Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LACHLAN
I’m standing at the top of the stairs, one hand resting on the banister, listening through the open door of Finn’s bedroom. Blair’s voice drifts out, animated and warm.
For the past four nights, she’s taken over the bedtime routine completely.
I should probably feel put out about it.
Those quiet moments before Finn drifts off have always been ours, just the two of us.
Well, three if you count Gus curled up and listening in.
It stings, standing here while someone else claims that special time.
But Christ, she’s good at it. Natural. The way Finn leans in, utterly spellbound, whenever she opens a book says everything.
Tonight’s a bit different, though. Not one of Finn’s usual books. Her own words, by the sound of it.
“The otter’s whiskers twitched as he watched the boy approach the water’s edge,” Blair reads, her voice carrying with the gentle rhythm of a born storyteller. “His sleek coat had grown thick and glossy again, and when he slipped into the water, he moved like liquid silver.”
Ah. The Otter and the Boy . The story she’s been working on.
I edge closer to the doorframe, drawn in despite myself. Through the gap, Finn is propped up on his pillows, eyes wide and fixed on Blair’s face, hanging on every word.
“The boy felt his heart swell with pride,” Blair continues. “He’d done it. He’d helped the otter get better. But then...” Her voice drops, weightier now. “He saw something that made his stomach twist into knots.”
“What?” Finn whispers.
“Another otter. A female, sleek and beautiful, gliding through the water toward his friend. And when the two otters touched noses, greeting each other with soft chirps, the boy suddenly understood what this meant.”
My chest tightens. Even I want to know what happens next.
“His otter friend was better. Completely healed. Which meant...” Blair pauses dramatically.
“He might leave?” Finn’s voice is small, worried.
“The boy watched them swim together, diving and playing, and he felt happy for his friend. But he also felt something else. Something that made his throat tight and his eyes sting. Because if the otter was truly better, if he’d found his own kind again, then maybe he wouldn’t need a human boy anymore. ”
Fuck me. She’s good. Really good. The story’s simple enough for a child, but layered with something heavier: love, loss, letting go. Hits harder than it should.
When Blair closes her notebook, Finn sits up straighter. “Is that the end? Do the otter and the boy not see each other anymore?”
Blair’s smile is warm, reassuring. “No, it’s not the end of the story. There’s more to come.”
“How many more chapters?” Finn presses, bouncing lightly on the mattress. “And how long will it take you to write them? Because I need to know what happens!”
Blair laughs and tucks the covers under his chin. “I’m working on it as fast as I can. But stories are like plants. They need time to grow.”
Finn nods solemnly. “Like Gerald.”
“Exactly like Gerald.”
Satisfied, Finn sinks back against his pillows, his eyes already heavy, the thrill of the story giving way to sleepiness. “Night, Blair,” he murmurs.
“Sweet dreams, Finn.”
I step back from the doorway as Blair slips out, pulling the door mostly shut behind her. She jumps when she spots me.
“What are you doing lurking out here?”
“I heard some of your story.” I shrug. “Sucked me in. Couldn’t stop listening.”
She shakes her head, embarrassed. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not just saying it. It’s bloody good.”
I ease past her into Finn’s room, where he’s already drifting off. Leaning down, I press a soft kiss to his forehead. “Love you, lad,” I whisper.
“Mmm. Love you too, Da.”
Downstairs in the kitchen, I pour myself a dram of whisky and lift a questioning brow at Blair.
“Oh, go on then,” she says.
I pour her a glass too, and we settle at the table.
“That story of yours,” I say after a sip. “It really is good. You should do something with it. Get it published. You must have contacts.”
Her smile falters. “Thanks, but . . .”
“I’m not just being polite,” I cut in. “You heard Finn. He’s desperate to know what happens next, and that boy doesn’t fake enthusiasm. That was real. Other people make a living telling stories. Why not you?”
She turns her glass in her hands, gaze on the table. “Because I torched every bridge in publishing. And this...” She shrugs. “It’s just something I’ve always wanted to try. Doesn’t mean I’m any good at it.”
“Bollocks,” I say flatly. “What about self-publishing?”
Her nose wrinkles. “At Everhart & Greene, we... well, we didn’t think much of self-publishing. We saw ourselves as gatekeepers, you know? Making sure only quality books reached the shelves. These days, people can put whatever they like up for sale.”
I lean back in my chair, studying her. “I read an article once about some self-published author making good money. Better than a lot of the ones with big publishers. And you’ve got the experience, haven’t you? Why not use it for yourself? Keep more of the profits instead of giving them away?”
Blair runs her finger around the rim of her glass, thinking it over.
“That...” She pauses, then a grin tugs at her mouth.
“That sounds like something I should look into. Tomorrow.” She tips back her glass, finishing the whisky in one go, then sets it down with a decisive clink.
Standing, she circles the table and comes up behind me.
Her fingers brush my shoulder, then trail down to the top button of my shirt.
She slips it open, then another, her fingertips toying with the hair on my chest.
“Because tonight,” she murmurs, voice husky enough to send a shiver down my spine, “I’ve got other plans.”
She takes my hand, tugging it until I rise to my feet. Then she gives another insistent pull, this time toward the stairs. “Come on.”
I don’t need to be asked twice.