Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
LACHLAN
I sit on the edge of my bed, mug of coffee in one hand, half-eaten slice of toast in the other.
Can’t stop thinking about last night. About her. About what I saw through that bloody gap in the curtains.
I shouldn’t be thinking about it. Definitely shouldn’t be thinking about the curve of her small breasts, or how her rosy nipples looked in the evening light...
“Stop it,” I mutter, setting down the mug harder than necessary. Coffee sloshes onto my bedside table.
I’m her employer, for Christ’s sake! She’s here to look after my son, not to star in whatever dirty film my brain is playing. It was an accident. She was mortified. And I bloody well should be too. Should not have lain awake all night replaying it like some randy teenager.
I finish my toast then stand and tug down my pyjama shorts. Time to get dressed, except my body has other ideas. My cock is stubbornly stiff, threatening to turn the simple act of getting dressed into a bloody obstacle course.
I glare down at the problem like it’s personally insulted me.
“I’m her boss, you daft prick,” I tell it sternly.
But apparently my cock doesn’t give a damn about professional boundaries.
I manage to wrestle my boxer briefs on, though it’s more of a struggle than it should be.
Then come the trousers. I get them up easy enough—sort of—and then I get my shirt on.
But when I try to do up the button of my trousers, there’s no chance.
Bloody thing won’t reach. My cock is still refusing to play by any rules except its own.
I suck in my gut and try again. Still nothing. I twist sideways, yanking at the waistband like maybe sheer force will help me win this particular battle of willpower versus anatomy. My elbow smacks the lamp, nearly toppling it.
“Brilliant,” I mutter. Nothing like starting your day by fighting your own bloody trousers—and losing.
This is ridiculous. I’m supposed to be the captain of a ferry, and I can’t even control my own body? I don’t have time for this nonsense. I can’t be late.
Think about something else. Paperwork. Tide charts. Weather reports. The bloody boring safety briefing I have to give every morning.
Finally, my cock gets the memo and decides to calm down, allowing me to wrangle everything into place.
All right, Lachlan, deep breath. You’re professional. Responsible. Not a total shambles.
I head to Finn’s room, where he’s still curled up under his duvet like a hibernating bear. I set his school uniform out on the chair—grey trousers, white shirt, navy jumper—then give his shoulder a gentle shake.
“Morning, lad. Time to get up.”
Finn opens one eye, peers at the clothes, then frowns. “Da, it’s the summer holidays.”
Shite.
“Right. Of course it is.” I force a laugh that comes out more like a bark. “Just making sure you’re awake.”
Finn frowns, baffled.
I’m rummaging through his drawers for more appropriate summer clothes when a voice calls up from downstairs.
“Hello?”
Blair. Already inside, having let herself in through the back door like I told her she could.
My stomach does something complicated.
“I’ll be right down!” I call back, then I grab Finn some shorts and a T-shirt. “Pop these on then go down for breakfast. Have a great day, okay?” I kiss him on the forehead then head downstairs, steeling myself for normal conversation. Professional interaction. Not thinking about last night.
Blair’s in the kitchen, looking annoyingly put-together for someone who’s about to spend the day chasing after a six-year-old. Hair sleek, a touch of make-up, and, unless I’m imagining it, perfume. Does she really need to make such an effort just to look after Finn?
Not that I can complain about it. It doesn’t interfere with her job. It only distracts me, and I should bloody well know better.
“Morning,” I manage, not quite meeting her eye.
“Good morning!” She’s bright and cheerful, though there’s something slightly forced about it. Like she’s trying just as hard as I am to pretend last night never happened. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Aye. Should be good sailing weather.” I attempt to follow her lead, act normal, take a step towards the work surface?—
And trip straight over Gus, who’s planted himself at my feet.
I stumble but catch myself. “Shit! Sorry, boy.” His tail thumps hopefully against the cupboard. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. You’ve already had your breakfast.”
Except... has he? Christ, I honestly can’t remember. Between the sleepless night and this morning’s trouser fiasco, my brain feels like porridge.
“Er...” I don’t want to overfeed the daft beast, but I also don’t want him going hungry. Better safe than sorry. I scoop out another portion and dump it in his bowl.
Gus wags his tail like Christmas has come early.
“Finn will be downstairs in a moment,” I tell Blair. “He’s just getting dressed. Have a good day!”
And with that, I escape into the sea breeze, already rattled and the morning hasn’t even properly started.
Christ. This is going to be a long bloody day.
The familiar outline of Corraig grows larger through the bridge windows as I ease the Calabrae into the final approach. Same rocky headlands I’ve known since I was a bairn. Same cluster of white cottages hugging the harbour. Same weathered pier where I used to fish on summer evenings.
I bring her in by muscle memory—throttle back, adjust for the cross-current, let her drift in gentle as a kiss. The engines rumble to a stop, and I feel the satisfying bump as we settle against the pier fenders.
Below, car engines start up. Foot passengers shuffle ashore. The usual controlled chaos of arrival.
Once the last of them has gone, Kenneth’s voice crackles through the intercom. “All clear on deck, skipper. Next sailing’s not for a while. Fancy stretching your legs and grabbing a coffee?”
“Not happening.”
“Aye, thought not. Worth a shot, though.”
Silence returns, broken only by the lap of water against the hull.
Through the glass, I watch the last stragglers vanish into the village, heading home or to visit family or to explore the island’s walking trails.
Twice a day, five days a week, I bring folk here.
And every time I sit in this spot, staring at the island I grew up on.
The island I can’t set foot on. Too many ghosts in those streets.
I drag in a breath, shove the thought away. And of course my mind goes straight to something just as unwelcome: the gap in those bloody curtains last night. A flash of skin. Blair’s?—
Christ. Not again.
I scrub a hand over my face, but it doesn’t help. I need to get a grip.
The front door clicks shut behind me, and Gus is there in an instant, his whole backside wagging with the force of his tail. I crouch to give him a proper scratch behind the ears.
“Hi, Gus. Good to see you, lad.”
“Da!” Finn appears at a run, nearly bowling me over with the force of his hug. “You’re home!”
“Aye, I’m home.” I ruffle his hair, and for a second my shoulders drop, the day’s weight easing.
Then Finn says, “Da, Blair started writing a story!” And the tension returns because of course we’re not alone.
“It’s a proper one, like the books we read, but she’s making it up herself.” Finn tugs my hand. “C’mon!”
He leads me through to the living room, where Blair’s straightening cushions. She glances up with a smile that’s maybe just a touch too bright, and the awkwardness rushes back in.
“Hi! How was your day?”
“Fine. Much the same as always.”
“Oh. Well, we had the best day, didn’t we, Finn?”
He nods eagerly, practically vibrating with excitement. “Blair’s story is called The Otter and the Boy . I drew a picture of the otter. Want to see, Da?”
“Course I do.”
So he drags me to the coffee table, where there’s a crayon drawing—a stick figure boy standing beside a brown blob. Not sure I’d have been able to identify it as an otter if he hadn’t told me, but it’s Finn’s, and that makes it perfect.
“This is great, Finn.”
“Tell Da about the story,” Finn says to Blair.
Blair laughs, and the sound does something warm and unwelcome in my chest. “It’s about a boy who finds a young otter caught in a fishing net on the beach.
The otter’s weak and can’t hunt properly, so the boy has to help him—bring him food, keep him safe.
But here’s the thing: the otter only comes out for the boy.
When his dad comes down to the shore, the otter hides.
So the dad doesn’t even know if the otter’s real or if his son’s making it all up. ”
Finn nods seriously. “The boy has to take care of the otter all by himself.”
“Sounds like a good story,” I say, and I mean it.
She’s brilliant with him. Patient and creative and exactly what he needs. So why can’t I just leave it at that, instead of replaying last night on a loop? It was only a moment—a few seconds at most—and yet I’ve spent every bloody hour since thinking about it.
I should join in, ask more about the story, keep the conversation going. Instead I feel hot under the collar for no good reason. Idiot.
“Back in a sec. Need some water.”
I escape to the kitchen, but before I can fill a glass, my gaze catches on a laundry basket by the back door. Blair’s washing, neatly folded, ready to be carried back to the granny flat.
I shouldn’t look.
I look anyway.
Christ.
On top, a pale pink bra, lace edging visible. Beneath it, what might be matching knickers, simple but soft and feminine. My hand lifts before I even register the movement, just to see if the lace is as delicate as it looks?—
I snatch it back like I’ve been burned.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Thanks for letting me use the machine, Lachlan.” Blair’s voice makes me spin. She’s followed me through, as has Finn. Did they see? I don’t think so.
“I’ll get that out of your way,” Blair adds.
“Right.” My voice comes out sharp. Clipped. “Good. And it’s Lach-lan, not Lock-lan. Remember?”
She blinks, startled. “Oh. Sorry, I?—”
“It’s fine. Sorry, bit of a headache.” I rub at my temple. “Anyway, you don’t need to hang about. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
It’s a very clear dismissal, and Blair’s cheeks flush. “Right. Okay.” She picks up the basket. “Bye, Finn.”
“Bye, Blair,” Finn says quietly.
She doesn’t look at me as she leaves, and after the back door closes, the silence stretches until Finn breaks it, his voice small. “Why were you mean to Blair?”
I run a hand through my hair, guilt sitting heavy in my gut. “I wasn’t mean. I was just... tired. Like I said, I’ve got a headache.”
“You were mean,” he insists. “She was being nice and you were mean to her.”
No mercy from him. And he’s right.
“I’m sorry, lad. Sometimes grown-ups get grumpy when they’re tired, just like kids.”
But Finn’s not buying it, and neither am I. He wanders off, and I’m left in the kitchen, furious with myself.
You’re making this worse. You’re making it weird. Stop it.
She’s doing nothing wrong. Nothing except being kind to my son and living in my space and looking like?—
Stop.
Tomorrow I’ll be better. Polite but professional. Detached.
I’ll lock it all away where it belongs. No excuses.