Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BLAIR
Finn is wedged between Lachlan and me on the couch, a bowl of microwave popcorn sits on the coffee table, and Spider-Man: Homecoming plays on the TV.
Gus has claimed the spot at our feet, though he keeps lifting his head every time someone reaches for the bowl.
The sneaky golden retriever already managed to snag a few kernels when Finn got distracted during the ferry scene.
“You used to take that ferry to work? That’s so cool!” Finn had said loudly, after I whispered that fact to him. Then, when the entire ferry was split in half lengthwise: “Bet you’re glad you didn’t take it that day!”
It was when Iron Man flew in to save the day, and Finn jumped to his feet whooping, that Gus lunged for the popcorn.
Now the camera sweeps across the Manhattan skyline, glass and steel reaching for the clouds, and my chest tightens unexpectedly. Those familiar streets, the yellow taxis, the constant hum of eight million people living their lives...
That’s home. This—Scotland, Ardmara, this cosy living room—is just temporary. A summer adventure before I figure out how to rebuild my life back where I belong.
But then Finn shifts against me, his small body warm and trusting, and it feels so natural, so right , that for a moment I can almost forget this isn’t my real life.
Almost.
My gaze drifts to the mantelpiece, where a new photo sits: Leanne holding tiny Finn’s hand, steadying him as he wobbles on chubby legs.
Finn and I have been busy recently—more crafting sessions, more trips to the beach for decorating materials—and Lachlan has filled the new frames with photos of his late wife.
But looking at the photo, I can’t help but think, What am I doing? The question hits me like a cold wave. I’m snuggled up with this woman’s husband and son, playing house like I belong here.
Earlier, when Lachlan told me Finn knew about us, I said it was fine. And maybe it is. But it has changed things. Made this whole situation feel more real, more serious. More like something that matters instead of just a summer fling with convenient accommodation.
Then a hand slips across the back of the sofa—Lachlan’s, reaching over his son like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand comes to rest on my shoulder, its warmth melting away the chill left by the photo.
By the time the credits roll, Finn is practically boneless against his father, eyes heavy-lidded and blinking slowly.
“Someone’s sleepy,” Lachlan observes. He leans in and theatrically sniffs his son. “Hmm... not too bad. All right, if you’re tired, you can skip your bath tonight, but you absolutely have to have one tomorrow. Deal?”
“Deal.” Finn yawns hugely then turns those drowsy brown eyes on me. “Blair? Will you tuck me in tonight?”
The question catches me off-guard. I glance at Lachlan, unsure about the boundaries of this new dynamic. He gives a small shrug, leaving the choice with me.
“Okay, sure.” I pat Finn’s knee with a smile. “I’d love to.”
Upstairs in Finn’s bedroom, I settle into the chair beside his bed with The Day the Crayons Quit in my lap. We picked it up from the library yesterday. I thought it’d be perfect for a kid who’s always drawing.
“This one’s about crayons going on strike,” I tell him as he pulls the blanket up to his chin.
“Mmm,” he murmurs, already sounding half-asleep after our cosy evening on the couch.
I open the book and begin reading through the funny complaint letters Duncan finds from his crayons. Red Crayon is overworked from colouring fire engines and strawberries. Yellow and Orange have fallen out because both think they should be used to colour the sun.
Normally, Finn would be giggling at their silly gripes, but tonight he just looks at the pictures with heavy-lidded eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
By the time I get to Pink Crayon lamenting about being underused (except by Duncan’s little sister), his breathing has gone slow and even.
I close the book softly and lean forward to smooth the covers. “Sleep tight.”
I’m about to stand when his eyes open again and he says, “Are you staying in our house tonight?”
“Oh. Um . . . I think so, yes.”
A sleepy smile spreads across his face. “I like the idea of you being here with us rather than all by yourself in the granny flat.”
Something warm and complicated unfurls in my chest. This little boy, who’s already lost so much, wants me here. Wants me to be part of his small family unit instead of the outsider looking in.
“Love you, Blair.”
His words zing straight past my defences, right into the softest part of me. Love. For a six-year-old, it’s simple: you care about someone, they make you happy, so you love them. No complications. No questions. Just love.
But I’m not six. And yet, looking down at this sweet boy who’s somehow claimed a piece of my heart without me even realising it, I can’t bring myself to deflect or downplay his words.
“Love you, Finn,” I whisper back.
His smile lingers for a moment before his eyes drift closed again. Soon his breathing evens out into the deep rhythm of sleep.
I find Lachlan in his bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for me.
There’s no sneaking around tonight. No tiptoeing through the house or slipping out before dawn. For the first time since this started, I can just walk down the hallway and into his room like I belong here.
The thought should feel liberating. Instead, it makes something flutter nervously in my chest. Because without the secrecy, this feels dangerously close to... well, to real life. To being part of this family instead of just visiting it.
He stands and moves closer, his hands framing my face, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones.
I lean into the touch despite the warning bells in my head.
This is going too fast. Getting too complicated.
I’m supposed to be here temporarily, figuring out my life, not falling for a widower and his son.
But then Lachlan’s mouth finds mine, gentle and sure, and my doubts blur at the edges. His hands slip to the hem of my sweater, lifting it over my head with careful reverence, like he’s unwrapping something precious.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against my collarbone, pressing soft kisses to the hollow of my throat, the curve of my shoulder. When he unhooks my bra and takes my breast into his mouth, tongue circling my nipple, I arch into him with a soft gasp.
This is what I need. Not thinking. Not worrying. Just this. His hands on my skin, his mouth making me forget everything except how good he makes me feel.
He strips off my leggings, my underwear, until I’m naked in the lamplight. Then I’m reaching for his belt, fumbling with the button of his jeans, desperate to feel him against me, inside me.
“Easy,” he chuckles, but his breathing is already rough.
I push his jeans and boxers down to his knees—not bothering to get them all the way off—then push him back onto the edge of the bed. I climb onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips, then sink down onto his cock. We both gasp.
“Christ, Blair . . .”
Any last questions in my head scatter like startled birds. There’s only this. The stretch and fullness of him inside me, the way his hands grip my hips, the heat building between us. This feels so right, nothing else matters.