I tap my pen against the paper, frustrated. It turns out wanting to write and having something worth writing about are two very different things.
A knock at the door interrupts my war with the blank page. I stand and open it to find Lachlan on my doorstep, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Oh! Hi.” Heat creeps up my neck as I realise this is the second time he’s seen me in my pyjamas, and they’re only one step up from underwear.
I cross my arms over my chest. Doesn’t stop him sneaking a glance at my boobs before quickly looking away, his jaw tight.
Great. Just what I needed to make this interaction even more awkward.
“Sorry to bother you,” he says, his gaze now fixed somewhere over my shoulder. “But I wanted to apologise. About today, I mean. Making you work on what was supposed to be your day off. I know you didn’t sign up for Saturday duties, so I’ll be paying you extra. Overtime rates, since it was the weekend.”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
“Blair—”
“I went along voluntarily, I enjoyed myself, and you treated me to a tasty dinner. I don’t expect payment for that.”
He meets my eye and studies me, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m being serious or just polite. Whatever he sees in my expression must convince him because he nods slowly.
“All right. Well, thank you. For today. Finn had a brilliant time, and I...” He trails off then clears his throat. “I should let you get back to whatever you were doing.”
He’s already turning to leave when I hear myself say, “Do you want to come in for a hot drink?”
He hesitates. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“It’s not intruding if it’s an invitation. If I had something stronger, I’d offer that, but I’ve no drinks cabinet yet.”
I fully expect him to turn me down. Instead he says, “I’ve got whisky and beer in the house. I could fetch us something?”
“Full disclosure,” I say, wincing, “I’m not a big fan of Scotch.”
His mouth twitches, almost amused. “What kind of blasphemy is that? You’re in Scotland, lass.”
Lass?I kinda like that.
“I know. But it just tastes like... I don’t know, liquid campfire? Mind you, it’s been a while since I tried it, so... okay. I’ll give it another shot.”
“Right answer. I’ll be back in a minute.”
While he’s gone, I take the opportunity to pull on a baggy hoodie, eliminating the risk of any further boob-related distractions.
He returns with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses, which he sets on the table. “Let’s see if we can convert you.” He pours two measures, hands me one, and we settle at the table, facing each other. “This is a proper Highland single malt. None of that blended rubbish. Try it.”
I take a tentative sip and immediately start coughing. “Oh God, that’s—” I wheeze, eyes watering. “That’s terrible.”
Lachlan laughs—a real laugh, warm and unguarded. “Don’t gulp it. Let it sit on your tongue. Like this.” He demonstrates, taking a small sip and holding it in his mouth before swallowing.
I try again. This time I manage not to choke, though I still make a face. “It’s marginally less terrible?”
“Progress,” he says drily. “Give it time. It’s an acquired taste.”
“Like you?” The words slip out before I can stop them. “I mean—sorry, that came out wrong.”
But he doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks intrigued. “An acquired taste, am I?”
“Well, you have to admit, you weren’t exactly welcoming when we first met.”
“That’s fair. I’m not great with new people.”
