Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BLAIR
I wake up to sunlight streaming through a gap in my curtains—actual Highland sparkle, not the gloomy drizzle we had yesterday. Everything feels quiet, like the world’s still deciding whether to wake up or roll over for another hour.
I sit up and yawn. Despite last night’s Scotch experiment, my head is clear. I guess I did only manage one before christening the table.
Which reminds me... the way Lachlan’s hand covered mine when we both reached for the glass...
Nope. Not going there. Fresh air, that’s what I need.
Jeans, sweater, sneakers. Notebook, pen. Five minutes later I’m crunching across the pebble beach, the air so sharp and clean it practically exfoliates my lungs. I feel awake , and I’ve not even had a coffee yet.
I perch on a boulder that’s just the right height for writing. See? The Highlands want me to be productive. Pen, paper, waves. Zero algorithms, zero tech-bro slogans about “minimum viable product” or other nonsense. Just me and my thoughts and a story waiting to be found.
I’m scribbling random observations—about how the water glitters like it’s auditioning for a jewellery commercial, and how the seaweed looks like mermaid hair—when movement catches my eye. Something sleek and dark emerges from the water and onto a nearby rock.
No way.
An otter.
My jaw actually drops. I’m staring at a legit wild otter, water streaming off its whiskers. It shakes itself, droplets spraying in a perfect arc, then flops down to groom.
I freeze. Do. Not. Move. Apparently, I’ve been chosen by the otter gods, and I’m not about to blow it. For a good two minutes, I watch this little guy roll in the sunshine, completely ignoring me. Then—splash—it’s gone, leaving behind only a widening circle of ripples.
Okay, wow. That was . . . yeah. Magical.
My fingers fly over the page. Sleek fur. Whiskers. The ripple-ring thing. Maybe my story will have an otter in it. Maybe?—
“Blair!”
Finn barrels down the path from the house in his pyjamas, waving at me, Gus galloping ahead of him.
“Morning!” I snap my notebook shut, just in case Gus decides it’s his new chew toy, then give him a good scratch when he comes over to say hello. I glance around for Lachlan but there’s no sign of him. “Are you two allowed down here by yourselves?”
“Aye!” Finn beams at me. “So long as we stay where my da can see us from the kitchen window and don’t go too close to the water. Besides, we’re not by ourselves. You’re here!”
“True,” I reply with a grin.
He sits himself down beside me and glances at my notebook. “What’re you writing?”
“Just some ideas for a story. I think it might have an otter in it. I literally just saw one, right there.” I point out the spot, and Finn’s face goes through a whole journey of emotions: excitement, wonder, then something that looks suspiciously like betrayal.
“You saw an otter? A real one?”
“Yeah, it came right up on that rock and?—”
“I’ve lived here since I was two and I’ve never seen one. You’ve been here, like, a week!” Then, in a mutter: “So unfair.”
I have to bite back a smile at his indignation. “Hey, I just got lucky. They’re shy. Right place, right time.”
“I suppose,” he says, but he still doesn’t look overly happy. “I know it’s the weekend, but seeing as we did something together yesterday, do you think we could do something together again today?”
“Oh, Finn.” His hopeful face just about kills me. “I’d love to, but I’ve already got plans. Ellie’s offered to take me to a secret local spot she says tourists don’t usually see.”
His whole body droops. “Oh.”
“But hey, from tomorrow, we’ve got the whole week together, right?”
“Aye.” He picks up a stone, flings it, watches it belly-flop instead of skip. “Will you at least tell me where Ellie takes you? So I can know about the secret spot too?”
“Absolutely. I’ll even take photos.”
“Okay.” He stands. “I’m going to go get breakfast. Come on, Gus. Bye, Blair!”
They head up the path, Finn turning once to wave. I wave back then return to my notes.
So, a story about an otter. And maybe... a boy who’s lived by the sea for years but never seen one?
I pull up outside Ellie’s cottage. She’s waiting in her little front yard, which looks like something straight out of a lifestyle blog. Flowerbeds, neat paths, the whole deal. Puts Gerald to shame. She hops into the passenger seat with a canvas bag slung over her shoulder and a smile on her lips.
“Hi! Okay, head for the main road. I’ll direct you from there.” She buckles her seat belt. “Fair warning, it does get a bit narrow when we’re off the main road again.”
“Narrow?” I laugh, pulling away from the kerb. “Ellie, I drove here from Glasgow. I’ve already redefined my relationship with the word ‘narrow’.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m eating those words.
“This isn’t a road,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel as we bump along. “This is a hiking trail that someone accidentally paved. Badly. If another car comes toward us, what do we do then? Duel?”
Ellie points to a wider bit of road ahead. “You pull into the nearest passing place and let them by. It’s all very civilised.”
“Right. Civilised.” I navigate around a pothole that could swallow a small child. “In New York, this would be considered a war crime against automobiles.”
The road—and I use that term very loosely—winds up through increasingly wild countryside. Stone walls give way to open hillsides dotted with sheep.
“Just up here,” Ellie says, pointing to a pull-off beside a wooden gate. “We can park and walk from here.”
I manage to wedge the car into the space without scraping the gatepost, though it’s a close thing. “Please tell me the walk is less terrifying than the drive.”
“Only if you don’t mind mud and sheep poo,” Ellie says cheerfully, giving my white sneakers a once-over. “I did warn you to wear a good pair of walking boots.”
“Don’t own any. But I promise I’ll buy some before our next adventure.”
We grab our bags and head through the gate, following a footpath that meanders alongside a stream. The water chatters over smooth stones, and the air smells of heather and something fresh and wild that I can’t name but makes my lungs feel like they’re getting a spa treatment.
The path leads us into a glen—I’m learning the Scottish words—where the hills rise on either side like protective arms. Ancient trees lean over the stream, their roots twisted into the banks, and everywhere I look there are shades of green I didn’t know existed.
“This is gorgeous,” I say, pulling out my phone to snap a photo. “How is this not crawling with tourists?”
“Most visitors stick to the easier walks closer to town.” Ellie steps carefully over a boggy bit of path. “Plus, it’s not easy to find unless you know where you’re going.”
The path starts to climb, winding up the hillside through bracken that brushes against our legs. My city-soft muscles protest a bit, but it’s the good kind of protest, the kind that reminds you your body was designed for more than sitting at desks and riding subway cars.
After what feels like a proper Scottish workout, the path levels out and we emerge onto a plateau. And there, arranged in a rough circle like sentinels that have been waiting centuries for company, stand ancient stones, tall and weathered.
I stop dead. “Oh. Wow.”
They’re maybe twice my height, their surfaces etched with lichen and time. Some lean at odd angles, as if bowing toward the centre.
The air feels different here. Cooler, sharper. The hairs on my arms lift like I’ve stepped into a place where the rules are slightly different.
“How old are they?” I whisper, though I’m not sure why I’m whispering. Of course Scotland comes with built-in mystical ruins.
“Over four thousand years,” Ellie says softly.
I walk slowly toward the circle, my sneakers silent on the springy turf. The stones seem to hum with something I can’t quite name—not sound, but presence. Like they’re holding secrets in their granite hearts.
“I can’t believe we’re the only ones here.”
Ellie shrugs. “It’s not like you can drive right up here. And if you could, it wouldn’t be the same. This is what people call a ‘thin place’.”
“Thin place?”
“You know how sometimes you go somewhere and it just feels... different? Like the boundary between our world and something else isn’t quite as solid?”
“Yeah... I feel it too.” A shiver runs over my arms, then I shake it off. “Although if this turns into a time-travel situation, I want advance notice so I can at least fix my hair before meeting Jamie Fraser.”
Ellie laughs, and the mood eases. She sets down her bag and starts unpacking: sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil, a flask, a couple of apples. It’s simple, but out here, surrounded by hills and history, it feels like a feast.
“Wow, Ellie. This is amazing. Meanwhile I brought... an appetite. Next time, though, the food is on me.”
We tuck in, and after a while, Ellie says, “So, how are things going with the brooding and monosyllabic ferry captain?”
“Turns out he’s not as brooding or monosyllabic as I first thought. He came over last night to apologise that I had to hang out with Finn on my day off. We ended up having a drink. Scotch.” I glance at the looming stones uneasily, then lower my voice. “Not my favourite.”
“Careful,” Ellie says, grey-blue eyes alight with mischief. “Saying that too loud around here could get you exiled. And yet... whisky with Lachlan Munro? That sounds... cosy. You’re not developing feelings for your grumpy boss, are you?”
I nearly choke on my sandwich (cheese and chutney because apparently that’s a thing here—surprisingly good).
“As if! I’m only saying he’s not quite as much of a grump as I first thought, not that I’m attracted to him.
” Though he’s not exactly unpleasant to look at , I add silently.
“Getting involved with him would be unprofessional. Complicated. Stupid. And that’s not me. ”