Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
BLAIR
It’s been two days since I arrived in Ardmara, and I’m starting to feel almost human again.
The jet lag has finally loosened its grip, and I’ve settled into something that could generously be called a routine.
Wake up. Coffee at the Lighthouse Café. Wander around town with no particular destination.
Try not to think about my spectacular career implosion.
I’m not entirely succeeding on that last part.
I’m back at my corner table in the café, the same spot I claimed on my first day, nursing my second latte of the morning. My phone sits on the scratched wooden surface in front of me, browser open to a job search site I have no business looking at.
Picture-book editor, acquisitions manager, content coordinator... each listing a tiny knife twist. I’d give anything to have my old life back, but I’ve torched every bridge. My reputation is in ashes. And still I keep looking, even though there’s a beautiful view to be admired out the window.
It’s like picking at a scab. You know it’ll only make things worse, but your fingers have other ideas.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ellie.
Ellie
Fancy a walk along the waterfront later? The weather’s supposed to be gorgeous.
A smile tugs at my lips. Dinner at Ellie’s on Saturday night was exactly what I needed—good food, easy conversation, and someone who didn’t know or care about my professional disasters.
She cooked a huge pot of penne, just like she’d promised, and we spent hours talking about books, local folklore, and her life in Ardmara.
It felt like the kind of evening I used to have back before work deadlines defined my entire life.
Blair
Sounds perfect. I’ll message you later?
Ellie
Brilliant! x
The little “x” at the end makes me grin. I’d forgotten how naturally affectionate people can be when they’re not constantly stressed about subway delays and rent prices.
I close the chat and go back to the job site before catching myself.
God, Blair. You flew three thousand miles to get away from this crap. Stop torturing yourself!
I put down my phone with more force than necessary, earning a curious look from the woman at the next table.
“Sorry,” I mutter, then down the rest of my latte. I stand and head to the counter to drop off my mug, the kind of small-town courtesy I’m still getting used to. In New York, you leave your dishes and someone else deals with them. Here, it feels rude not to help.
As I’m about to leave, something on the community bulletin board catches my eye. A plain white sheet, taped dead centre, standing out amid the colourful flyers all around it.
NANNY WANTED
Caring for a 6-year-old boy over the summer holidays. Weekdays, 8 to 4. Live-in accommodation available. Must be good with dogs. References required. Immediate start.
A phone number is printed at the bottom in the same no-nonsense black text, along with a request to text, not call. Slightly unusual, but maybe whoever it is can’t always get to the phone.
A nanny? The idea shouldn’t interest me, but it does.
Maybe it’s the promise of “live-in accommodation”—a lot better for my bank account than bleeding money on hotel bills.
Or maybe it’s that I’m someone who needs a bit of focus, or else I spiral into doomscrolling job boards for a career that’s already gone up in flames.
And then there’s Granny. All those summers in Toronto, she was basically my nanny. There’d be a kind of symmetry in me coming here and looking after a kid, the way she once looked after me.
Of course, there are catches. “Must be good with dogs”? Yeah, I’m more of an admire-from-a-distance person. And “references required”? Let’s just say my glowing professional ones went up in smoke with the rest of my career.
I sigh. Well, that rules that out then.
Except... does it? I mean, I did work in children’s publishing. I like kids. And back in high school, I babysat for pizza money. Maybe that counts for something.
I’m already in Scotland on a whim. What’s one more impulsive life decision?
Before I can overthink it, I punch the number into my phone. I hesitate briefly, wondering if this is madness, then fire off a quick text to ask if the position is still available.
The address leads me to the very edge of town, where the road simply stops and open country takes over. I park beside a low stone wall and step out.
Wow.
The house sits alone on a gentle rise, a solid stone cottage with slate-grey roof tiles and white-painted window frames that gleam in the late-afternoon sun.
It’s beautiful, but what really catches my breath is the view.
From here, I can see across the water to what must be the island the ferry travels to—dark against the horizon, with smaller rocky outcrops scattered around it like stepping stones.
The sea shifts with colour, silver-grey where clouds throw shadows and deep blue where the sunlight breaks through.
Far off, the white wake of a boat slices across the surface.
Holy crap, this is gorgeous. If I got this job, I’d wake up to this every morning.
Behind the main house sits a smaller building, and I wonder if that’s the “live-in accommodation” mentioned in the ad. It’s basically a tiny house in its own right, with a view that would cost a fortune back home.
I could definitely see myself here for a month or two. Making breakfast in that little place, watching the ferry come and go, learning to appreciate the slower pace of life. It would be like stepping into a different world from the one I left behind in New York.
Okay, Blair. Time to make a good first impression.
I fix my curtain bangs, which the sea breeze has already started rearranging, and check my reflection in the car window.
Presentable enough. I’ve gone for casual but responsible—dark jeans, a soft blue sweater, and my most comfortable boots.
The kind of outfit that says “trustworthy with children”, or so I hope.
Earlier, I shot Ellie a message, pushing back our walk. We can chat by the harbour later. For now, I have to talk someone into trusting me with their kid. And their dog.
I walk up the path to the front door—painted red, the only splash of colour against the grey stone—and take a deep breath. This is it. My chance at a fresh start, at something completely different from the disaster I left behind.
I ring the doorbell and wait, mentally rehearsing my opening lines. Smile , I tell myself. Be warm but professional, emphasise your experience with children’s books and how that translates to understanding kids.
The door swings open, and my smile freezes on my face.
Standing in the doorway is the grumpy man who confronted me outside Granny’s old house. The one who accused me of invading his friend’s privacy and made snide comments about Americans tracing their roots.
“You again?” So, he’s recognised me too. “What, are you here to peer in my windows now?” Then realisation dawns in his green eyes, the same ones I found irritatingly attractive during our last encounter. “Christ. You’re not Blair, are you?”
He doesn’t need me to answer him. My face says it all. Yes, I am the woman he’s been texting about the nanny position.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.
“I—” My brain has apparently decided to go on strike because no other words follow. I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t expecting the nanny ad to lead me to this man, the only person in Ardmara who’s allergic to friendliness.
Before I can form a coherent response, a golden blur barrels past his legs. The dog from the other day—tail thrashing, tongue lolling—launches at me like I’m his long-lost best friend. He plants his paws on my chest, stretching up to lick my face.
“Oh! Uh, hi there, boy.” I give his head a tentative pat, trying not to flinch. “You’re very... enthusiastic.”
The man watches with barely concealed scepticism. “Gus, down.” The dog drops back to all fours, tail still thumping.
“Good dog,” I say weakly, giving him another pet. “I love dogs. Absolutely love them.”
Judging by the look on the man’s face, he doesn’t buy it. Can’t blame him.
This is a disaster. I should leave. And yet for some reason my feet stay put, as if I can still salvage this train wreck.
“So . . .” I say. “You’re Lack-lan?”
“ Lachlan ,” he corrects, pronouncing it with that throat-clearing sound Scots use in loch . I give it another go and end up sounding like I’m choking on a cracker. He rolls his eyes. Of course he does.
Right. I’m normally an optimistic person—or at least I was before a certain AI app turned my world upside down—but even I know when to cut my losses. It’s time to go. This was a bad idea.
“Sorry,” I say, stepping back. “This obviously isn’t going to work, so I’ll get out of your hair.” I spin on my heel and walk off.
There’s a pause, a reluctant exhale, then Lachlan calls, “Wait!”
I turn back. He looks like he’s wrestling with himself.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m knackered, not an arsehole. Well, not always.” He scrubs a hand through his dark-brown hair. “Seeing as you came all the way here, why don’t you at least come in, have a coffee, and hear a bit more about the position?”
I fold my arms. “Is there any point when you’re clearly not going to give it to me?”
“Aye, well... who knows? I’ve not exactly been flooded with applications.”
Under my breath I mutter, “Why does that not surprise me?”
He chooses not to hear that and steps back, giving a little jerk of his head toward the kitchen. “At least have a coffee.”
I hover. My gut says bad idea . Everything about him radiates prickly energy. But I wanted this job before I knew I’d be working for him, didn’t I? And if the role is to look after his kid while he’s off at work, how much contact would I really have with him anyway?