The living room beyond carries the clutter of real life. A sagging couch faces the fireplace, flanked by a jumble of toys that haven’t made it back into their box, while a lopsided Lego tower sits proudly on the coffee table. Not a show home by any stretch, but it’s got a comfortable, lived-in feel. I try to pictureit years ago when Granny was young, maybe with different furniture and?—
“Oi! Get away from there.”
I jerk back from the window and spin around to find a man striding up the path toward me. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair falling into eyes that aren’t the least bit friendly. There’s a rough, outdoorsy edge to him, like he spends his days under open skies, not hunched over a laptop in a Starbucks. If he didn’t look like he’d happily toss me into the harbour, I might even call him handsome. At his side, a golden retriever wags and prances at the end of its leash, radiating a joy its owner clearly doesn’t share.
“I’m so sorry, I?—”
“Ah. American. That explains that,” he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. Then, louder: “You do realise people actually live their lives in this town, right? We’re not just tourist attractions to be gawked at. How would you like it if I pressed my face against your living room window?”
My cheeks blaze. “Oh my God, I... I really am sorry. Is this your house?”
“No, it’s my mate’s, and I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate someone peering in at him, or at his kids. The man deserves a bit of privacy.”
The golden retriever chooses this moment to strain forward, tongue lolling out, desperate to reach me with what’s clearly an agenda of face-licking and slobbery affection. I instinctively retreat a step, which only makes the dog more determined until his owner gives him a firm tug back.
“I wasn’t—this was—my grandmother—” I’m flustered and tired, and the words don’t come out right.
The man shakes his head, and I catch a flash of green eyes that would be gorgeous if they weren’t filled with disdain. “Oh,brilliant. Another American over here tracing her roots.” He actually does an eyeroll.
That does it. “Excuse me?”
He goes on glaring at me.
And here I’d been thinking everyone in this adorable little town was friendly and welcoming. Apparently, I’ve found the one guy who missed that memo. The one person who thinks being a complete ass to strangers is acceptable behaviour.
The really annoying part? Though he’s not said much, his accent is criminally hot. Low, rough, and distinctly Scottish in a way that does inconvenient things to my pulse. Which only makes me more irritated with him, and with myself.
“You know what?” I snap. “Forget it.”
I brush past him and stalk away as fast as my legs will carry me, my face burning.
So much for Highland hospitality.
CHAPTER FOUR
LACHLAN
The moment I step into Ardmara Leisure Centre, the chlorine tang from the pool hits my nose. Add in the faint aroma of sweaty trainers and a greasy waft from the café, and it’s hardly inviting. But the worst is yet to come.
I head for the soft play, better known to the dads of Ardmara as “the Pit”. Partly because of the massive ball pit in one corner, but mainly because spending time there is, well, the pits. As soon as I push open the door, the noise smacks into me—squeals, crashes, the thrum of kids high on sugar.
Most folk would turn around and flee, but I’m not most folk. I’m a single dad on a Saturday afternoon.
At our usual table, Struan and Douglas are nursing cups of what the leisure centre optimistically calls coffee. I make my way towards them, crossing a floor with that special stickiness only a thousand spilled juice cartons can produce.
“Da!”
The shout comes from somewhere in the maze of tunnels and slides, and I scan the chaos until Finn’s dark head pops up behind one of those foam block things. He waves both hands at me, grinning wide.
Sticky floors, migraine-inducing noise, the fact I’d rather be anywhere else—doesn’t matter. The kid still manages to drag a smile out of me. I give him a wave, and he disappears back into the chaos.
I drop into the empty chair opposite Struan and Douglas. “Thanks, lads. Appreciate you keeping an eye on Finn while I walked Gus.”
Douglas scratches at his ginger beard, stifling a yawn. He looks knackered, as usual. “Easy job. He’s no bother, unlike my pair.” Right on cue, a wild shriek erupts behind him, and Douglas groans. “Sounds like one of mine. If I don’t turn round, maybe I can pretend I didn’t hear it.”
Struan grins, his tawny curls pulled into a man bun that’s as effortlessly casual as he is. Unlike Douglas and me, who are permanently one coffee away from collapse, Struan’s got this laid-back vibe that makes single parenting seem like a hobby, not a never-ending battle. “You’ve tried that one before. Hate to break it to you, mate, but it never works out.”
Before Douglas can reply, Isla trots over, her curly ponytail bouncing. She’s a smaller, tidier version of her dad, and she fixes Struan with a look far too sensible for her seven years. “Daddy, the twins are having a ball war, and I don’t think they’re supposed to.”
