Chapter 11 #2
Time to redirect before Ellie gets too smug. “What about you, huh? No secret someone you’ve got your eye on in this charming town?”
Ellie makes a face but there’s a blush creeping up her cheeks. “Not really.”
“Oh, come on.” I lean in, grinning. “You must at least have a crush. Who is it? Spill.”
She laughs, a shy little giggle that’s about as un-Ellie as I’ve seen her. “Well... I do quite like a certain man who lives in a house with roses climbing up the walls.”
“Douglas? As in the father of the twins? Are you a glutton for punishment?”
Her giggle turns into full-on laughter. “I know. They’re adorable, but after their last trip to the library I needed paracetamol.”
We both crack up at that. When the laughter dies down, though, Ellie sobers, her smile gentler now.
“But it’s a lost cause. Douglas’s wife, Leah, is in and out of the picture.
Sometimes gone for months, sometimes suddenly back.
No matter how long she’s been away, he always takes her back.
So... yes. Maybe I am a glutton for punishment.
But we can’t help who we’re attracted to, right? ”
Immediately, unhelpfully, my mind serves up an image: Lachlan across from me at the little table in the granny flat last night.
The intensity of those green eyes. The rare smile tugging at his lips.
His shirt clinging to his chest in ways I had no business noticing.
And those forearms—seriously, forearms should not be allowed to be that distracting.
Ellie’s right. You can’t help who you’re attracted to. Even if that person happens to be your broody, infuriating, ridiculously hot boss.
“... and then Ellie produced these perfect little sandwiches, cheese and chutney, like she’s Mary Poppins. Nothing fancy, but out there it tasted like a five-star picnic.”
On the laptop screen, Mom laughs, eyes crinkling. Dad tilts his head. “Standing stones and cheese sandwiches. You’re living the dream, kiddo.”
I’m back in the granny flat, catching up with my parents by video call.
“I’m telling you, it’s magical here. I saw an otter this morning too. On the beach. Just hanging out, like, ‘Hey, welcome to Scotland.’”
“You sound so happy,” Mom says. “It’s good to see you smiling.”
Dad nods then clears his throat. “I know you’re there to take a breather, and this nanny thing sounds great, but... are you keeping an eye out for jobs back here?”
“Michael!” Mom elbows him. “She went there to escape all that, remember?”
“Right, right. It’s just, Blair was so passionate about her career...”
I smile, though there’s a tug in my chest. “Nope, I’m not looking for a job back home. Not right now anyway. I’m going to give Scotland my full attention for a while.”
“That’s exactly what you need,” Mom says. “Don’t rush. You’ll figure things out when the time’s right.”
Dad lifts his hands in surrender. “Point taken, no career talk. But as your dad, I reserve the right to ask about this ferry captain. He’s treating you okay, right?”
“Uh, yeah. He’s nice enough.” I leave out the part about Scotch and candlelight. Some things my parents don’t need to know.
We chat a little longer before saying our goodbyes and promising to speak soon, then end the call.
I put on the kettle to make myself a tea—I really am getting the hang of life in Scotland—then glance through the scribblings in my notebook as it boils.
I’ve already written down my story’s title, The Otter and the Boy . Now to actually write the story itself.
One thing, at least, is clear. Today’s trip to the standing stones made it click. The very best children’s stories always have a touch of magic, even when they’re otherwise rooted in the real world. Mine is going to be no different.
Time to get comfy. Tea, pyjamas, notebook, and a writing sprint.
I yank the curtains closed—just for privacy, it’s still light out—then peel off my jeans, unhook my bra, and toss it onto the chair.
Bliss! After a whole day strapped in, a little boob freedom is proof that happiness really is found in the small things.
I glance down. And, yep, they really are small things.
But perky. Cute, even. Ellie’s are like the Highlands, majestic and impossible to ignore.
Mine are more like a “wee glen”. Petite, but still worth the hike.
The kettle clicks off. Okay, tea first, pyjamas later. I pad over, pour the hot water into my mug, dunk the teabag, and breathe in the steam. Look at me, practically a local. All I need now is a tartan blanket and a shortbread addiction.
When I turn back toward the bed, something catches my eye. A thin stripe of daylight glows where the curtains don’t quite meet. Oh. Should probably fix that.
I cross the room and reach to tug the fabric together?—
And freeze.
Because outside, Lachlan is trudging toward the trash can, a black bag slung over one shoulder, and he’s just noticed me.
Our eyes meet. His go wide. Then his gaze drifts down and the bag slips from his grip and hits the ground with a dull thud. Because apparently my boobs have the power to halt a grown man in his tracks. Who knew?
I yelp and dive out of sight, skin on fire, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
My dignity has officially joined the trash bag on the ground outside.