Plus, she’s clearly already had a positive impact on Finn. There’s something about him tonight—more confidence, more chatter, more of everything. And aye, I get it. A pretty American lass giving him her undivided attention day after day? That’d put any boy in a good mood.
I’ve not exactly been great at welcoming Blair, but maybe I could start by being less of a monosyllabic bastard. Ease off, just a little.
“Sounds like you two have crammed a lot into three days,” I say. “And Vikings, eh? Did you know they made themselves at home on these shores for a few hundred years?”
Blair’s eyes brighten. “Really?I wonder if any of their descendants are still around. Anyone in this town grumpy, gruff, and fond of travelling by boat?”
Finn snorts with laughter, nearly choking on his spaghetti. “That’s you, Da!”
I shake my head, but damned if a reluctant smile doesn’t tug at my mouth.
The laughter dies down, and for a minute we’re all busy with our plates. Then Finn, out of nowhere, looks at Blair and says, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Wow, where didthatcome from?
Blair chuckles. “Uh, no. No boyfriend.”
“Why not?” Finn probes.
“Finn,” I say. “That’s not something you ask.”
“Oh.” He shrugs and gives Blair an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologise.” Blair gives him a smile back, the same one Finn told me the other day he likes. Warm, bright, too bloody easy to look at.
And damn if I’m not more interested than I should be in Blair’s declaration that she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Unhelpfully, an image flashes through my mind—Wednesday night, Blair at the door of the granny flat, those skimpy pyjamas clinging to her body, the outline of her nipples clear through the thin fabric. My pulse quickens, and a flush of heat crawls up my neck.
Christ, Lachlan. She’s the nanny. You’re her employer. What the hell is wrong with you?
I focus on my plate, twirling my spaghetti like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Finn’s chatter fills the silence, butI’m only half listening, too busy telling myself off for letting my head go where it bloody shouldn’t.
After we’re all done, I waste no time collecting our dishes and dumping them by the sink. “All right, lad. How about you and me watch a bit of telly before we start the bedtime routine, eh?”
Finn nods enthusiastically. “Can Blair stay too? And can she do my story tonight? She’s so good at it.”
His words land like a kick in the gut. Bedtime isourthing. My one constant with my boy, no matter what else the day throws at us. And now he wants her instead?
But before I can say anything, Blair steps in. “Oh, I’d better get going, but I’ve had the best time with you today, Finn. Besides, we both heard your dad’s dragon impression earlier. He can do voices when he wants to. So tonight, when you’re snuggled up in bed for a story, you tell him, ‘Da, you have to do the voices, forallthe characters.’ Okay?”
Finn giggles and glances my way. “Will you do the voices, Da?”
Well, shite. I don’t know whether to feel grateful to Blair for excusing herself, or annoyed at this sneaky wee move. How’s a father meant to keep his son’s respect when he’s squeaking like a mouse or shrieking like a frightened princess?
Still, Finn’s so tickled by the idea that all I can do is say, “Aye, fine. I’ll give it a shot.”
Finn is delighted. I shoot Blair an unamused look. She smiles right back at me, fluttering her eyelashes with mock innocence.
Bloody woman.
CHAPTER TEN
BLAIR
I’m back in the granny flat, changed into my pyjamas—soft cotton shorts and a matching top—and still a little bemused by how well today turned out. Who knew an afternoon of forts and dragon battles with a six-year-old could leave me grinning hours later? And his grumpy father actually joined in. That part still makes me shake my head.
At the little table by the window, I sit with a candle flickering beside me, its warm vanilla scent filling the air. It’s just for vibes, not visibility. The sun takes forever to set here.
Pen in hand, notebook on the table, I’m mulling over possible story ideas. There’s something about this place—the wild Scottish coastline, the tightknit community, the slower pace of life—that’s got my creative juices flowing. I’ve always wanted to write my own stories. Back in New York, between manuscript deadlines and acquisition meetings, there was never time, but I told myself I’d get to it someday. When things slowed down. Well, I have time now, but none of the ideas I’ve come up with so far feel right. None of them make me think,Yes, this is the story I need to tell.
