“Uh, yeah. He’s nice enough.” I leave out the part about Scotch and candlelight. Some things my parents don’t need to know.
We chat a little longer before saying our goodbyes and promising to speak soon, then end the call. I put on the kettle to make myself a tea—I reallyamgetting the hang of life in Scotland—then glance through the scribblings in my notebook as it boils. I’ve already written down my story’s title,The Otter and the Boy. Now to actually write the story itself.
One thing, at least, is clear. Today’s trip to the standing stones made it click. The very best children’s stories always have a touch of magic, even when they’re otherwise rooted in the real world. Mine is going to be no different.
Time to get comfy. Tea, pyjamas, notebook, and a writing sprint.
I yank the curtains closed—just for privacy, it’s still light out—then peel off my jeans, unhook my bra, and toss it onto the chair. Bliss! After a whole day strapped in, a little boob freedom is proof that happiness really is found in the small things. I glance down. And, yep, they really are small things. But perky. Cute, even. Ellie’s are like the Highlands, majestic and impossible to ignore. Mine are more like a “wee glen”. Petite, but still worth the hike.
The kettle clicks off. Okay, tea first, pyjamas later. I pad over, pour the hot water into my mug, dunk the teabag, and breathein the steam. Look at me, practically a local. All I need now is a tartan blanket and a shortbread addiction.
When I turn back toward the bed, something catches my eye. A thin stripe of daylight glows where the curtains don’t quite meet. Oh. Should probably fix that.
I cross the room and reach to tug the fabric together?—
And freeze.
Because outside, Lachlan is trudging toward the trash can, a black bag slung over one shoulder, and he’s just noticed me.
Our eyes meet. His go wide. Then his gaze drifts down and the bag slips from his grip and hits the ground with a dull thud. Because apparently my boobs have the power to halt a grown man in his tracks. Who knew?
I yelp and dive out of sight, skin on fire, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
My dignity has officially joined the trash bag on the ground outside.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LACHLAN
I sit on the edge of my bed, mug of coffee in one hand, half-eaten slice of toast in the other.
Can’t stop thinking about last night. About her. About what I saw through that bloody gap in the curtains.
I shouldn’t be thinking about it. Definitely shouldn’t be thinking about the curve of her small breasts, or how her rosy nipples looked in the evening light...
“Stop it,” I mutter, setting down the mug harder than necessary. Coffee sloshes onto my bedside table.
I’m her employer, for Christ’s sake! She’s here to look after my son, not to star in whatever dirty film my brain is playing. It was an accident. She was mortified. And I bloody well should be too. Shouldnothave lain awake all night replaying it like some randy teenager.
I finish my toast then stand and tug down my pyjama shorts. Time to get dressed, except my body has other ideas. My cock is stubbornly stiff, threatening to turn the simple act of getting dressed into a bloody obstacle course.
I glare down at the problem like it’s personally insulted me.
“I’m her boss, you daft prick,” I tell it sternly.
But apparently my cock doesn’t give a damn about professional boundaries.
I manage to wrestle my boxer briefs on, though it’s more of a struggle than it should be. Then come the trousers. I get them up easy enough—sort of—and then I get my shirt on. But when I try to do up the button of my trousers, there’s no chance. Bloody thing won’t reach. My cock is still refusing to play by any rules except its own.
I suck in my gut and try again. Still nothing. I twist sideways, yanking at the waistband like maybe sheer force will help me win this particular battle of willpower versus anatomy. My elbow smacks the lamp, nearly toppling it.
“Brilliant,” I mutter. Nothing like starting your day by fighting your own bloody trousers—and losing.
This is ridiculous. I’m supposed to be the captain of a ferry, and I can’t even control my own body? I don’t have time for this nonsense. I can’t be late.
Think about something else. Paperwork. Tide charts. Weather reports. The bloody boring safety briefing I have to give every morning.
