Chapter 13
Clementine
The Never-Ending Day
Cameron left an hour ago, and I keep catching myself smiling like an idiot every five minutes.
I shake my head and force myself to focus.
I have work to do.
A lot of work.
Meetings to attend.
Deadlines approaching.
My professional life continues, even if I’m currently trapped in the Highlands by order of my grandmother.
I head back into the living room, open my laptop, and settle as comfortably as possible into a chair that probably predates electricity.
That’s when I realize Hamish didn’t leave with Cameron.
The sheep is still here.
Right in the middle of the living room.
He’s stretched out on the rug as if he owns the place.
I get up and walk over to him.
He looks at me with what genuinely appears to be complete indifference.
“Hamish. You need to leave now.”
He blinks once.
Then turns his head toward the window.
“Hamish,” I insist. “Cameron left. You need to go home.”
No reaction.
I circle the room, throw the front door wide open, and return to stand in front of him, dramatically pointing toward the exit.
“Come on. Shoo. The door’s open.”
The sheep yawns.
Actually yawns.
As though my attempt to evict him is exhausting him on a deeply personal level.
“Fine,” I mutter. “We’ll do this another way.”
I head into the kitchen, grab a bag of carrots from the pantry, and return to the living room.
Bending down, I wave one beneath his nose.
“See this? Nice carrot. It’s yours if you go outside.”
Hamish doesn’t move a muscle.
I place the carrot on the floor, back away a few feet, then place another farther ahead.
Then a third.
I create an actual carrot trail leading directly to the front door.
Standing up, I admire my own ingenuity.
“There. Now all you have to do is follow the path.”
At last, Hamish gets to his feet.
A spark of hope flickers inside me.
He walks over to the first carrot.
Sniffs it.
Then eats it.
He moves to the second.
Devours it.
Then the third.
And then...
He calmly returns to the rug and lies down exactly where he started.
I stare at him.
Speechless.
“Are you kidding me?”
Hamish closes his eyes.
Fine.
Time for Plan B.
I crouch beside him and place my hands against his side.
He’s surprisingly solid.
And heavy.
Much heavier than I expected.
“Come on, Hamish. Let’s do this nicely.”
I push.
Gently at first.
Then harder.
Nothing.
Hamish has transformed into a block of organic granite.
If such a thing exists.
He doesn’t move an inch.
Trying to shift him feels like attempting to relocate a boulder covered in wool.
I change positions, stand up, and try lifting his hindquarters.
I pull.
I push.
I brace myself against him like I’m moving a particularly stubborn piece of furniture.
Hamish lets out a sound of protest that resembles an offended scream.
Immediately, I release him and throw my hands into the air.
“Sorry! Sorry! But you’re not giving me a lot of options here!”
I step back, breathing hard, hands on my hips.
A loose strand of hair has escaped my ponytail and fallen across my face.
I shove it away irritably.
Maybe I should call Cameron.
No.
Absolutely not.
What would I even say?
Hello, Cameron. Your sheep refuses to leave and has settled into my living room like it booked an Airbnb. Could you come collect him?
No.
Not happening.
I am not calling him for that.
I’ll handle this myself.
Like a responsible adult.
I glare at Hamish.
Hamish regards me with total indifference.
This standoff could continue indefinitely if I hadn’t happened to glance at the time displayed on my computer screen.
I shoot the sheep one final look.
“Fine. You win for now. But don’t think this is over.”
Hamish opens one eye, looks at me, then closes it again with what seems suspiciously like satisfaction.
I point an accusing finger at him.
“You’d better behave yourself.”
No reaction.
Naturally.
I let out a long sigh.
I have work to do.
I don’t have time to wage war against a sheep who’s decided to squat in my living room.
Okay, Clementine.
You’re going to share a house with a sheep for a few hours.
It’s not the end of the world.
Just...
Unusual.
I open my laptop, double-check that my webcam only shows my face and not the living room behind me—where a sheep is very much visible—and launch my video call.
Marie, my colleague back in Paris, appears on-screen wearing her usual smile.
“Hey, Clem! How are things in the Highlands?”
“Great. Quiet. Relaxing.”
The exact second I say relaxing, Hamish lets out an enormous bleat.
A very loud one.
Marie frowns.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“That noise. It sounded like—”
“A sheep? No, no. That was... the television. Neighbors. The sound carries in the wind. You know how windy it is here.”
Marie looks unconvinced.
Fortunately, she lets it go.
“Okay. Shall we go over the Mercier project schedule?”
I nod enthusiastically while shooting a murderous glare at Hamish, who has positioned himself in front of the window—directly in my line of sight—and is staring into the garden with unnerving concentration.
Marie starts discussing budgets, deadlines, and resource allocation.
I should be listening.
I should be taking notes.
I should be acting like a professional.
Instead, all I can think about is the fact that Cameron is coming back tonight.
At seven.
To work on our completely unreasonable plan.
And I have absolutely no reason to be this distracted by the prospect.
“Clem? Are you listening?”
I jump.
“Yes. Yes, of course. The budget. Resources. Absolutely.”
“I just asked whether you approved delaying phase three.”
“Uh... yes. Approved.”
Marie gives me a strange look.
“You sure everything’s okay? You seem... somewhere else.”
“I’m just tired. The time difference, you know.”
“There’s only an hour between Paris and Scotland,” she points out.
“Well, not the time difference exactly, since you’re right about that. It’s more the adjustment. Being away from home. I feel a little disoriented.”
I stop talking and bite my lip.
Brilliant, Clementine.
Absolutely brilliant.
Thankfully, Marie is too busy to press the issue.
The meeting continues.
I pretend to pay attention while staring at my screen with intense concentration.
Meanwhile, my mind is somewhere else entirely.
Should I tidy the living room?
Does the manor look presentable?
Will Cameron notice I spent an hour trying to evict a sheep?
“Okay, I’ll let you go,” Marie says at last. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Perfect. See you tomorrow.”
I close my laptop and leap to my feet.
It’s barely noon.
Cameron isn’t coming until seven.
That leaves me seven hours to...
Do what, exactly?
I glance around.
The kitchen is clean.
The living room is clean too, provided one ignores the sheep.
The bedrooms are tidy.
I shake my head.
Why would Cameron even go into the bedrooms?
Maybe I could just...
Optimize things a little.
I spend the next two hours trapped in a state of negative productivity.
I organize things that don’t need organizing.
Move objects from one place to another for no reason whatsoever.
The cushion on the sofa?
I move it left.
No.
Right.
Maybe center?
I fluff it.
Smooth it.
Reposition it.
Hamish watches me with an expression I could swear is exasperation.
“Visual harmony matters,” I tell him while adjusting the cushion for the fourth time.
The sheep makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like if you say so.
I move on to the stack of books on the coffee table.
I align them perfectly.
Then decide a fan arrangement would look better.
Then switch back to alignment.
Then remove them entirely and place them in the small bookshelf beneath the stairs.
I open the refrigerator.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The white wine is still there, obviously.
But maybe it isn’t chilled enough?
I move it to the top shelf.
Because offering someone a drink is polite.
That’s all.
Simple courtesy.
It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Cameron will be here.
I return to the living room and stop short in front of the cushion I’ve already moved five times.
Now it’s slightly crooked.
I reach out to fix it.
Then force myself to step back.
“No, Clementine. Stop. It’s a cushion. And this is just a work meeting. Strategic. Professional. Nothing more.”
Hamish looks at me with pure skepticism.
“What? It’s true!”
The sheep turns away and resumes staring out the window.
At three o’clock, I head upstairs and open my wardrobe.
What exactly does one wear while developing a fake village-manipulation scheme?
I pull out a pair of jeans.
Put them back.
Grab a darker pair.
Compare the two.
Lay them both on the bed.
Faded jeans: casual, approachable, but maybe too I made zero effort.
Dark denim: more structured, but potentially I’m trying too hard.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Dark denim wins.
Next come the tops.
Oversized gray wool sweater?
Perfect for saying I’m not here to impress anyone.
Also perfect for saying I’ve completely given up on romance.
White blouse?
Too formal.
Nobody plots a fake haunting in a white blouse.
Navy cashmere sweater?
Simple.
Elegant without being pretentious.
Comfortable without looking sloppy.
This is ridiculous.
You’re choosing an outfit like you’re getting ready for a date.
When this is a work meeting.
Nothing more.
I grab the navy sweater and pull it on.
Then I look in the mirror.
It works.
Neutral.
Professional.
Except the blue makes my eyes stand out.
Which is absolutely not the goal.
I take it off and put the gray sweater back on.
No.
Too depressing.
The navy sweater.
No.
Too...
I sigh and toss both sweaters onto the bed.
My bedroom now looks like a clothing store after a tornado.
Eventually, I settle on the dark jeans and the navy sweater.
And if the blue happens to make my eyes stand out, that’s purely accidental.
I head downstairs.
Hamish is fast asleep, his head resting on his front legs.
My phone rings.
Grandma.
Perfect.
Exactly what my already fragile nerves needed.
I answer while walking toward the kitchen, putting as much distance as possible between Hamish and the phone.
“Hi, Grandma.”
“How are you?”
“Very well. I’m working.”
“Excellent. I just wanted to check in. Are you settling into the manor?”
“Yes. Everything’s going fine.”
“Have you met people?”
I feel the trap slowly closing around me.
“A few people.”
“Anyone interesting?”
Cameron immediately appears in my mind.
The McGregor grandson is definitely interesting.
But there is no universe in which I’m admitting that to my grandmother.
Not because I’m embarrassed to talk about men I like.
Because she’ll immediately get involved and start planning our engagement.
“Grandma, where is this going?”
She laughs softly.
“Nowhere, sweetheart. I’m simply curious. Your mother says you seem... different lately.”
“Different how?”
“Less stressed. More present. It’s good to take time for yourself.”
I close my eyes.
My mother and grandmother clearly have too much free time if they’re analyzing my emotional state from hundreds of miles away.
“I’m just on vacation, Grandma. Of course I’m less stressed.”
“Hm. Except you’re still working remotely. And what about this young man, Cameron? Ewan told me that—”
“Ewan needs to learn when to keep quiet,” I mutter.
She laughs again.
“Ewan worries about you. We all do. You work too much, Clementine. You never take time to—”
That’s the exact moment Hamish chooses to make himself known with a long, impossible-to-ignore bleat.
Silence falls on the line.
“Clementine,” my grandmother asks calmly, “what was that?”
“A... bird.”
“A bird that bleats?”
I roll my eyes.
Why did I even try lying to my grandmother?
“Scottish bird. Very specific. Native species.”
“Clementine Fraser, do not take me for a fool. There’s a sheep near you.”
I sigh.
There’s no point lying to Catriona.
She possesses a supernatural ability to detect dishonesty from several countries away.
And honestly, who confuses a sheep with a bird?
“Yes. His name is Hamish. He belongs to the McGregor family. And he refuses to leave the manor.”
Another pause.
Then:
“You’re living with a sheep.”
“That wasn’t the plan.”
“Of course not. And Cameron McGregor wasn’t part of the plan either, I assume?”
Apparently she’s more interested in my hypothetical relationship with Cameron than the fact that a sheep has taken over the manor.
“Grandma...”
“I’m simply observing that you seem to have a very active social life in Glenfield.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Cameron is a real-estate agent. He’s helping me with the manor. It’s professional.”
“Of course. And the sheep is professional too?”
“The sheep is... an unforeseen complication.”
This time she laughs outright.
“My darling, I’m delighted you’re adapting so well. Keep it up. And send me photos of the manor. And the sheep. I can’t wait to tell your mother.”
“Grandma, no—”
“Too late. Love you. Have fun with your real-estate agent.”
She hangs up before I can protest.
I return to the living room.
Hamish is staring at me with what looks suspiciously like satisfaction.
“This is your fault,” I accuse him. “Now my grandmother thinks I’ve completely lost my mind.”
He yawns.
I collapse onto the sofa and glance at the clock.
Five-thirty.
Another hour and a half before Cameron arrives.
An hour and a half during which I will probably move the same cushion fifteen more times, check the refrigerator ten times, and mentally rehearse clever comments I’ll never actually say.
This is pathetic, Clementine.
Completely pathetic.
Judging by the way Hamish is looking at me, he seems to agree.
As though he can read my thoughts.
And really, what next?
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Okay.
Tonight Cameron is coming over to discuss strategy.
Anti-gossip strategy.
Village-legend manipulation strategy.
Nothing else.
Nothing.
Else.
Even if the thought of seeing him again makes my heart beat a little too fast.
Even if I spent two hours cleaning a living room that was already spotless.
Even if I changed sweaters three times.
It’s simply... professional anticipation.
Hamish lets out a sound that comes dangerously close to a snicker.
I get up, grab my recipe notebook, and head into the kitchen.
Opening it to a blank page, I write:
Recipe for Surviving a Strategic Evening with an Overly Charming Real-Estate Agent and a Squatter Sheep
Despite myself, I smile and begin writing.
Ingredients: one measure of self-control, two measures of professionalism, three pinches of denial.
The day is going to be long.
Very long.
But at least it ends at seven o’clock.
With Cameron’s arrival.
And the beginning of our completely insane plan.
I close the notebook and glance at the clock again.
Five-thirty-two.
Good grief...