Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
LACHLAN
The moment I step into Ardmara Leisure Centre, the chlorine tang from the pool hits my nose. Add in the faint aroma of sweaty trainers and a greasy waft from the café, and it’s hardly inviting. But the worst is yet to come.
I head for the soft play, better known to the dads of Ardmara as “the Pit”. Partly because of the massive ball pit in one corner, but mainly because spending time there is, well, the pits. As soon as I push open the door, the noise smacks into me—squeals, crashes, the thrum of kids high on sugar.
Most folk would turn around and flee, but I’m not most folk. I’m a single dad on a Saturday afternoon.
At our usual table, Struan and Douglas are nursing cups of what the leisure centre optimistically calls coffee. I make my way towards them, crossing a floor with that special stickiness only a thousand spilled juice cartons can produce.
“Da!”
The shout comes from somewhere in the maze of tunnels and slides, and I scan the chaos until Finn’s dark head pops up behind one of those foam block things. He waves both hands at me, grinning wide.
Sticky floors, migraine-inducing noise, the fact I’d rather be anywhere else—doesn’t matter. The kid still manages to drag a smile out of me. I give him a wave, and he disappears back into the chaos.
I drop into the empty chair opposite Struan and Douglas. “Thanks, lads. Appreciate you keeping an eye on Finn while I walked Gus.”
Douglas scratches at his ginger beard, stifling a yawn. He looks knackered, as usual. “Easy job. He’s no bother, unlike my pair.” Right on cue, a wild shriek erupts behind him, and Douglas groans. “Sounds like one of mine. If I don’t turn round, maybe I can pretend I didn’t hear it.”
Struan grins, his tawny curls pulled into a man bun that’s as effortlessly casual as he is.
Unlike Douglas and me, who are permanently one coffee away from collapse, Struan’s got this laid-back vibe that makes single parenting seem like a hobby, not a never-ending battle.
“You’ve tried that one before. Hate to break it to you, mate, but it never works out. ”
Before Douglas can reply, Isla trots over, her curly ponytail bouncing. She’s a smaller, tidier version of her dad, and she fixes Struan with a look far too sensible for her seven years. “Daddy, the twins are having a ball war, and I don’t think they’re supposed to.”
Well, that’s denial off the table. We all glance towards the pit, where Rosie and Logan—miniature versions of Douglas with the same flaming hair—are pelting balls at each other, as well as at any poor kid who stumbles too close, while laughing their heads off.
A couple of younger children watch on from a cautious distance, wide-eyed.
Their mothers, meanwhile, pin us with the look that says, “Are you going to step in or what?”
Finn hovers at the edge of the pit, eyes lit up at the sight of the twins’ carnage.
“Oi, Finn,” I warn. “Don’t even think about it.”
He grins sheepishly and ducks back into the tunnels.
Douglas sighs and raises his voice. “Logan! Rosie! The balls are for sitting in, not throwing. Pack it in.” Then, to Isla: “Thanks for telling us, Isla.”
She nods and skips back into the fray.
Douglas catches my eye and jerks his chin at Struan. “All right for some, eh? One kid, he’s only got her at weekends, and she’s sane . How the hell is that fair?”
“Tell me about it,” I say, standing. Not that I’d trade Finn for anything. “Right, I’ll grab a coffee and some juices for the kids. You two for more caffeine?”
A few minutes later I’m back with a tray. The four kids barrel over, flushed and sweaty, down their cartons in seconds, then tear straight back into the mayhem.
“Meant to say, Douglas, I caught some American lass peering into your front window when I was walking Gus. Face right up against the glass. No sense of boundaries, some of these tourists.”
Douglas barely reacts. I suppose when you’re raising twin tornadoes, a window-peeper probably doesn’t even register on your list of daily trials. Struan, though, perks up, eyes lighting with interest. “An American lass, you say? Was she fit?”
“Didn’t notice.”
“Which means yes,” Struan says with a grin.
I shoot him a look. “Which means I was too busy fuming at her complete lack of manners to notice anything else.”
“Ah, come on, Lachlan. You’re not blind. Tall? Short? Blonde? Brunette? Give us something to work with here.”
Despite myself, my mind drifts back to the encounter.
She was tall—probably up to my nose—with straight blonde hair grazing her shoulders, and pale blue eyes that went wide when I told her to back off.
Looked all guilty until she snapped right back at me.
Had slim curves in all the right places, that one. And these long legs that?—
Christ. I shake my head, annoyed with myself for even thinking about it.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because some of us still remember what it’s like to appreciate the finer things in life,” Struan says with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Besides, it’s tourist season. Fresh faces, new possibilities...”
I shake my head. Trust Struan to try to turn a privacy invasion into a hook-up opportunity. He sees them everywhere. Douglas and I just see laundry piles and empty lunch boxes.
“Anyway,” Struan says, leaning back, “don’t you have bigger things to worry about than nosy tourists? Like who’s going to watch Finn when the summer holidays start next week?”
I grimace. “Don’t remind me. Three more days of school, then he’s off for six bloody weeks.”
Turns out Flora did hurt herself when she tripped over Gus. Fractured her wrist, in fact. No way she can look after a six-year-old all summer.
“I’ve tried everything. Clubs are full, childminders too.
Thought I had a university student lined up—home from Edinburgh for the summer—but she’s taken a job in France instead.
Can’t really blame her. But with most folk in town run off their feet for tourist season, nobody’s sitting around waiting to be my last-minute saviour. ”
Struan drums his fingers on the table. “So advertise for a nanny. Stick a note in shop windows, post on the community Facebook. Offer them the granny flat. Someone passing through will bite.”
The so-called granny flat isn’t really a flat at all, just a wee self-contained unit behind my house. It’s been sitting empty since I moved in, gathering dust.
“Aye, brilliant,” I say with a snort. “Invite a stranger to live in my back garden.”
Douglas shrugs. “Better than no childcare at all.”
I huff out a breath. Much as I hate to admit it, they’re right. What choice do I have?