Well, that’s denial off the table. We all glance towards the pit, where Rosie and Logan—miniature versions of Douglas with the same flaming hair—are pelting balls at each other, as well as at any poor kid who stumbles too close, while laughing their heads off. A couple of younger children watch on from a cautious distance, wide-eyed. Their mothers, meanwhile, pin us with the look that says, “Are you going to step in or what?”
Finn hovers at the edge of the pit, eyes lit up at the sight of the twins’ carnage.
“Oi, Finn,” I warn. “Don’t even think about it.”
He grins sheepishly and ducks back into the tunnels.
Douglas sighs and raises his voice. “Logan! Rosie! The balls are for sitting in, not throwing. Pack it in.” Then, to Isla: “Thanks for telling us, Isla.”
She nods and skips back into the fray.
Douglas catches my eye and jerks his chin at Struan. “All right for some, eh? One kid, he’s only got her at weekends, and she’ssane. How the hell is that fair?”
“Tell me about it,” I say, standing. Not that I’d trade Finn for anything. “Right, I’ll grab a coffee and some juices for the kids. You two for more caffeine?”
A few minutes later I’m back with a tray. The four kids barrel over, flushed and sweaty, down their cartons in seconds, then tear straight back into the mayhem.
“Meant to say, Douglas, I caught some American lass peering into your front window when I was walking Gus. Face right up against the glass. No sense of boundaries, some of these tourists.”
Douglas barely reacts. I suppose when you’re raising twin tornadoes, a window-peeper probably doesn’t even register on your list of daily trials. Struan, though, perks up, eyes lighting with interest. “An American lass, you say? Was she fit?”
“Didn’t notice.”
“Which means yes,” Struan says with a grin.
I shoot him a look. “Which means I was too busy fuming at her complete lack of manners to notice anything else.”
“Ah, come on, Lachlan. You’re not blind. Tall? Short? Blonde? Brunette? Give us something to work with here.”
Despite myself, my mind drifts back to the encounter. She was tall—probably up to my nose—with straight blonde hair grazing her shoulders, and pale blue eyes that went wide when I told her to back off. Looked all guilty until she snapped rightback at me. Had slim curves in all the right places, that one. And these long legs that?—
Christ. I shake my head, annoyed with myself for even thinking about it.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because some of us still remember what it’s like to appreciate the finer things in life,” Struan says with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Besides, it’s tourist season. Fresh faces, new possibilities...”
I shake my head. Trust Struan to try to turn a privacy invasion into a hook-up opportunity. He sees them everywhere. Douglas and I just see laundry piles and empty lunch boxes.
“Anyway,” Struan says, leaning back, “don’t you have bigger things to worry about than nosy tourists? Like who’s going to watch Finn when the summer holidays start next week?”
I grimace. “Don’t remind me. Three more days of school, then he’s off for six bloody weeks.”
Turns out Flora did hurt herself when she tripped over Gus. Fractured her wrist, in fact. No way she can look after a six-year-old all summer.
“I’ve tried everything. Clubs are full, childminders too. Thought I had a university student lined up—home from Edinburgh for the summer—but she’s taken a job in France instead. Can’t really blame her. But with most folk in town run off their feet for tourist season, nobody’s sitting around waiting to be my last-minute saviour.”
Struan drums his fingers on the table. “So advertise for a nanny. Stick a note in shop windows, post on the community Facebook. Offer them the granny flat. Someone passing through will bite.”
The so-called granny flat isn’t really a flat at all, just a wee self-contained unit behind my house. It’s been sitting empty since I moved in, gathering dust.
“Aye, brilliant,” I say with a snort. “Invite a stranger to live in my back garden.”
Douglas shrugs. “Better than no childcare at all.”
I huff out a breath. Much as I hate to admit it, they’re right. What choice do I have?
CHAPTER FIVE
