Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
BLAIR
I’m back in the granny flat, changed into my pyjamas—soft cotton shorts and a matching top—and still a little bemused by how well today turned out.
Who knew an afternoon of forts and dragon battles with a six-year-old could leave me grinning hours later?
And his grumpy father actually joined in. That part still makes me shake my head.
At the little table by the window, I sit with a candle flickering beside me, its warm vanilla scent filling the air. It’s just for vibes, not visibility. The sun takes forever to set here.
Pen in hand, notebook on the table, I’m mulling over possible story ideas.
There’s something about this place—the wild Scottish coastline, the tightknit community, the slower pace of life—that’s got my creative juices flowing.
I’ve always wanted to write my own stories.
Back in New York, between manuscript deadlines and acquisition meetings, there was never time, but I told myself I’d get to it someday.
When things slowed down. Well, I have time now, but none of the ideas I’ve come up with so far feel right.
None of them make me think, Yes, this is the story I need to tell .
I tap my pen against the paper, frustrated. It turns out wanting to write and having something worth writing about are two very different things.
A knock at the door interrupts my war with the blank page. I stand and open it to find Lachlan on my doorstep, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Oh! Hi.” Heat creeps up my neck as I realise this is the second time he’s seen me in my pyjamas, and they’re only one step up from underwear.
I cross my arms over my chest. Doesn’t stop him sneaking a glance at my boobs before quickly looking away, his jaw tight.
Great. Just what I needed to make this interaction even more awkward.
“Sorry to bother you,” he says, his gaze now fixed somewhere over my shoulder.
“But I wanted to apologise. About today, I mean. Making you work on what was supposed to be your day off. I know you didn’t sign up for Saturday duties, so I’ll be paying you extra.
Overtime rates, since it was the weekend. ”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
“Blair—”
“I went along voluntarily, I enjoyed myself, and you treated me to a tasty dinner. I don’t expect payment for that.”
He meets my eye and studies me, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m being serious or just polite. Whatever he sees in my expression must convince him because he nods slowly.
“All right. Well, thank you. For today. Finn had a brilliant time, and I...” He trails off then clears his throat. “I should let you get back to whatever you were doing.”
He’s already turning to leave when I hear myself say, “Do you want to come in for a hot drink?”
He hesitates. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“It’s not intruding if it’s an invitation. If I had something stronger, I’d offer that, but I’ve no drinks cabinet yet.”
I fully expect him to turn me down. Instead he says, “I’ve got whisky and beer in the house. I could fetch us something?”
“Full disclosure,” I say, wincing, “I’m not a big fan of Scotch.”
His mouth twitches, almost amused. “What kind of blasphemy is that? You’re in Scotland, lass.”
Lass? I kinda like that.
“I know. But it just tastes like... I don’t know, liquid campfire? Mind you, it’s been a while since I tried it, so... okay. I’ll give it another shot.”
“Right answer. I’ll be back in a minute.”
While he’s gone, I take the opportunity to pull on a baggy hoodie, eliminating the risk of any further boob-related distractions.
He returns with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses, which he sets on the table. “Let’s see if we can convert you.” He pours two measures, hands me one, and we settle at the table, facing each other. “This is a proper Highland single malt. None of that blended rubbish. Try it.”
I take a tentative sip and immediately start coughing. “Oh God, that’s—” I wheeze, eyes watering. “That’s terrible.”
Lachlan laughs—a real laugh, warm and unguarded. “Don’t gulp it. Let it sit on your tongue. Like this.” He demonstrates, taking a small sip and holding it in his mouth before swallowing.
I try again. This time I manage not to choke, though I still make a face. “It’s marginally less terrible?”
“Progress,” he says drily. “Give it time. It’s an acquired taste.”
“Like you?” The words slip out before I can stop them. “I mean—sorry, that came out wrong.”
But he doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks intrigued. “An acquired taste, am I?”
“Well, you have to admit, you weren’t exactly welcoming when we first met.”
“That’s fair. I’m not great with new people.”
“You don’t say.”
A sly grin tugs at his mouth. Sitting this close, I can’t help but notice details I’ve missed before: a touch of silver at his temples, ginger threads in his beard, the lines etched between his brows from years of scowling at the world.
“Not like you, of course,” he says. “You seem like the sort who can make friends with anyone. Humans, plants...” His gaze shifts to the windowsill. “Gerald, wasn’t it?”
“Hey, don’t mock Gerald. He was lonely at the shop, practically begging me with his little leaves. I rescued him.”
Smirking, Lachlan takes in the rest of the granny flat: the flickering vanilla candle, the cheerful throw draped across the bed, the postcards I’ve been collecting on my wanderings with Finn. “You’ve made this place homely.”
“No harm in giving a place a bit of personality, right? Unlike your house.” I arch an eyebrow. “No offence, but apart from Finn’s room, it looks like a show home. How long have you been there?”
“Four years. Before that, I was on Corraig.” He nods toward the window, where the island looms faintly on the horizon. “Grew up there. I moved here when...” He trails off.
I hesitate. Should I let it go? That’d probably be wise, but apparently I’m not wired for wise. “Finn’s mom?”
He nods. “We were childhood sweethearts. After she passed... well, I needed a change of scene. Couldn’t face staying on the island.”
The confession blindsides me. Lachlan’s a widower. That changes things. Explains the gruffness. Doesn’t excuse it—not entirely—but suddenly I see the man differently.
I’d assumed he was divorced. Why did I jump to that conclusion?
Because it was easy to imagine his prickliness driving a woman away?
Probably. But it might also have been because there aren’t any traces of a woman in his house.
Not a single photo of his childhood sweetheart, Finn’s mom.
Not that there are pictures of Lachlan or Finn up either—only Finn’s drawings on the cork board.
Some doors you barge through. Others, even I can see they should stay shut, at least for now. So I don’t dig into the absence of photos. Instead I tip my head and say, a little curiously, “Let me get this straight. You left Corraig for a change of scene, and yet you sail to it every day?”
“Aye.” His mouth twists ruefully. “Don’t worry, the irony isn’t lost on me.”
His phone buzzes on the table, the lock screen lighting up with a photo of Finn and his gap-toothed grin. Oh, that’s too sweet. Say what you like about Captain Grumpypants, he adores that kid. And Finn? He’s thriving. That’s all down to Lachlan.
“You can check that if you want,” I say.
“Och, it’ll just be Struan and Douglas, fellow single dads.” He taps the notification anyway, then smirks and turns the phone toward me. The screen shows a kids’ bedroom so buried in toys, I couldn’t tell you what colour the carpet is.
Douglas
Told them to play quietly. This is what I came back to after doing the dishes.
“Good God,” I say. “Forget bedtime. That’s a war zone.”
Lachlan’s phone buzzes again and another photo comes in. This one shows a little girl fast asleep in a perfectly neat room.
Struan
Meanwhile... like butter wouldn’t melt. Parenting is a breeze, eh, lads?
Lachlan’s lips twitch. “Struan only has his daughter at weekends, and she’s an angel. He likes to rub our noses in it, but it’s all good fun.” He sets his phone back down, and as he does, his gaze lands on my notepad. “Old school. Most people use a device these days.”
“Oh, that. Just dabbling with some story ideas. There’s something about the feel of pen on paper.”
“You write your own stories? Aye, that makes sense. Explains why Finn thinks you’re the greatest storyteller alive.”
The compliment warms my chest. “I’d like to write my own stories,” I correct.
“I’ve been brainstorming ideas but nothing’s grabbed me yet.
I thought about doing something with dragons—Finn would love that—but I can’t think of a unique take.
Besides, it has to appeal to me too, and honestly?
Dragons don’t fascinate me nearly as much as they do a certain six-year-old boy. ”
Lachlan nods then cocks his head and regards me like he’s turning over a puzzle piece. “Stories, publishing, nannying. Bit of a mix, eh? At the interview I never did ask why you left New York to come here.”
Ah. The dreaded question. I take another sip of Scotch—still awful, but maybe less so than before—and buy myself a second to think.
“I needed a break,” I say carefully. “Publishing can be pretty cut-throat, and I... burned out. My grandmother passed away earlier this year, and she always told me stories about growing up here. She lived in the house your friend Douglas is in now. Coming to Scotland felt right somehow.”
All true. Just not the whole truth. I’m not ready to tell him about the app, the firing, the spectacular way my career went up in flames.
“So that’s why you were peeking in Douglas’s window the first time we met.”
“Peeking is such an ugly word. I was... curious. Which is basically the same thing, I know, but it sounds way less creepy. Anyway, I’d love a proper tour at some point. You think Douglas would mind?”
“Nah, not at all. I’ll introduce you. He’s the one who sent through the photo of his kids’ carnage.”
“Yeah, I noticed the name. Pretty sure it didn’t look like that when my granny lived there.
She loved fun, but she wasn’t a fan of mess, not that she was as much of a stickler as you are.
I actually met Douglas’s parents the other day at the playground.
The twins too. Those two are wild, but they keep things interesting.
” They’d given their grandparents heart attacks by jumping from the top of the jungle gym.
After that got banned, they moved on to launching themselves off the swings mid-air.
I finish off my Scotch, and this time I only slightly grimace.
Lachlan chuckles and nods at the bottle. “I take it you aren’t for a top-up, then?”
“You know what? It might just be growing on me.” I push my glass across the table. “Hit me. But you have to join me. I want to see what you’re like when you’re not all tense and in dad mode.”
That earns me a proper laugh, and God help me, it’s nice. Lachlan looks younger when he laughs, the worry lines smoothing away. For once he’s just... a guy, not Captain Grumpypants.
“Careful,” I tease. “Hide that smile before someone sees it. You’ll lose your shot at the Grumpiest Man of Ardmara award.”
Shaking his head, he refills our glasses.
“How old are you anyway?” I ask. A bit blunt, maybe, but I want to know.
“Thirty-one.”
Only four years older than me. That’s less of an age gap than I’d thought.
And now that I’m really looking at him.
.. wow. His eyes are even greener than I realised, like sea glass caught in sunlight.
No, not just green, but flecked with gold near the centre.
His lashes are ridiculously dark for a man, his beard a whole ginger-brown situation, and the way his shirt stretches across his chest. ..
God, he’s . . . something.
I’m staring. Definitely staring. Abort, abort.
I grab for my newly refilled glass, desperate for cover, and end up knocking it sideways instead. Scotch splashes across the table.
Smooth, Blair. Real smooth.
“Careful!” Lachlan reaches for the toppled glass at the same time I do, his hand covering mine, warm and rough. Distractingly so. My pulse spikes. He rights the glass then withdraws, leaving my skin tingling.
“You could’ve just said no to another drink,” he jokes, standing to grab paper towels. “No need for theatrics. Or is the whisky hitting you already? Do you see one of me or two?”
“One of you is plenty,” I mutter, my cheeks hot. Especially now I’ve noticed just how damn attractive you are. Time to change the subject to something safe and dull. “Uh... washing machine. Do I have borrowing privileges?”
He mops up the Scotch with swift, no-nonsense movements. Which, annoyingly, makes the muscles in his forearm flex in a way I’m trying very hard not to notice. He really shouldn’t look this good while cleaning up a spill.
“Oh, aye, of course. This place was a holiday let once. I thought about continuing that when I moved in but never got round to it. It’s only set up for short stays, so no washing machine. Use the one in the house whenever you like.”
He tosses the wet paper towels in the trash and reclaims his seat. “I’ve got a gym set up in the garage too. If you ever fancy a workout, go ahead.”
Well, that explains the broad chest. And the arms that make wiping a table look like foreplay.
“Since you managed to spill your second glass before you even had a sip, I’d best top you up.” He uncorks the bottle.
“Actually...” Hard liquor plus sudden awareness that Captain Grumpypants is kind of sexy? Dangerous combo. Better not. “On second thought, I’m good, thanks.”
“Ah. Right, then.” For a beat he looks disappointed. Then he drains his own glass, pushes back his chair, and stands. “I’ll let you get back to your evening. Good night, Blair.”
And then, unprompted, he smiles at me. An unguarded smile that hits me harder than the Scotch.
“Uh . . .” I swallow. “Good night.”
And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me with a flickering candle, the faint scent of Scotch in the air, and the startling thought that there’s more to my grumpy boss than I realised.