Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
BLAIR
I pull up outside Lachlan’s house at seven forty-five the next morning, my hotel room key already returned and my suitcase stuffed in the trunk of the rental car.
I climb out, and the morning air hits me like a slap of pure Scottish freshness, all crisp and clean like the world’s been powerwashed overnight.
Everything glistens with leftover raindrops—the stone walls, the slate roof tiles, even the pebbles crunching underfoot.
It’s the kind of morning that makes you want to take deep, cleansing breaths and declare yourself ready for a fresh start.
Which is exactly what I’m doing. Right? This is my fresh start. My new adventure. Not me running away from my problems to play nanny for a grumpy Scotsman and his adorable kid.
Definitely the fresh start thing.
Taking a deep breath of that impossibly clean air, I head to the front door and knock. After a moment, it swings open.
“Morning,” Lachlan says.
Oh, for crying out loud. He’s in a ferry captain’s uniform: navy trousers, crisp white shirt with actual epaulettes.
Gone is the rumpled, scowling man from yesterday’s interview.
In his place stands someone who looks like he stepped off the cover of Nautical Monthly or whatever magazine features unfairly attractive sea captains.
The uniform transforms him completely. The tailored fit emphasises his broad shoulders, the white shirt makes his green eyes even more striking, and there’s an authority to him now that does inconvenient things to my pulse. He looks competent. Professional. Commanding.
This is a problem. A big problem. I’m supposed to be working for this man, not ogling him like some lovesick teenager.
“You all right?” he asks, and I realise I’ve been staring like he’s a particularly fascinating museum exhibit.
“Fine! Yes. Good morning.” I give myself a mental slap. Get it together, Blair. “You look very... official.”
“It’s called a uniform,” he says drily.
Before I can embarrass myself any further, Finn appears at his father’s elbow. He’s also in uniform, a neat little school outfit with a tiny blazer and tie that makes him look approximately seventeen times more adorable than he did yesterday. And he was adorable yesterday.
“Blair!” He beams at me. “It’s my last day of school before the holidays. I’m so excited!”
He bounces from foot to foot, and I can’t help grinning back. Growing up in New York, our strictest dress-code rule was no crop tops. Otherwise, it was a free-for-all. The formality of British school uniforms is both charming and slightly surreal—little kids dressed for board meetings.
“That is exciting,” I say. “Ready for summer adventures?”
“Yes! We’re going to have a lot of fun, right?”
“ So much fun.”
“All right.” Lachlan pulls a key from his pocket and holds it out to me. “You’ve got today to get settled. The granny flat is around the back, just follow the path through the garden.”
Granny flat? Is that what they call it here? It sounds like somewhere you’d store elderly relatives rather than house a temporary nanny.
“Oh, and here’s a key to the main house too.” He produces another key. “I do have one task for you today. Give Gus his lunch at half twelve and take him for a walk. His bowl and lead are on the kitchen work surface. Flora usually does it, but with her wrist...”
“Of course. No problem.” I nod confidently, like I’m totally prepared to handle an enthusiastic golden retriever and definitely know what “half twelve” means.
Is that twelve thirty? Or eleven thirty?
Or something else? I should probably ask, but admitting I don’t understand basic time references seems like a poor start to my employment.
Gus himself chooses this moment to make his entrance, tail already wagging like he’s powered by pure joy. He pushes past Lachlan’s legs to greet me, and I give him a pat on the head.
“Is that you finished your breakfast, Gus?” Finn asks, crouching to ruffle his ears.
“Normally, Gus would be first to the door,” Lachlan observes. “But food wins over guests. Every time.” He checks his watch—an actual watch, not his phone, because of course he’s the kind of practical, masculine guy who still wears a watch—and frowns. “Right, we need to go. Finn, grab your bag.”
Finn hurries back into the house, leaving me alone with his father for a moment. The silence stretches, tipping into awkward.
“I hope the granny flat is okay,” Lachlan says finally. “It’s been a while since it’s been used.”
Something in his tone makes me pause. “Oh. Okay. How long is ‘a while’?”
“A few years.”
A few years? “Right. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Famous last words, Blair. Famous last words.
Finn reappears with his backpack, and Lachlan gives Gus a scratch behind the ears before shooing him inside and locking the front door. As they walk down to their car, Finn gives me an enthusiastic wave, like I’m already part of the family.
“See you later, Blair! I can’t wait for tomorrow!”
I wave back, smiling at his excitement. At least one of us is confident this is going to work out.
After they drive away, I stand in the sudden quiet for a moment, keys in my palm, doubt creeping in. What the hell am I doing? Twenty-four hours ago I was a tourist. Now I’m about to move into the backyard of a man who I suspect believes tourists are a minor plague upon Scotland.
This is either the most spontaneous, adventurous thing I’ve ever done, or the most spectacularly stupid. Guess time will tell.
I follow the gravel path around the side of the house and through the backyard to the “granny flat”.
The small building mirrors the main house’s architecture—same grey stone, same slate roof, just scaled down.
Its front door is even painted the same red as the main house’s.
It’s charming, at least from the outside.
I slide the key into the lock, turn it, and push open the door.
Oh.
The smell hits me first, a musty, stale dampness, like air that’s been trapped for years. Dust motes swirl in the sunlight. Cobwebs decorate the corners like unwelcome party streamers.
My heart sinks a little as I step inside and survey my home for, potentially, the next six weeks.
It’s a studio layout, with the bedroom, sitting area, and kitchenette all sharing one main room.
A small table and two chairs sit by the window.
The sea view is spectacular, though currently filtered through glass that hasn’t seen a cleaning cloth in a long time.
There’s also a tiny shower room with a toilet and sink.
Okay. Less cottagecore dream, more meh than magical. But sure.
I throw the windows wide and let in the fresh sea breeze.
Right. I wanted a focus, didn’t I? Something to distract me from wallowing in my career implosion. Well, cleaning this place from top to bottom will definitely keep me busy.
Under the kitchen sink, I find a pair of gloves and some basic cleaning supplies. I dig my phone out of my pocket and fire up some music.
“Okay, Blair.” I roll up my sleeves, remove my rings—all five of them—and pull on the gloves. “You wanted an adventure. Time to make this place livable.”
As Taylor Swift starts singing about shaking it off—how appropriate—I grab a cloth and get to work. Not the peaceful morning of settling in I’d imagined, but hey. At least it’s keeping my hands busy and stopping me from doomscrolling job boards.
At half past twelve—and yes, I did text Ellie to confirm that “half twelve” means “half past twelve” and not some mysterious Scottish time concept—I take a break.
My back aches, and I’m pretty sure I’ve inhaled enough dust to qualify as a human vacuum cleaner, but the place is starting to look, and smell, like somewhere a person might actually want to sleep.
I pull off the gloves, wash my hands, and head to the main house. Gus is waiting for me just inside the door, golden body wriggling with excitement. He springs up on his hind legs, front paws thudding into my ribs, tongue going straight for my face.
“Ugh! Seriously?” Grimacing, I twist my head away, but he still gets me square on the cheek.
Just great. Oh well, after a morning of dust and cobwebs, what’s a little dog slobber, right?
I push him down gently, and he sits, panting, tongue lolling.
“Okay, Gus. It’s confession time. During my interview yesterday, I might’ve oversold my love of dogs. Truth is, I don’t have much experience with your kind. But if you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you. Deal?”
He barks once, tail thumping the floor, and I decide that counts as a yes.
We head through to the kitchen, which is just as spotless and gleaming as it was yesterday—the polar opposite of the cobwebbed annex I’ve been battling all morning.
Honestly, it’s hard to believe the same man owns both spaces.
Credit where it’s due, though. Keeping a place this pristine while living with a six-year-old and a golden retriever? Pretty damn impressive.
I spot Gus’s lunch bowl and leash on the counter—sorry, “work surface”—just where Lachlan said they’d be. But there’s something else waiting beside them. A roll of poop bags.
Oh God.
When I talked myself into this whole nanny gig—fresh start, roof over my head, something to occupy me—I somehow conveniently forgot about the less glamorous realities of dog ownership. Like the fact that dogs poop. And apparently, I’m expected to deal with it.
Gus, oblivious to my mini meltdown, dances in place. He clearly knows what time it is, and he can’t fathom why I’m taking so long to serve him.
I take the bowl and set it down on the floor. “Here you go, boy. Luncht—” He dives in before I can even finish the word, vacuuming up kibble like it’s his last meal on earth. Twenty seconds later, the bowl is spotless and he’s looking up at me expectantly.
“Wow, boy. Did you even chew any of that? Well, it’s walk time now, I guess.”
I pocket a few of the dreaded poop bags, clip his leash to his collar, and head for the front door.