Chapter 4 Finn
FINN
Tuesday morning. I’ve got my morning all mapped out, mentally.
I open the Land Rover door and Jess and Poll, my two black spaniels, hop out of the back seat.
I worked hard to train these two, now they flank me like twin shadows.
One whistle, and they fall in behind me as I crunch over the gravel, waiting for the next command.
Order. Discipline. Everything I appreciate in a world sadly lacking both.
“Finn, have you got five minutes?” Georgia’s cheery voice cuts across the courtyard.
I look up and she’s peering at me over the top of the split wooden door into the kitchen, a hopeful expression on her face.
“No.”
“Excellent.” She beams, ignoring me as usual. “I’ll be with you in a sec.”
I shake my head, half-smiling. Georgia’s one of the few people on Benruar who doesn’t treat me like a storm cloud about to break.
Everyone else keeps their distance, mutters when I pass, or finds urgent business elsewhere.
I have no idea why – I can hear my brother, Rory, laughing at that.
He’d say it’s because I have zero filter and don’t suffer fools gladly.
It’s not my fault the world is overpopulated with bloody fools.
Anyway, Georgia seems to get around it by treating me like a lion at the zoo – dangerous if provoked, otherwise vaguely entertaining.
She marches across the courtyard with an apple in her hand. She takes a bite, then looks at me with a beady expression. I know that look all too well.
“What now?”
“Tourist office called.” She kneels to say hello to the dogs. “We need to have a chat about how we’re going to handle Jennifer.”
I groan.
“I know, I know.” Georgia’s tone is placating. “But she’s non-negotiable. We have to charm her into submission, somehow.”
“Go on,” I say to the dogs, who are by now virtually vibrating with barely contained excitement. “You might as well have some fun, seeing as the fun sponge is here to ruin my morning.”
Jess and Poll shoot off at the sound of their release word, disappearing into rhododendron jungle with impressive speed.
They’ll flush something out – rabbit, pheasant – God knows what.
Yesterday, Jess trotted back with an ancient mud-covered bra from the rose garden.
Nothing to do with me. Fairfax, my second cousin and previous owner of this place, had a colourful past.
“You won’t be calling me a fun sponge when you hear my good news,” says Georgia, tapping the side of her nose with a secretive smirk.
“Please tell me the good news is I’m off the hook?”
“’Fraid not.” Georgia beams at me expectantly and shades her eyes with one hand against the morning sunlight that’s lighting up the courtyard. “I can talk to you out here while the dogs play, if it helps?”
Might as well kill two birds. I’ve got a busy ahead of me – we’re bottling up the first of a new malt, and the dogs are going to be stuck in the office.
At least this way they can have their fun while Georgia sucks all the joy out of my morning with whatever the latest requirements from the island tourist committee might be.
“Hit me with it.” I lean back against the Land Rover and cross my legs, folding my arms as well for good measure. “I’m braced.”
“Give me two secs. I need to grab the iPad and show you some figures.”
She dashes off towards the house, blonde ponytail swinging. Georgia’s a breezy, incredibly competent whirlwind who knows everyone here on the island. Massively overqualified for the job but working here in Benruar keeps her close to her mum, who has Multiple Sclerosis.
She does a very good job of keeping me at arm’s length from the general public, which suits me just fine.
“Okay,” she says a moment later. “As we speak, a coachload of visitors is on their way to Glen Mhor. They’ve got the shiny new tasting room, tartan uniforms” – I let out a snort of disgust – “and a marketing team,” Georgia continues with a disapproving look, “that’s churning out Instagram reels like they’re a Hollywood film production company.
Meanwhile…” She gestures at the courtyard.
“Yes, yes, I know,” I groan, “but the whisky speaks for itself.”
“That’s as may be,” says Georgia, “but it can’t be heard over the sound of all this.
” She waves her arm, still holding her apple.
“And your average tourist couldn’t care less about the peat levels in your ten-year-old malt.
They want photo ops. They want Heritage trails, and gardens to have a picnic and a visitor centre with interactive guides. And we’ve got none of that.”
I hate that she’s right. If we can’t convince the tourist office that we’ve got something worthwhile here, we’re losing out massively.
Distilleries are expensive to run, and bringing this one back from the brink has taken us to the danger point.
Renovating the stillroom took every penny we had, but it had to be done.
And I won’t ask Rory for backing even if he is the billionaire duke of Loch Morven, with half of Scotland in his property empire. It’s a matter of pride. I’ve managed this far on my own.
“Anyway,” Georgia says, clapping her hands, “the good news.”
“What have you signed me up for this time? The village hall improvement society? Some sort of quiz night?”
Her eyes widen. “After last time? No, I think we can both agree that you shouldn’t be allowed out in public. You’re a liability.”
“All I did was tell it like it is. He was an idiot.”
“He was a member of Parliament Finn, and you told him you wouldn’t give him a dram of your whisky if your life depended on it.”
I rub my chin, remembering. “He’s an asshole.”
“But he’s an asshole with power. Anyway,” Georgia says for the second time, “follow me.”
She leads me down the side path, pushing through the tangles of overgrown ivy that are choking the passageway. I follow behind her, bracing myself for whatever chaos she’s about to spring on me. And then I spot a wheelbarrow full of muck and weeds on the lawn.
“I thought you said the gardener you hired broke both her wrists?”
Georgia beams. “She did.”
“And I thought I was the unsympathetic one.”
“Oh, I’m not grinning because Amy has two broken wrists. I’m grinning because—” She does a little flourish, as if she’s pulled a rabbit out of a hat. We walk a little further down the path, the dew-wet rhododendron leaves slapping us in the face as we fight our way through.
“Look what I found,” Georgia says, proudly. “A gardener!”
I fold my arms as I take in what’s going on. We’re looking at a curvaceous bottom in a pair of denim overalls. Whoever it is, is bent double, cursing under her breath as she pulls with all her might against a stubborn root which is refusing to budge.
Georgia glances at me, a delighted expression on her face.
There’s a bark of delight from Jess and I turn, spotting her and Poll circling something in the undergrowth.
“Leave it,” I growl, and they slink back to me reluctantly. It’s only then that I realise what they were investigating – a mud-covered basset hound which is upside down, rolling in the dirt, and groaning in delight.
The gardener straightens, wiping her hands on her thighs, and my body catches on before my brain does.
“What are you doing, Flora?” she says, turning and lifting a hand to brush back the tangled curls that are falling around her heart-shaped face.
Her lips part as she looks up at me, eyes wide. I take it all in – the lush curves wrapped in a pair of muddy pink dungarees, the freckled arms, the way her chest lifts as she takes in a breath.
“Finn,” says Georgia, breaking the silence. “Meet Tilda. Our new gardener!” She looks at me with a Cheshire cat grin of pride. “Told you I had some good news!”
I widen my stance as if I’m preparing for battle.
“You have got to be joking.”
Georgia’s smile falters, her brows dipping in concern. She cocks her head in confusion.
Tilda’s hands are on her hips while she crooks a brow at me in a silent challenge. I look down the stretch of border she’s weeded, and it irritates me to admit that it looks noticeably better.
“Isn’t this amazing?” Georgia gushes, filling the uncomfortable silence. “She’s been hard at work since eight this morning. And look, I see the spaniels have met Flora already! This is perfect!”
“Perfect?” I grit out, watching as the hound rolls over onto her back with another delighted groan. My spaniels are perfect. Obedient, steady, reliable.
The memory of her soft body crashing against mine on the beach has been harder to shake than I’d like. And now she’s here, dungarees clinging to all the wrong places, hands on her ample hips as she stares defiantly at me like she has every right to be here and I’m the problem.
I drag my eyes away as the hound rights herself and lollops off across the lawn, and into the overgrown shrubbery, baying with excitement. The spaniels follow in hot pursuit without even a second glance at me. The bloody thing is leading them astray already.
“When you said a gardener, I assumed you meant someone qualified.”
Tilda narrows her eyes, taking a step toward me, and fisting her hands by her sides. Her brows raise slightly, her shoulders rigid with barely controlled temper.
“I am qualified. Not that it takes a genius to clear a mess like this,” she adds a second later. “You need a wrecking ball and a flamethrower, not a horticultural expert.”
Georgia eyes widen in surprise and then she grins. “She’s got a point.”
“You said you were hiring someone from the agency,” I say, my words icy.
“And you said don’t forget to make sure we tick the box and advertise it locally beforehand. So I did.”
“She’s not local.” I glare at Tilda, who is still standing opposite me with a scowl on her pretty face.
“I am,” says Tilda, at the same time as Georgia says, “Yes she is.”
I look from one to the other. “I find that highly unlikely.”
Georgia shoots a brief, panicked glance at Tilda that tells me everything I need to know. She hasn’t checked she’s qualified, let alone whether she fits the locals-first criteria that is baked into everything we do here.
“As it happens,” Tilda says, each word clearly enunciated, “I spent three years at Wisley with the Royal Horticultural Society. I’ll be sure to send you a copy of my certificate by email as soon as I finish work today.”
“Make sure you do,” I snap back. “Explain why you consider yourself a resident?”
“I live here. I saw the ad in the village shop, and here I am.”
Tilda’s eyes meet mine. Her expression is defiant, stubborn, and unmistakably furious.
I feel my cock twitching unexpectedly and turn away.
Why the hell I’m rising to the bait is beyond me.
The last thing I need is Georgia adding a firecracker into the mix when we’re already struggling to keep our heads above water.
“I can’t believe you doubted me,” says Georgia, flipping her hair over her shoulder and folding her arms. “As if I’ve ever let you down.”
“Fine,” I say, tossing the words over my shoulder as I stride back down the hill towards the stillroom.
I don’t have time to deal with drama right now.
“As you will, Georgia. I’ll be keeping a very close eye,” I warn Tilda.
“If your knowledge of gardening is anything like your appreciation of ecology, I suspect this will be a very brief encounter.”
I swear I hear something about sanctimonious arseholes as I walk away. The hound gives a yowl which echoes in my ears as I whistle the spaniels to heel. This is the last fucking thing I needed.