Chapter 18 #2
I’m grateful for Finn’s chatter. It fills the silence between Lachlan and me, all the things we can’t say with little ears listening.
But even as I nod and smile at Finn’s stories, I’m hyperaware of Lachlan across the table.
The precise way he cuts his fish. The way his mouth quirks when Finn describes the “epic pillow fight that nearly destroyed the universe”.
Finn yawns hugely, rubbing his eyes even as he keeps talking. Poor kid’s running out of gas.
“Here, let me help,” I murmur, reaching over to cut his fish into smaller pieces. The gesture is so automatic, so natural, I don’t think twice about it?—
Until my gaze catches on the photo of Leanne in the frame Finn and I decorated. She’s looking down at baby Finn with such love, and suddenly I feel like an imposter. Today I’m cutting up her son’s fish. Last night I was in her husband’s bed.
No wonder my stomach twists.
“And then,” Finn continues around another yawn, “we played the floor is lava, and in the end it was between Logan and Rosie, but Logan fell in, so Rosie crowned herself queen of the lava and made us bow to her.”
“Sounds like you had quite the adventure, lad,” Lachlan says. “I’m amazed Douglas survived it.”
Finn giggles. “He said next time he’s sending us all to Struan’s house.”
“Poor Struan doesn’t know what’s coming for him.”
I force a smile, but I catch Lachlan looking at me a moment too long before he glances away. The air between us feels charged.
By the time we finish eating, Finn can barely keep his eyes open. He’s swaying slightly in his chair, fighting sleep with the determination of a tiny warrior.
“Right then,” Lachlan says, standing to clear the plates. “Someone clearly needs an early night. I’ll go run you a bath.”
“Can I have a bath tomorrow instead?” Finn mumbles.
Lachlan considers, then nods. “Aye, that’s fine. In that case, it’s time to get into your jammies. Let’s go upstairs.”
Finn slides off his chair and gives me a sleepy wave. “Night, Blair.”
“Night, buddy. Sweet dreams.”
“I’ll sort the dishes,” I say as they head for the stairs.
“Leave them,” Lachlan calls back. “You’re a guest tonight. I don’t want you lifting a finger.”
When Lachlan comes back downstairs ten minutes later, I’m at the sink, elbow-deep in soapy water.
“Finn asleep?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.
“Out like a light. He barely made it through—” Lachlan stops mid-sentence when he spots me. “Oi, I told you not to do that.”
“You cooked, I’m cleaning up. That’s fair.” I set a plate in the drying rack. “Besides, I’m almost done.”
The kitchen falls quiet except for the gentle splash of water and the soft clink of dishes. Lachlan hovers nearby, hands shoved in his pockets. The room feels crowded with everything we’re not saying.
Finally, he clears his throat. “Blair, about last night. The things I said afterward... I’m sorry. I panicked.”
I pause, a glass halfway to the rack. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” His voice is rough around the edges. “It’s just... it’s not only that I haven’t been with anyone since Leanne passed. It’s that I was never with anyone before her. There was no one else.”
The glass nearly slips from my hands. I catch it, set it down carefully, then turn to face him. The raw vulnerability in his expression squeezes my chest.
“Oh,” I manage finally.
“We were childhood sweethearts,” he adds, like he needs to fill the silence. “So... I know what we did last night probably doesn’t mean as much to you as it did to me. You’re from New York... Sex and the City, and all that.”
I blink, then a smile tugs at my lips. “Wow, your references are so up to date. You do realise that started airing in the nineties, right?”
His cheeks flush but he presses on. “My point is... it’s none of my business, but I imagine you’ve had multiple sexual partners. You didn’t grow up on a small Scottish island, like me. So... last night... well, it meant something to me.”
The earnestness in his voice stops my teasing in its tracks. I dry my hands on the dish towel then step closer to him, laying a hand on his arm.
“It meant something to me too,” I say simply.
Relief flashes across his face, softening into something warmer. For a moment we just stand there, my hand on his arm, the kitchen hushed around us.
“Anyway.” I give his arm a gentle squeeze before letting go. “Finn’s not the only one who’s pooped. I’m going to head back.”
Disappointment flickers across his features. Before it can linger, I lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek, breathing in his clean, masculine scent.
“Good night, captain.”
I slip toward the back door, aware of his gaze following me, my heart doing something fluttery and ridiculous in my chest.
Back in the granny flat, I go through my usual bedtime routine on autopilot—face wash, moisturiser, brushing my teeth. But my mind keeps circling back to our conversation in the kitchen, especially that moment when his voice cracked slightly as he said, “There was no one else.”
The raw honesty of it. The way he’d looked at me like he was bracing for rejection.
I spit out toothpaste, rinse, then shuffle toward bed, saying goodnight to Gerald. I’ve only just lain down with my notebook and pen when there’s a knock at the door.
My heart skips. I open the door and there he is, in an old grey T-shirt and navy pyjama bottoms, his hair mussed.
“I just realised,” he says quietly, “you kissed me goodnight... and I never kissed you back.”
The world stutters to a halt.
“So I wanted to fix that.”
He steps closer and cups my face in his hands.
His mouth is warm, gentle against mine, nothing like the desperate passion of last night.
His beard grazes my skin, his breath carrying the faintest hint of mint.
And then, too soon, he’s pulling back. It was only the briefest of kisses, but it leaves me swaying.
“Goodnight, Blair.” His thumb brushes across my cheek.
“Uh . . .” I swallow. “Goodnight, captain.”
He turns and leaves me in the doorway, my lips still tingling.