Catching Feelings (Scottish Single Dads #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

DOUGLAS

By the two hundredth creel of the day, my brain has long since switched off and my hands have taken over.

The creels—traps we drop to the seabed to catch prawns—come up streaming with seawater.

I swing each one onto the gunwale, pull out the prawns, then it’s over to Ben to rebait the creel and send it back down.

It’s a good day for it. Mid-April, and the Highlands have finally remembered that spring exists.

The sun is out, the water is a deep, glittering blue, and the hills behind Ardmara are sharp and green against a clean sky.

On days like this, working out here doesn’t feel like a bad deal, and the gulls clearly agree.

They’ve been circling the Mary Beth since we started, screaming at each other and diving for scraps.

“You out tonight?” Ben asks as I pop a creel door open.

There are a couple of decent prawns, plus a small brown crab that drops to the deck and immediately makes a sideways bid for freedom.

I scoop it up and toss it back over the side, then slot the prawns into the crate, one to a tube.

Keeps them separated—they’re vicious little things.

“Out?” I say. “Out where?”

“I dunno.” He shrugs. “The pub? Anywhere?”

To be nineteen and think Monday night is a going-out night. “I’ve got two seven-year-olds, Ben. The pub’s not exactly on the agenda.”

“Fair enough.” He grins, completely unbothered, not that much ever seems to bother Ben. The world hasn’t got its hooks into him yet. He’s only been crewing with me since January, but he’s a good lad. He picks things up fast and hasn’t once complained about the early starts.

We work one more line of creels before finishing up for the day. I bring the Mary Beth round towards the harbour. Ardmara’s painted shopfronts—yellow, green, pink, blue—are bright in the sunshine.

I glance at my watch. Quarter to three. Shite.

It’s the twins’ first day back at school after the Easter holidays, and I told myself I would not be late.

Right. We need to get a move on.

The buyer’s van is already waiting on the quay, and we tie up and get the catch loaded in what might be record time for us.

By five to three I’ve peeled off my oilskins, left them in the wheelhouse, and pulled on my jacket.

It doesn’t smell much better, but at least it looks like something a dad might wear to a school gate.

I set off through town at a pace just short of jogging.

Ardmara’s not a big place. Harbour to school is a ten-minute walk at a normal speed, and I’m not walking at a normal speed.

I pass the Ferryman’s Rest, the bakery, the Lily Room hair salon.

Rab McKinnon, a fellow fisherman, though only part-time these days, is outside the corner shop, and he raises a hand.

“All right, Douglas?”

“Aye, Rab. Can’t stop.”

I turn up the hill, away from the seafront, then check my watch.

Christ. I pick up the pace, building up a sweat.

Soon I’m passing parents and grandparents coming the other way, kids in tow, rucksacks bouncing.

I flash a stiff smile at a few of the adults I pass, pretending I’m not blatantly running late.

By the time I reach the school, there are still a few groups about—parents chatting while their children play—but the playground has mostly emptied. The twins are over by the trim trail. Even in a crowd, they’d stand out. Two small heads of bright red hair, just like mine.

Logan is trying to grab something from Rosie’s hand while she holds it above her head. Some sort of dispute, as usual. At least neither looks remotely concerned that their dad is late.

I head towards them, and they notice me at the same time. I call it twin radar.

“Da!” Abandoning whatever it was they were fighting over, they bolt towards me at full speed. Logan reaches me first and crashes into my leg with the force of a small battering ram. Rosie arrives half a second later and attaches herself to my other leg.

“All right, you two.” I pat each of their heads. Logan’s hair is sticking up at the back, while Rosie’s ponytail has come half undone. Standard. “Good first day back?”

“We went on a trip!” Rosie says.

“Aye? A trip?”

“Just to the library,” Logan says.

“Well, that sounds—”

“Mr Fraser?”

The voice comes from behind me. I turn to see their teacher crossing the playground towards us, lanyard swinging.

She’s new to Ardmara—started at the school last August—and is the only person who calls me Mr Fraser rather than just Douglas.

She’s young, mid-twenties probably, and neat in a way that makes me conscious of the fact I smell of salt and diesel and fish.

She’s got the braced expression of someone who’s about to deliver news she’s been rehearsing.

“Miss Callander. Everything all right?”

She glances down at the twins, who have gone suspiciously quiet, then back at me. “Could I have a quick word? About Logan and Rosie’s behaviour today.”

My heart sinks. It’s the first day back. The first day. They’ve been in school for, what, six hours?

“What happened?” I ask.

Logan studies his shoelaces. Rosie fiddles with her bag strap.

“Well, we visited Ardmara Library this morning,” Miss Callander says. “And while we were there, Logan and Rosie decided to . . . add to the mural in the children’s section.”

“Add to it?”

“They drew on it.”

“With crayons,” Logan says, looking up, as if the medium somehow mitigates the crime.

“It washed off,” Rosie adds.

“That’s hardly the point,” Miss Callander says. She’s right, of course, although after surviving years of felt-tip masterpieces at home, a bit of crayon on a wall doesn’t sound so bad. Still, I arrange my face into something suitably serious.

“Come on, you two. You know better than that.”

The twins nod solemnly. They’ve mastered the art of looking contrite without feeling particularly bothered.

I put a hand on each of their shoulders. “I’ll have a word with them. Thanks for letting me know.”

I start to steer them away, but Miss Callander clears her throat. “Actually, Mr Fraser, I think it might be appropriate if you stopped by the library on the way home so Logan and Rosie can apologise to the librarian again.”

I pause. “Och, Ellie knows what they’re like. I’m sure she wouldn’t have taken it personally.”

This earns me a look, one that clearly communicates that Miss Callander doesn’t consider Ellie knows what they’re like to be an adequate response.

“But,” I add, “aye, of course. We’ll pop in on the way home. Say sorry properly.” I look down at the twins. “Won’t we?”

“Do we have to?” Logan says.

“You do.”

“But she wasn’t even angry.”

“Logan.”

“Fine.”

I nod to Miss Callander, thank her again, then herd Logan and Rosie out of the playground before they can make things worse. We head back down the hill to the seafront, the twins flanking me.

“So,” I say once we’re well clear of the school, “the mural. The nice one with all the sea creatures. You drew on it.”

“We were improving it,” Logan insists.

“Hmm.”

“I added a mermaid on top of the dolphin, so it looked like she was riding it,” Rosie offers.

“And I drew a kraken attacking the fishing boat.” Logan raises his arms above his head, fingers splayed, and does what I assume is meant to be a kraken impression, all waving tentacles and sound effects. “Raaaaargh!”

“You do realise I work on a fishing boat,” I point out. “Would you like me to be attacked by a kraken?”

Logan’s arms drop. “No,” he says a bit sheepishly.

Then his eyes light up again. “Although . . . what if you were attacked by a kraken, and you got out your sword and fought it?” He grabs an imaginary sword from his hip and starts slashing at the air, lunging and parrying against an invisible sea monster. “Take that! And that!”

“My sword. Right.” I nod. “Aye, I keep that next to the bait bucket.”

Rosie giggles, but Logan is too deep in mortal combat to notice. I ruffle his hair, then sling an arm around Rosie and give her a squeeze. They’re not bad kids, even if they do keep me on my toes more or less constantly.

The library is a small building tucked among the shops on the waterfront, with ardmara library painted in neat letters above the door. I push it open and the bell gives a soft jingle.

It’s cool in here, and quiet. Bookshelves reach towards the ceiling, packed tight, and the afternoon light comes in through a bay window fitted with a cushioned reading bench.

The children’s section is off to the left—bright, colourful, well-loved—and on the wall the mural of sea creatures is, so far as I can tell, free of any kraken or mermaid additions.

Ellie Macpherson is behind the desk sorting through a stack of books, but she looks up as we come in, and her face breaks into a smile. “Oh, hello! The Fraser clan.”

She’s always so smiley. Maybe it’s something to do with not having kids. She’s not been worn down by parenthood. Her light-brown hair is pulled back in its usual ponytail, a few frizzy strands escaping around her face, and she’s wearing a soft blue jumper that looks about two sizes too big for her.

I put a hand on each twin’s back and give them a nudge forwards. “Go on.” Then, louder, I say, “Ellie, these two have something they’d like to say.”

Rosie and Logan shuffle towards her desk like they’re approaching a judge’s bench. Rosie goes first. “Sorry for drawing on your mural,” she says in a small voice.

“Aye, sorry,” Logan mumbles, examining his shoes again.

Ellie leans over the desk. “Thank you both for coming to say that. That’s very grown-up of you. I have to say, though, the mermaid riding the dolphin was actually quite good.”

Rosie brightens. “Really?”

“Really. And the kraken . . . well, that was very creative, Logan. But maybe next time, stick to paper? I’ve got loads of it. Big sheets, wee sheets, coloured sheets. You can draw all the mermaids and krakens you like.”

“Deal,” Logan says, perking up.