After a little while, a flicker of movement catches my eye, and I glance toward the back door to find Lachlan standing there,phone call apparently finished. He’s watching us, expression unreadable. How long has he been listening?
He steps back into the kitchen. “What did I say about grown-up business?” he asks Finn, but his tone is more resigned than annoyed.
“Sorry,” Finn mumbles, though he shoots me a smile that suggests he’s not sorry at all. “Blair knowsallabout dragons, Da.”
“Does she now?” Lachlan’s eyes flick to me—still impossible to read—then back to his son. “Off you go. Blair and I have to finish up here.”
Finn disappears down the hallway, and the kitchen is suddenly a whole lot quieter. As Lachlan sinks back into his chair, I remember Finn’s advice. Boats. Right, worth a shot.
“You know, I come from Staten Island,” I say. “I used to take the ferry every day for work. Finn mentioned you’re a ferry captain?”
“Aye,” Lachlan says. And that’s it. He doesn’t go off on some passionate monologue about boats the way his son did about dragons. He confirms his occupation and says no more. Shuts the conversation down. So much for my attempt at small talk. That sank fast.
I shift awkwardly. “Anyway . . .”
“That was my neighbour on the phone,” he says. “Flora. She usually helps with Finn, but she’s injured her wrist.” He studies me for a moment. “Flora knows everyone, so I asked her about Ellie at the library. She had her number, so after I finished talking to Flora, I gave Ellie a call.”
My stomach drops. Ididoffer him Ellie’s name as a reference, but I hadn’t expected him to check up on me quite so quickly, literally while the interview is still ongoing.
“She had nice things to say about you.”
Relief washes over me. “Oh. That’s good.”
He nods once then fixes me with that steady green stare. “Look, I’ll be straight with you. You’re the only person who’s applied. It’s two days till the summer holidays, and I’m out of options. Finn’s usually shy with folk he doesn’t know, but he wasn’t with you. He was blabbing away to you about dragons like you’ve been pals for years, and I reckon that’s as good a sign as any.”
He pauses, then adds, “So, if I’ve not scared you off, how about a trial? You can do Wednesday to Friday, then we’ll see where we’re at come the weekend. What do you think?”
I can’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth. After weeks of humiliation, it’s just nice to be offered a job, even one I never imagined doing before this morning.
“Wednesday it is, then,” I say. “I won’t let you down.”
I catch sight of Finn peeking around the doorway, still clutching that dragon. He gives me a thumbs-up and a grin that could light the whole room.
CHAPTER SIX
BLAIR
I pull up outside Lachlan’s house at seven forty-five the next morning, my hotel room key already returned and my suitcase stuffed in the trunk of the rental car. I climb out, and the morning air hits me like a slap of pure Scottish freshness, all crisp and clean like the world’s been powerwashed overnight. Everything glistens with leftover raindrops—the stone walls, the slate roof tiles, even the pebbles crunching underfoot. It’s the kind of morning that makes you want to take deep, cleansing breaths and declare yourself ready for a fresh start.
Which is exactly what I’m doing. Right? This is my fresh start. My new adventure. Not me running away from my problems to play nanny for a grumpy Scotsman and his adorable kid.
Definitely the fresh start thing.
Taking a deep breath of that impossibly clean air, I head to the front door and knock. After a moment, it swings open.
“Morning,” Lachlan says.
Oh, for crying out loud. He’s in a ferry captain’s uniform: navy trousers, crisp white shirt with actual epaulettes. Gone is the rumpled, scowling man from yesterday’s interview. In his place stands someone who looks like he stepped off the coverofNautical Monthlyor whatever magazine features unfairly attractive sea captains.
The uniform transforms him completely. The tailored fit emphasises his broad shoulders, the white shirt makes his green eyes even more striking, and there’s an authority to him now that does inconvenient things to my pulse. He looks competent. Professional. Commanding.
This is a problem. A big problem. I’m supposed to be working for this man, not ogling him like some lovesick teenager.
“You all right?” he asks, and I realise I’ve been staring like he’s a particularly fascinating museum exhibit.
“Fine! Yes. Good morning.” I give myself a mental slap. Get it together, Blair. “You look very... official.”
“It’s called a uniform,” he says drily.
