The address leads me to the very edge of town, where the road simply stops and open country takes over. I park beside a low stone wall and step out.
Wow.
The house sits alone on a gentle rise, a solid stone cottage with slate-grey roof tiles and white-painted window frames that gleam in the late-afternoon sun. It’s beautiful, but what really catches my breath is the view. From here, I can see across the water to what must be the island the ferry travels to—dark against the horizon, with smaller rocky outcrops scattered around it like stepping stones. The sea shifts with colour, silver-grey where clouds throw shadows and deep blue where the sunlight breaks through. Far off, the white wake of a boat slices across the surface.
Holy crap, this is gorgeous. If I got this job, I’d wake up to this every morning.
Behind the main house sits a smaller building, and I wonder if that’s the “live-in accommodation” mentioned in the ad. It’s basically a tiny house in its own right, with a view that would cost a fortune back home.
I could definitely see myself here for a month or two. Making breakfast in that little place, watching the ferry come and go, learning to appreciate the slower pace of life. It would be likestepping into a different world from the one I left behind in New York.
Okay, Blair. Time to make a good first impression.
I fix my curtain bangs, which the sea breeze has already started rearranging, and check my reflection in the car window. Presentable enough. I’ve gone for casual but responsible—dark jeans, a soft blue sweater, and my most comfortable boots. The kind of outfit that says “trustworthy with children”, or so I hope.
Earlier, I shot Ellie a message, pushing back our walk. We can chat by the harbour later. For now, I have to talk someone into trusting me with their kid. And their dog.
I walk up the path to the front door—painted red, the only splash of colour against the grey stone—and take a deep breath. This is it. My chance at a fresh start, at something completely different from the disaster I left behind.
I ring the doorbell and wait, mentally rehearsing my opening lines.Smile, I tell myself.Be warm but professional, emphasise your experience with children’s books and how that translates to understanding kids.
The door swings open, and my smile freezes on my face.
Standing in the doorway is the grumpy man who confronted me outside Granny’s old house. The one who accused me of invading his friend’s privacy and made snide comments about Americans tracing their roots.
“You again?” So, he’s recognised me too. “What, are you here to peer inmywindows now?” Then realisation dawns in his green eyes, the same ones I found irritatingly attractive during our last encounter. “Christ. You’re not Blair, are you?”
He doesn’t need me to answer him. My face says it all. Yes, Iamthe woman he’s been texting about the nanny position.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.
“I—” My brain has apparently decided to go on strike because no other words follow. I don’t know what to say. I wasn’texpecting the nanny ad to lead me to this man, the only person in Ardmara who’s allergic to friendliness.
Before I can form a coherent response, a golden blur barrels past his legs. The dog from the other day—tail thrashing, tongue lolling—launches at me like I’m his long-lost best friend. He plants his paws on my chest, stretching up to lick my face.
“Oh! Uh, hi there, boy.” I give his head a tentative pat, trying not to flinch. “You’re very... enthusiastic.”
The man watches with barely concealed scepticism. “Gus, down.” The dog drops back to all fours, tail still thumping.
“Good dog,” I say weakly, giving him another pet. “I love dogs. Absolutely love them.”
Judging by the look on the man’s face, he doesn’t buy it. Can’t blame him.
This is a disaster. I should leave. And yet for some reason my feet stay put, as if I can still salvage this train wreck.
“So . . .” I say. “You’re Lack-lan?”
“Lachlan,” he corrects, pronouncing it with that throat-clearing sound Scots use inloch. I give it another go and end up sounding like I’m choking on a cracker. He rolls his eyes. Of course he does.
Right. I’m normally an optimistic person—or at least I was before a certain AI app turned my world upside down—but even I know when to cut my losses. It’s time to go. This was a bad idea.
“Sorry,” I say, stepping back. “This obviously isn’t going to work, so I’ll get out of your hair.” I spin on my heel and walk off.
There’s a pause, a reluctant exhale, then Lachlan calls, “Wait!”
I turn back. He looks like he’s wrestling with himself.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m knackered, not an arsehole. Well, not always.” He scrubs a hand through his dark-brown hair. “Seeing as you came all the way here, why don’t youat least come in, have a coffee, and hear a bit more about the position?”
