Chapter 2
Cameron
Sheep Drool and Real Estate Opportunities
I park in front of the cottage and check the time on my phone one last time.
Three o’clock sharp.
Perfect.
The Thorntons should be here any minute.
I climb out, shut the car door, and take a few seconds to study the cottage.
It’s exactly what I hoped it would be: picturesque without being run-down, secluded without being inaccessible, authentic without being unlivable.
The kind of property that practically sells itself...
As long as someone knows how to tell its story.
And telling stories just happens to be what I do best.
I walk around the property, mentally noting camera angles for the video I’ll shoot after the viewing. The light is perfect at this hour.
Golden.
Soft.
Ideal for my Imagine Your Life Here segment.
Mental notes:
Stone fireplace.
Bench beneath the window.
Unobstructed view of the hills.
A car appears at the end of the lane.
The Thorntons have arrived.
Straightening, I put on my professional smile—the one that says you absolutely made the right decision trusting me—and head toward them.
The couple climbs out of the car wearing an expression I know by heart:
Polite skepticism mixed with cautious hope.
He’s well into his sixties, wearing a wool sweater and a wary expression.
She’s softer somehow, already scanning the landscape as though searching for flaws.
“Mr. and Mrs. Thornton,” I say, extending my hand. “Cameron McGregor. Thank you for coming. I promise you won’t regret it.”
Mr. Thornton shakes my hand firmly.
Too firmly.
The kind of handshake designed to make it clear he won’t be charmed or manipulated.
Not that I intend to manipulate him.
“We’ll see,” he says simply.
His wife offers me a warmer smile.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, gesturing toward the hills. “We weren’t expecting it to be this isolated.”
I nod immediately, understanding the subtext.
It’s in the middle of nowhere.
“It is peaceful,” I agree as I lead them toward the cottage. “But that’s exactly what gives this place its value. You’re only twenty minutes from Glenfield, so all the shops and services are nearby, yet you live as though you have the world entirely to yourselves.”
Mr. Thornton grumbles something I don’t quite catch.
I wisely decide not to ask.
I open the cottage door—which I unlocked earlier to let some fresh air in—and allow them to enter first.
The interior is exactly what they told me they were looking for.
Small?
Absolutely.
Rustic?
Without question.
But warm.
Authentic.
Steeped in history.
Mrs. Thornton stops in the middle of the main room, gazing up at the exposed beams.
“It’s... small,” she observes gently.
Her husband adds, less gently:
“It’s very small.”
I don’t react.
I’ve heard this objection before.
“That’s true,” I agree, positioning myself beside the fireplace. “It isn’t a manor house. But this cottage has something most large homes don’t.”
They both turn toward me.
Waiting.
“A soul.”
Mr. Thornton raises an eyebrow.
“A soul?”
“This cottage sheltered four generations of MacLeods,” I explain, gesturing toward the fireplace. “That fireplace was built in 1887 by Old Man MacLeod himself. Stone by stone. He built it with his own hands because he never wanted his wife to be cold during the winter.”
Mrs. Thornton steps closer to the hearth, her attention suddenly sharpened.
“And that bench there,” I continue, pointing toward the worn wooden seat beneath the window, “that’s where the family sat every spring to watch over the lambs. Four generations of shepherds looked out across those hills from that very spot.”
I pause, allowing the image to settle.
“You aren’t simply buying walls, Mrs. Thornton.”
I let my voice soften.
“You’re buying a story. A legacy.”
She says nothing.
But I see the shift in her eyes.
Mr. Thornton, meanwhile, folds his arms.
“That’s all very poetic, but there’s damp in the walls, isn’t there?”
Of course there is.
It’s a Scottish cottage more than a century old.
But I’m not going to lie.
“There was damp,” I say honestly. “It was treated two years ago. The walls were repaired and the insulation redone. You can verify everything in the documentation. All the certificates are included.”
Mr. Thornton nods slowly.
He seems to appreciate the honesty.
Good.
“Roof?”
“Replaced five years ago. We preserved as much of the original slate as possible.”
“Heating?”
“Wood-burning stove in the main room. Electric radiators in the bedrooms. Efficient and economical.”
Another nod.
I can feel him beginning to soften.
Mrs. Thornton walks over to the window, gazes at the view, and murmurs:
“We could be happy here.”
Bingo.
I say nothing.
I simply let them absorb the place.
Rule number one:
Never talk when the client starts imagining themselves living in the property.
Mr. Thornton circles the room, knocking lightly on walls, checking windows, testing the floorboards.
His wife remains by the window, hands resting on the sill, staring out toward the hills.
Eventually, he turns back to me.
“We’ll think about it.”
“Of course,” I say with a smile. “Take all the time you need.”
But just as they prepare to leave, Mrs. Thornton turns to her husband.
“John... we could try.”
He looks at her, surprised.
“Try?”
“Yes. We’ve been looking for a place to retire for two years. We’ve visited dozens of houses. None of them spoke to us the way this one does.”
Mr. Thornton hesitates.
Then he smiles.
“Alright.”
He takes a breath.
“We’ll try.”
I suppress a victorious grin and nod with professional restraint.
“Perfect. I’ll send over all the paperwork this evening.”
We discuss a few final details before they leave, both of them visibly lighter than when they arrived.
I watch their car disappear down the lane.
Then I pull out my phone and open Instagram.
I still have an hour of golden light left.
Perfect for filming.
I frame the fireplace.
Then the bench.
Then the view from the window.
I shoot several clips, test a few transitions, and finish with a simple line:
The Highlands aren’t sold. They’re told.
After posting the video, I slide my phone into my pocket and climb back into my car.
Destination:
The Grumpy Sheep.
For a well-earned beer.
The pub is already busy when I walk through the door.
The familiar scent of beer and wood greets me immediately, along with the hum of conversation and several recognizable voices.
I spot Ewan behind the bar serving a pint to Old Angus, who appears to be grumbling about something incomprehensible.
Ewan looks up and nods at me as I settle at a table.
“Hey, Cam. I’ll get your usual.”
I nod.
As he moves behind the bar, he asks:
“Good day?”
“Very good. Better than good, actually.”
I grin.
“I just closed a sale.”
“Again?” he says, setting a beer in front of me before I even order. “Congratulations. You’re on fire lately.”
“Let’s just say I know my job.”
He smirks.
“Or you know how to tell stories.”
“Pretty much the same thing.”
Amused, he shakes his head and slides the pint toward me.
I lift the glass, ready to enjoy my well-earned first sip, when I feel something moving beneath my table.
I glance down.
Hamish.
The sheep is comfortably settled beneath my table and casually chewing on the cuff of my jeans.
I stare for several seconds, hoping I’m imagining it.
Nope.
Definitely Hamish.
Definitely eating my pants.
I look back at Ewan.
“How long has he been there?”
Ewan doesn’t even bother checking beneath the table.
He already knows who I mean.
“Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen.”
“And you didn’t think to mention it?”
He shrugs.
“I thought you’d noticed.”
I sigh.
Deeply.
“Hamish. Out.”
The sheep doesn’t move.
He keeps chewing as though I don’t exist.
I nudge him gently with my foot.
Nothing.
Hamish remains as immovable as a boulder.
“Come on.”
No reaction.
I bend down and try pulling lightly on his wool.
Mistake.
Hamish merely looks at me with an expression that clearly says:
You’re wasting your time, lad.
Several customers begin noticing the spectacle.
Mrs. MacTavish, seated at her usual table, smiles into her teacup.
“He seems perfectly comfortable where he is,” she remarks without looking up.
“Thanks, Moira.”
Leaning against the bar, Ewan watches with obvious amusement.
“Want some help?”
“Yes. Please.”
He walks over, bends down...
Then immediately straightens.
“Nope. Actually, I’m not helping.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hamish has decided he’s staying. If I try moving him, he’ll get stubborn. And a stubborn Hamish is worse than a settled Hamish.”
I stare at him.
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.”
I turn to the other customers in search of support.
Old Angus shrugs.
Moira merely smiles.
Even Finn—the village doctor and my cousin Mary’s boyfriend—looks up from a book in the corner and shakes his head with an expression that clearly says:
Don’t bother.
Defeated, I sit back down and take a drink.
Hamish continues peacefully chewing on my jeans.
From her table, Moira comments:
“Looks like he likes you.”
“Wonderful. I’m honored.”
This time Ewan laughs outright.
“That’s the Highlands for you, Cameron.”
Raising my glass with theatrical solemnity, I say:
“Cheers.”
I drink my beer with a sheep beneath my table while the entire pub watches in amusement.
It’s official.
My life is ridiculous.
But at least I sold a cottage today.
Half an hour later, Hamish still hasn’t moved.
I’m beginning to wonder whether he plans to spend the night here.
Ewan returns carrying a second beer I never ordered.
“On the house,” he says, setting it in front of me. “For emotional support.”
“Emotional support for what? Having a sheep as my best friend?”
“Exactly.”
I shake my head but take the beer anyway.
Ewan absently polishes a glass before looking at me with an expression I know very well.
The expression that means:
I’m about to bring up something serious while pretending it isn’t serious.
“By the way,” he says casually, “my cousin arrived this morning.”
I look up.
“Your cousin?”
“Yeah. The French one. Clementine.”
I nod.
Ewan has mentioned her before.
A Parisian, if I remember correctly.
I’m not sure why that concerns me, but I ask politely:
“How long is she staying?”
“A week, probably. She’s here to inspect a family property and then head back home. My grandmother decided to leave it to her.”
“What kind of property?”
Ewan hesitates.
“The old manor.”
At the edge of the village.
I frown.
The look he gives me tells me everything.
“That manor?”
He says nothing.
He doesn’t need to.
The silence confirms it.
Fraser Manor.
I sit up straighter immediately.
“Seriously? She inherited Fraser Manor?”
“Yes.”
For several seconds, I just stare at him.
Trying to process that information.
Fraser Manor.
The most mysterious property in all of Glenfield.
The place nobody wants to go near.
Not even at Halloween.
The place I would absolutely love to add to my listings.
And now an heiress has appeared.
A French heiress.
“Does she know about the rumors?” I finally ask.
Ewan sighs.
“No. Well... not really. She’s rational. Very logical. She doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
I can’t stop myself from smiling.
“She’s going to hear about them.”
“I know.”
“Quickly.”
“I know.”
For a moment we sit in silence.
The conversations around us continue peacefully, but I can tell Ewan still has something on his mind.
“You think she’ll want to sell?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“No idea. She just wants to deal with everything quickly and get back to France.”
I nod slowly, already considering the implications.
A French woman inheriting a supposedly haunted Scottish manor.
A rational woman confronting local legends.
An impatient heiress facing an unsellable property.
It’s...
Narratively perfect.
No.
Stop.
I am not turning this into a marketing concept.
Ewan studies me suspiciously.
“Cameron.”
“What?”
“Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“The face you make when you have an idea.”
“I do not have an idea.”
“Liar.”
Despite myself, I grin.
“Fine. Maybe a tiny idea. Nothing concrete.”
Resigned, he shakes his head.
“I’m warning you. She doesn’t want to be bothered. She just wants to handle everything in peace.”
“I understand. I’m not going to bother her.”
Ewan looks deeply unconvinced.
“Cameron.”
“What?”
“Promise me you won’t try selling her a concept tomorrow morning.”
I raise one hand solemnly.
“Promise. I’ll wait until at least noon.”
He sighs, though I can tell he’s fighting a smile.
Under the table, Hamish finally moves.
He slowly emerges, stretches like a king waking from a royal nap, and strolls toward the door.
Without a word, Ewan opens it for him.
Hamish disappears into the Scottish night.
I look down at my jeans.
A magnificent streak of sheep drool decorates the lower right leg.
Disgusting.
Ewan returns, arms folded, looking far too pleased with himself.
“You know what it means when Hamish picks you like that?”
“That I need new clothes?”
“No.”
His grin widens.
“It means you’re about to have an interesting week.”
I give him a skeptical look.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
He heads back behind the bar.
I shake my head, amused, and finish my beer.
Dropping a few bills onto the table, I stand and head for the door.
Outside, I glance toward the road leading to the edge of the village.
Somewhere out there in the darkness sits Fraser Manor.
A French cousin.
A haunted manor.
And a drooling sheep.
Sounds like the beginning of a joke.