. I’m happy to report that you did.”

  “I don’t mean that,” she said, giving his hair a little tug. “I mean no one has ever made me feel like that before.”

  “You mean, like a woman?”

  Her shoulder came up in a half shrug, and the thin strap of the tank top she wore slipped down over one arm. “I mean, like I matter.”

  All jokes fled, and Michael pulled her to him in a crushing embrace. His head rested on top of hers, his hand rubbing up and down her arm, slipping underneath the fallen strap. “Of course you matter,” he murmured into her hair. “You’ve always mattered.”

  “It’s going to take me some time, Michael,” she admitted. “I’m just now figuring this stuff out—you know, the feelings. The intimacy.”

  Even saying the words signaled a change in her. Michael gripped her shoulders and drew her near. “And I’ll help. But you have to promise you won’t hide yourself from me anymore. I’m a tough guy, and I can take your emotions, Rachel, all of them. Good and bad, scared and happy. Even with your fists swinging. Even if it’s me you’re mad at. I welcome every single one.” He paused. “But know this—it’s never okay to hurt the people I love.”

  “I know. I won’t do it ever again.”

  He tilted her chin up. “That includes you.”

  She let out a sound that was half sniffle, half snort. “Aw, Michael—that was really poetic.”

  He dipped Rachel down to the blanket and kissed her, stopping just when it started getting good. “My only love sprung from my only hate.”

  She pulled back, her eyes wide, laughter brimming along the edges. “Michael O’Leary, did you just quote Shakespeare at me?”

  “Don’t get used to it. It’s the only one I know.”

  “That’s okay,” she murmured, snaking a hand around his waist and dipping her fingers just under the band. “I’m not really after you for your brains.”

  “Then we’re equal.” Michael leaned over her, pinning her to the ground. She squirmed and squealed underneath him. “Because I’m not really after you for your body.”

  But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to enjoy every inch of it.

  Epilogue

  All’s Well that Ends Well

  They lost the Top Warrior Race, of course.

  Rachel was under strict instructions to use her body in any way possible to distract the other teams from reaching their goals—and it might have worked if the first challenge hadn’t been the mud crawl under fifty yards of barbed wire. By the time Team Win emerged from out of the ooze, it was impossible to tell they were people at all, let alone half-naked people hoping to distract the opposition.

  Someone had given Michael a new whistle, which didn’t help matters any. He yelled and blew ineffectually from the sidelines until one of the judges threw him out of the competition for agitating the crowds. He couldn’t even meet up with the team until after the scoring had been finalized and a band of high school students dressed in muddied ninja garb took the first place prize.

  “Did you at least win the hand-to-hand combat?” Michael asked, whisking Rachel into a hug near the entrance to the race grounds, where he’d been exiled. Rain fell, brown mud and grass clung to every surface, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy.

  Rachel slipped and slid against him, putting her muddied hands and arms everywhere. There had been some mention of the probability of two bodies fitting into the compact Airstream shower later.

  “Are you kidding?” Peterson said from behind them, his own arms doing a good job of sullying his family. “She nailed it.”

  Michael pulled back, surprised. “Really? You won that part?”

  “What can I say? I learned from the best.”

  Julian clapped a hand on Michael’s back. “I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, Mikey. The team we went up against also had a woman—I think she was dressed up as Super Girl. Maybe Wonder Woman? I can never tell the difference.”

  “What are you saying, Jules?”

  “In the interest of fairness, the judges put them up against each other.”

  Michael’s face fell. “Rachel and another chick? In costume? Fighting in the mud?”

  Rachel put her arm around Michael and gave him a strong squeeze. “You should have seen the way I pinned her down, sweetie. It was just like the way you—”

  Michael clapped a hand over her mouth and glowered at his friends. “You’re paying for this. All of you. I am officially promoting myself to Scottish Highland Games trai
ner, and we start Monday. No excuses.”

  A universal groan went up, but Michael knew he could count on them all to show up. He was Michael O’Leary. He wore a skirt, and he smiled in the face of the woman he loved. He stood by his friends, and they stood by him too.

  These were the things he knew to be true.

  About the Author

  Tamara Morgan is a romance writer and unabashed lover of historical reenactments—the more elaborate and geeky the costume requirements, the better. In her quest for modern-day history and intrigue, she has taken fencing classes, forced her child into Highland dancing, and, of course, journeyed annually to the local Renaissance Fair. These feats are matched by a universal love of men in tights, of both the superhero and codpiece variety.

  Visit her online at www.tamaramorgan.com or come say hello on Twitter at @Tamara_Morgan.

  Look for these titles by Tamara Morgan

  Games of Love

  Love is a Battlefield

  It takes a real man to wear a kilt. And a real woman to charm him out of it.

  Love is a Battlefied

  © 2012 Tamara Morgan

  Games of Love, Book 1

  It might be modern times, but Kate Simmons isn’t willing to live a life without at least the illusion of the perfect English romance. A proud member of the Jane Austen Regency Re-Enactment Society, Kate fulfills her passion for courtliness and high-waisted gowns in the company of a few women who share her love of all things heaving.

  Then she encounters Julian Wallace, a professional Highland Games athlete who could have stepped right off the covers of her favorite novels. He’s everything brooding, masculine, and, well, heaving. The perfect example of a man who knows just how to wear his high sense of honor—and his kilt.

  Confronted with a beautiful woman with a tongue as sharp as his sgian dubh, Julian and his band of merry men aren’t about to simply step aside and let Kate and her gaggle of tea-sippers use his land for their annual convention. Never mind that “his land” is a state park—Julian was here first, and he never backs down from a challenge.