Chapter 21
Clementine
Strategic Surrender and the Unlimited-Stay Clause
I’m sitting in the middle of the Fraser Manor living room, surrounded by papers and folders, and the silence is starting to weigh on me.
My grandmother asked me to complete a full inventory of the manor to finalize its valuation.
A concrete, methodical task.
Exactly the kind of thing that should reassure me.
I like order.
I like checking boxes and feeling as though things are moving in the right direction.
Except now, sitting in the middle of this room with my notebook open on my lap and my pen hovering above the page, I realize something is very wrong.
I need to move, because sitting still isn’t helping at all.
I get to my feet and leave the room.
Crossing the hallway, I push open the library door, notebook in hand, determined to make progress on this inventory.
It’s a room I haven’t really explored yet.
Large, paneled in dark wood, with a tall window overlooking the side garden.
Bookshelves line three walls.
An old reading chair occupies one corner.
I should be taking notes.
Dimensions.
Condition of the woodwork.
The room’s potential.
Move methodically forward and turn this space into data Cameron can use to finalize his valuation.
Instead, my pen hovers uselessly over the page.
Because instead of seeing a property to be assessed, I see something else.
I see what this room could become with different lighting.
Warmer lighting.
A room with life in it.
I picture a sofa with new cushions.
Maybe ochre.
Maybe deep navy blue.
I imagine the fireplace lit during winter, flames casting dancing shadows across the walls.
I see books neatly arranged on the shelves.
Books I would have chosen.
Organized by subject.
Or by color.
I haven’t decided yet.
I shake my head and force myself to write.
Chair matching sofa, sturdy frame, upholstery requires cleaning.
Then I move into the dining room.
Large solid oak table. Eight mismatched but functional chairs. Victorian sideboard with glass-front doors.
I stop in front of the table.
In my mind, it’s covered with an ivory linen tablecloth.
Handcrafted ceramic plates sit neatly arranged.
Candles glow softly.
A serving dish occupies the center, filled with something I cooked.
It wouldn’t be a formal dinner.
Just a simple meal.
For two.
Or more.
For friends.
For Ailsa, dropping by without warning.
Even for Maggie, who would stop in for tea and somehow stay for dinner.
I snap my notebook shut.
No.
Stop.
This is exactly the kind of ridiculous projection I cannot afford.
I head upstairs.
Maybe the bedrooms will be easier.
They’re more neutral.
Less emotionally loaded.
I open the first bedroom.
The one facing the hills.
Light streams through the window.
Beautiful light.
Soft.
Filtered through the low clouds drifting across the Highland landscape.
The kind of light I’ve learned to appreciate since arriving here.
I walk toward the window.
The view is unobstructed.
Perfect for watching the sunrise.
And before I can stop myself, my mind starts imagining again.
This room could become an office.
A real office.
Not just a makeshift workspace squeezed into a Paris apartment living room.
A large desk beneath the window to enjoy the view.
Shelves for my files.
A reading lamp in the corner.
A comfortable armchair for the moments when I need to think.
I move to the next bedroom.
The one overlooking the back garden.
Smaller.
More intimate.
The light here is softer.
I could turn it into a guest room.
My mother would stay there when she came to visit.
Because she would come.
Of course she would.
She would adore this manor.
She would find the place romantic.
She would tell me I’d become Scottish without realizing it.
I freeze in the middle of the room.
When she came to visit.
Not if.
When.
As though I’ve already decided I’m staying.
I hurry downstairs.
Notebook in hand.
Pen tucked between the pages.
Back to the living room.
I sit down exactly where I was before and reopen the inventory.
Built-in bookshelf. Dark wood. Five shelves. Currently empty, but I could fill it with my cookbooks, obviously, and my novels. Maybe a few books about Scotland, the Highlands, local history—
I strike through the line and rewrite it.
Built-in bookshelf. Dark wood. Five shelves.
Period.
No projections.
I continue.
Floor lamp. Cream fabric shade torn on one side.
Yet in my head, the lampshade is already repaired.
Or replaced.
Something more modern.
Elegant but not overly formal.
Something that wouldn’t clash with the character of the house.
I set my pen down.
I look around.
And finally admit the truth.
I’m no longer inventorying a property.
I’m mentally decorating a home.
My home.
With a sigh, I stand once more.
Cross the living room.
Walk through the hallway.
Push open the kitchen door.
The large kitchen.
Its old cabinets.
Stone countertops.
Windows overlooking the back garden.
I lean against the counter.
This kitchen.
This ridiculous kitchen.
I think this is where everything started to go wrong.
The first time I cooked here.
The first time I opened my recipe notebook and wrote Highland Stew as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
As though I already belonged here.
I stare out at the garden.
It’s completely neglected.
But I can already see what it could become.
A vegetable garden on one side.
Not huge.
Just a few carefully maintained beds.
Herbs near the kitchen.
Thyme.
Rosemary.
Sage.
Maybe parsley.
Tomatoes in summer if the climate cooperates.
Squash in autumn.
And farther back, near the stone wall, maybe a small flower patch.
Nothing extravagant.
Just enough color.
I abruptly turn away from the window and leave the kitchen.
No.
No, no, no.
I can’t do this.
I can’t turn every room in this manor into a projection of a life I’ll never have.
Back in the living room, I gather my papers.
Put away my pen.
Close the notebook.
The inventory is finished.
Well, no.
Not remotely finished.
But I can’t continue right now.
Not in this frame of mind.
I sit on the sofa and bury my face in my hands.
What is happening to me?
I came here with a clear objective:
Settle the inheritance.
Decide whether to sell the manor.
Go back to Paris.
Simple.
Logical.
Exactly what was supposed to happen.
And now I’m imagining vegetable gardens and guest rooms and bookshelves filled with my books.
It’s Cameron’s fault.
No.
That isn’t fair.
It’s my fault too.
I agreed to play this ridiculous game.
I agreed to pretend.
I agreed to put on a performance for the entire village.
Except I’m not pretending anymore.
I’m not even sure when it changed.
Maybe at the market.
Maybe at dinner with the McGregors, when he complimented my stew and I felt that ridiculous warmth spread through my chest.
Maybe yesterday at Dunbar Cottage, when I mentioned rosemary and thyme without thinking and he looked at me as though he’d just realized something important.
Or maybe it happened earlier.
Maybe from the very first day.
When he walked into this manor with his smile and his marketing metaphors and somehow transformed my panic into something manageable.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table.
Cameron
How’s the inventory going?
I stare at the screen without answering.
What exactly am I supposed to say?
Great. I realized I don’t want to sell the manor anymore and I’m probably falling in love with you, but other than that everything’s fine.
Another message arrives.
Cameron
If you need help with the upstairs rooms, I can stop by.
I type a reply.
Clementine
I’m fine. I’ve got it.
Then I delete it.
Type again.
Clementine
Can we talk?
Delete that too.
I put the phone down.
Talk about what, exactly?
What I’m feeling?
My ridiculous projections about a manor I’ll probably sell?
The fact that I no longer have the slightest idea what I want?
I stand again.
Slowly walk around the living room.
Taking in every detail.
The sofa I want to keep.
The shelves I want to fill.
The fireplace I want to see lit.
This manor should be nothing more than a property.
A cumbersome inheritance.
A problem to solve.
But it’s become something much bigger than that.
It has become a place where I could live.
A place where I could cook, work, and host friends.
A place that could become home.
And that terrifies me because it implies so many things.
Leaving Paris.
Changing my entire life.
Turning fantasies into actual decisions.
It also implies a serious relationship with Cameron.
Because in every one of my ridiculous projections, he’s there.
Not physically standing in every room.
But present all the same.
Like an obvious fact.
Like someone who belongs in that future.
And I don’t know whether that’s just romantic projection or something real.
I don’t know whether what I feel for him is simply the excitement of a fake relationship that got out of hand, or something deeper.
I don’t know whether he feels the same way or if he’s simply a very talented actor.
I don’t know anything.
And it’s driving me insane.
Me, who loves control.
Me, who loves plans.
Me, who likes knowing exactly where I’m going and how I’ll get there.
Right now, I’m completely lost.
I hear the sound of an engine outside.
I rush to the window.
It’s him.
Cameron climbs out of his car and heads toward the front door with determined strides.
My heart performs some kind of somersault inside my chest.
At least that’s what it feels like, even though I know that’s biologically impossible.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Clementine? Are you here?”
I take a deep breath before walking over and opening it.
He’s standing on the front step, hands in his pockets, looking slightly concerned.
“You didn’t answer my messages. I thought maybe...”
He stops when he sees my expression.
I gesture for him to come inside and close the door behind him.
Once we’re in the living room, Cameron turns toward me.
“Are you okay?”
No.
I’m not okay.
Nothing is okay.
But I can’t tell him all that.
I should tell him everything’s fine.
That the inventory is progressing.
That I’ll soon be ready to finalize the valuation.
That everything is proceeding according to plan.
Instead, I can’t bring myself to lie.
“I think I have a problem,” I whisper.
His brow furrows.
“What kind of problem?”
“The kind where I think I don’t want to leave anymore.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Cameron stares at me.
For two full seconds, I think he stops breathing.
Then again, maybe it’s my own breath that’s trapped in my throat.
“You... what?”
I gesture vaguely toward the room behind me.
“The inventory. I can’t do it. Because every time I write something down, I don’t see a property anymore. I see... something else.”
“Something else like what?”
“Like a place I could live. Like a home.”
He moves farther into the room.
Slowly.
As though he’s afraid any sudden movement might shatter everything.
“How long have you felt this way?”
“I don’t know. Maybe from the beginning. Maybe since yesterday at the cottage when I talked about rosemary and thyme without thinking. Maybe since I started writing recipes with Highland in the title.”
I turn to face him.
“I came here with a simple, clear, logical plan. And now...”
“And now?” he prompts.
His gaze never leaves mine, and every inch of my body feels charged with electricity.
“And now I don’t know if that’s what I really want anymore.”
Cameron remains silent.
“And if it isn’t what you want,” he asks softly, “then what is?”
I take a deep breath.
“I think I want to stay.”
The words are out.
Hanging between us.
Impossible to take back.
Cameron doesn’t move.
He keeps staring at me as though trying to decipher something important.
“For the manor?” he finally asks.
Do I want to stay for the manor?
Or for something else?
For someone?
I look at him.
His green eyes.
His unreadable expression.
His hands still buried in his pockets, as though he needs them occupied to stop himself from doing something reckless.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I think it’s both. The manor and... everything else.”
“Everything else?”
I have to say it.
Now.
Before I lose my nerve.
“You. The everything else is you.”
Silence returns.
Even heavier than before.
Cameron pulls his hands from his pockets.
Takes a step toward me.
“Clementine...”
I raise a hand to stop him.
“Wait. Let me finish. Because if I don’t say it now, I don’t think I ever will.”
He stops.
Waits.
“At first, it was just a game. A ridiculous plan to deal with the village rumors. We were pretending. Playing roles. And I told myself I didn’t mind because it was temporary and because I knew exactly where it was going.”
I inhale slowly.
“But I’m not pretending anymore, Cameron. I don’t even know when I stopped pretending. And that terrifies me because I don’t know whether you’re still pretending or if...”
He interrupts me by stepping closer.
His hands settle on my shoulders.
He studies me with an intensity that steals the air from my lungs.
“I’m not pretending either,” he says. “Actually, I don’t think I ever pretended with you.”
My heart performs that strange impossible movement again.
The one only Cameron seems capable of causing.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“But—”
“Maybe we should stop analyzing everything for five minutes,” he suggests with a half smile. “And just... see what happens.”
I look at him.
This Scottish real estate agent with his marketing metaphors and contagious enthusiasm and his remarkable ability to turn every one of my carefully constructed plans into chaos.
And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t want to make a plan.
I just want to see what happens.
“Okay,” I say.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. We stop analyzing and see what happens.”
He smiles.
“For the record,” he says, “if you stay, I’m going to have to completely redo my valuation of the manor.”
Despite everything, I laugh.
“Why?”
“Because a house occupied by someone who loves it is worth a lot more than an empty one.”
“Is that an official real estate rule?”
“No. Just my professional opinion.”
There’s something in the way he’s looking at me that makes me want to close the remaining distance between us.
To stop calculating.
To stop planning.
To make the first move.
So I do.
I step closer.
And so does he.
And somewhere deep inside the manor, I hear Hamish bleat.
Because of course that sheep has decided this is the perfect moment to announce his presence.
Cameron bursts out laughing.
“His timing is unbelievable.”
“He squats in the manor every chance he gets, but I didn’t even know he was here today.”
“Actually, I sent him.”
I stare at him.
“What?”
“I’m kidding. Hamish does whatever he wants. Nobody controls him.”
“Clearly.”
We stand there in the middle of the living room, surrounded by unfinished inventory papers, with a sheep somewhere in the background and a haunted-couple legend that has spiraled far beyond our control.
And I find myself thinking that this is the most perfect kind of chaos.