“You don’t say.”
A sly grin tugs at his mouth. Sitting this close, I can’t help but notice details I’ve missed before: a touch of silver at his temples, ginger threads in his beard, the lines etched between his brows from years of scowling at the world.
“Not like you, of course,” he says. “You seem like the sort who can make friends with anyone. Humans, plants...” His gaze shifts to the windowsill. “Gerald, wasn’t it?”
“Hey, don’t mock Gerald. He was lonely at the shop, practically begging me with his little leaves. I rescued him.”
Smirking, Lachlan takes in the rest of the granny flat: the flickering vanilla candle, the cheerful throw draped across the bed, the postcards I’ve been collecting on my wanderings with Finn. “You’ve made this place homely.”
“No harm in giving a place a bit of personality, right? Unlike your house.” I arch an eyebrow. “No offence, but apart from Finn’s room, it looks like a show home. How long have you been there?”
“Four years. Before that, I was on Corraig.” He nods toward the window, where the island looms faintly on the horizon. “Grew up there. I moved here when...” He trails off.
I hesitate. Should I let it go? That’d probably be wise, but apparently I’m not wired for wise. “Finn’s mom?”
He nods. “We were childhood sweethearts. After she passed... well, I needed a change of scene. Couldn’t face staying on the island.”
The confession blindsides me. Lachlan’s a widower. That changes things. Explains the gruffness. Doesn’t excuse it—not entirely—but suddenly I see the man differently.
I’d assumed he was divorced. Why did I jump to that conclusion? Because it was easy to imagine his prickliness driving a woman away? Probably. But it might also have been because there aren’t any traces of a woman in his house. Nota single photo of his childhood sweetheart, Finn’s mom. Not that there are pictures of Lachlan or Finn up either—only Finn’s drawings on the cork board.
Some doors you barge through. Others, even I can see they should stay shut, at least for now. So I don’t dig into the absence of photos. Instead I tip my head and say, a little curiously, “Let me get this straight. You left Corraig for a change of scene, and yet you sail to it every day?”
“Aye.” His mouth twists ruefully. “Don’t worry, the irony isn’t lost on me.”
His phone buzzes on the table, the lock screen lighting up with a photo of Finn and his gap-toothed grin. Oh, that’s too sweet. Say what you like about Captain Grumpypants, he adores that kid. And Finn? He’s thriving. That’s all down to Lachlan.
“You can check that if you want,” I say.
“Och, it’ll just be Struan and Douglas, fellow single dads.” He taps the notification anyway, then smirks and turns the phone toward me. The screen shows a kids’ bedroom so buried in toys, I couldn’t tell you what colour the carpet is.
Douglas
Told them to play quietly. This is what I came back to after doing the dishes.
“Good God,” I say. “Forget bedtime. That’s a war zone.”
Lachlan’s phone buzzes again and another photo comes in. This one shows a little girl fast asleep in a perfectly neat room.
Struan
Meanwhile... like butter wouldn’t melt. Parenting is a breeze, eh, lads?
Lachlan’s lips twitch. “Struan only has his daughter at weekends, and she’s an angel. He likes to rub our noses in it, butit’s all good fun.” He sets his phone back down, and as he does, his gaze lands on my notepad. “Old school. Most people use a device these days.”
“Oh, that. Just dabbling with some story ideas. There’s something about the feel of pen on paper.”
“You write your own stories? Aye, that makes sense. Explains why Finn thinks you’re the greatest storyteller alive.”
The compliment warms my chest. “I’dliketo write my own stories,” I correct. “I’ve been brainstorming ideas but nothing’s grabbed me yet. I thought about doing something with dragons—Finn would love that—but I can’t think of a unique take. Besides, it has to appeal to me too, and honestly? Dragons don’t fascinate me nearly as much as they do a certain six-year-old boy.”
Lachlan nods then cocks his head and regards me like he’s turning over a puzzle piece. “Stories, publishing, nannying. Bit of a mix, eh? At the interview I never did ask why you left New York to come here.”
Ah. The dreaded question. I take another sip of Scotch—still awful, but maybe less so than before—and buy myself a second to think. “I needed a break,” I say carefully. “Publishing can be pretty cut-throat, and I... burned out. My grandmother passed away earlier this year, and she always told me stories about growing up here. She lived in the house your friend Douglas is in now. Coming to Scotland felt right somehow.”
All true. Just not the whole truth. I’m not ready to tell him about the app, the firing, the spectacular way my career went up in flames.
“Sothat’swhy you were peeking in Douglas’s window the first time we met.”
