Okay. Less cottagecore dream, more meh than magical. But sure.
I throw the windows wide and let in the fresh sea breeze.
Right. I wanted a focus, didn’t I? Something to distract me from wallowing in my career implosion. Well, cleaning this place from top to bottom will definitely keep me busy.
Under the kitchen sink, I find a pair of gloves and some basic cleaning supplies. I dig my phone out of my pocket and fire up some music.
“Okay, Blair.” I roll up my sleeves, remove my rings—all five of them—and pull on the gloves. “You wanted an adventure. Time to make this place livable.”
As Taylor Swift starts singing about shaking it off—how appropriate—I grab a cloth and get to work. Not the peaceful morning of settling in I’d imagined, but hey. At least it’s keeping my hands busy and stopping me from doomscrolling job boards.
At half past twelve—and yes, I did text Ellie to confirm that “half twelve” means “half past twelve” and not some mysterious Scottish time concept—I take a break. My back aches, and I’m pretty sure I’ve inhaled enough dust to qualify as a human vacuum cleaner, but the place is starting to look, and smell, like somewhere a person might actually want to sleep.
I pull off the gloves, wash my hands, and head to the main house. Gus is waiting for me just inside the door, golden body wriggling with excitement. He springs up on his hind legs, front paws thudding into my ribs, tongue going straight for my face.
“Ugh! Seriously?” Grimacing, I twist my head away, but he still gets me square on the cheek.
Just great. Oh well, after a morning of dust and cobwebs, what’s a little dog slobber, right?
I push him down gently, and he sits, panting, tongue lolling.
“Okay, Gus. It’s confession time. During my interview yesterday, I might’ve oversold my love of dogs. Truth is, I don’t have much experience with your kind. But if you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you. Deal?”
He barks once, tail thumping the floor, and I decide that counts as a yes.
We head through to the kitchen, which is just as spotless and gleaming as it was yesterday—the polar opposite of the cobwebbed annex I’ve been battling all morning. Honestly, it’s hard to believe the same man owns both spaces. Credit where it’s due, though. Keeping a place this pristine while living with a six-year-oldanda golden retriever? Pretty damn impressive.
I spot Gus’s lunch bowl and leash on the counter—sorry, “work surface”—just where Lachlan said they’d be. But there’s something else waiting beside them. A roll of poop bags.
Oh God.
When I talked myself into this whole nanny gig—fresh start, roof over my head, something to occupy me—I somehow conveniently forgot about the less glamorous realities of dog ownership. Like the fact that dogs poop. And apparently, I’m expected to deal with it.
Gus, oblivious to my mini meltdown, dances in place. He clearly knows what time it is, and he can’t fathom why I’m taking so long to serve him.
I take the bowl and set it down on the floor. “Here you go, boy. Luncht—” He dives in before I can even finish the word, vacuuming up kibble like it’s his last meal on earth. Twentyseconds later, the bowl is spotless and he’s looking up at me expectantly.
“Wow, boy. Did you even chew any of that? Well, it’s walk time now, I guess.”
I pocket a few of the dreaded poop bags, clip his leash to his collar, and head for the front door.
You’ve got this, Blair. Picking up poop can’t bethatbad.
I’ve barely locked the door behind me when Gus explodes forward like he’s been shot from a cannon, nearly yanking my arm from its socket. The leash goes taut, and the next thing I know, I’m being dragged down the hill toward the beach.
“Whoa! Gus! Slow down!” I stumble, trying to dig my heels in, almost tripping over my own feet, and just barely avoiding faceplanting. It’s not until we hit the pebble beach that I manage to rein him in. Panting, I glance back at the descent I just took way faster than my legs ever agreed to. “Jesus!”
Considering how commanding and authoritative Lachlan looked in his uniform this morning, you’d think he could’ve at least trained his dog not to murder the nanny.
Once I’m reasonably sure my shoulder is still attached, I let Gus lead me along the beach. He’s in his element. Me? Not so much. Just as I’m starting to get the hang of things—leaning back against Gus’s enthusiasm, finding my balance on the shifting stones—he comes to an abrupt stop and assumes “the position”.
Oh, great. Here we go.
Sure enough, Gus does his business while I look away, giving him some privacy. Not that he’s bothered about modesty. When he’s done, he comes over to me and wags his tail proudly, like we’ve achieved something great together.
I eye the fresh pile with deep suspicion. This is not how I pictured my Scottish adventure. I’d imagined misty castles, dramatic cliffs, maybe even a kilt sighting or two. Not... this.
Still, a job’s a job. Wrinkling my nose, I pull a bag from the roll, crouch down, and scoop it up. Trying my best not to gag, I attempt to wrestle the bag into a knot.
