I shake my head. Where the hell did that come from?
After dinner we try the cookies. Sweet, chewy... annoyingly good, really. Which only twists the knife about how I spoke to Blair earlier.
Even through bath time and the bedtime routine, Finn doesn’t stop talking about her. He’s full of plans for tomorrow: the library visit, art time, maybe another trip to the park. One day together, and apparently they’re best friends.
Christ. If this is what ignoring the schedule looks like, maybe it’s not as important as I thought.
When I finally get him settled in bed withThe Gruffalo, he’s still at it.
“Blair knows loads about books because she used to work with them. And she said?—”
“Finn.” I hold up the book. “Story time now. We can talk more about Blair tomorrow.”
He nods but fidgets against his pillow. “Da? Can you do the voices like Blair does?”
The question hits me in the chest, just like that Nerf dart earlier. I’ve been reading to this boy every night for years. And now, after one day with that American lass, apparently I’m not good enough anymore.
“Don’t you like the way I normally read them?” I say, probably more defensively than I should.
“I do, but Blair makes them sound so funny. The snake goes like this.” He attempts a hissing voice then bursts into giggles.
I force a smile and open the book. “Right, then. Let’s just read the story, shall we?”
But even as I start reading, my mind drifts. One day. She’s been here one bloody day, and already Finn’s looking at me like I’m a boring parent who doesn’t know how to make story time fun.
When I close the book, Finn goes back to chattering about what he and Blair are going to do tomorrow, and I have to cut him off.
“If you want to do all these fun things with Blair without getting grumpy, you’ll need your sleep. Time to stop talking and shut your eyes.”
I pace around the kitchen for ten minutes after putting Finn to bed, replaying the whole bloody mess in my head. The wayBlair’s face fell when I snapped at her. Finn shooting me with his Nerf gun...
Christ, I was an arse. She did something thoughtful, something that made my son happy, and I tore into her for making a mess. The right thing to do would be to apologise. Not my strong suit, but there it is.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m out the back door and walking the path to the granny flat. Light glows in the window. Right. Here goes nothing. I knock, maybe harder than necessary, but only because my nerves are getting the better of me.
“Just a second!” Blair’s voice is muffled through the door, then I hear footsteps.
The door opens, and Christ alive, I should have thought this through better.
She’s in her pyjamas: thin cotton shorts riding high on long legs and a top that clings to every curve and hollow, leaving nothing to the imagination. Her nipples are tight against the fabric, clear as day, and for a second I’m frozen. All higher brain functions go offline while my body reacts like I’m eighteen again.
Eyes up. Eyes up! For God’s sake, man, look at her bloody face!
But her face throws me too, because she’s gazing at me with a mixture of surprise and wariness, nothing like the easy warmth she showed Finn earlier. I’ve well and truly wiped that away.
“Lachlan.” She crosses her arms over her chest, probably trying for modesty, though all it does is draw my attention back to what she’s trying to hide. My throat goes dry. I force myself to look anywhere but there, scrambling to remember why I came out here in the first place.
“Didn’t think I’d be getting any visitors. You made it clear after four o’clock it’s just you, your son, and your dog.”
I nod dumbly, fighting the urge to stare at my boots like an awkward teenager. “Aye, well...” I swallow and focusdeterminedly on a spot just over her left shoulder. “Look, I just wanted to say... sorry. I was a bit off with you earlier.”
“No, you were crystal clear. You don’t want to come home to dishes, and I told you, it won’t happen again.”
“Aye, but...” I tap my knuckles against the doorframe. “I could have been a bit more polite about it.”
“Yeah, you could have.”
I catch a whiff of something floral—her shampoo, maybe.No, Lachlan, stop getting distracted.
