Oh God.
The trestle table has been cleared, and I sit alone beside it while Blair and Lachlan head up to the house to take things in and make coffee. Struan and I are keeping an eye on the kids, although his approach is a bit more hands-on. He’s down by the water with them, crouched among the pebbles. They seem to be hunting for something—shells or smooth stones, maybe. Whatever it is, Lily’s using Barbie’s hands to scoop pebbles into a pile, her face scrunched in concentration.
A tightness tugs in my chest. My wee girl, slotting herself in with the others, so intent on her task.
Isla rushes up to Struan, proudly holding out a shell she’s found. He takes it and turns it thoughtfully between his fingers. She pulls him towards the rocks to show him where she found it, and soon they’re crouched together, heads bent, completely absorbed.
He could be up here, I realise. Chatting away to me while Blair and Lachlan are away. Turning on that charm of his. But he’s not. He’s down there with the kids, giving them his full attention.
He’s... good at the dad stuff. Really good.
I’ve been telling myself for weeks that it doesn’t matter that Lily doesn’t have her da around. Plenty of kids grow up in single-parent homes and turn out brilliant. And anyway, Lily’s got my parents, who adore her. They uprooted their whole lives to be here with us.
But watching this—watching Struan’s attentiveness, the way Isla glows under it—I can’t help wondering what it might have been like for Lily to have this. An energetic father who actuallywantsto be with her. Who dotes on her the way Struan clearly dotes on Isla.
Danny was never like this. Not even close.
I push the thought away. No point dwelling on what Lily doesn’t have. We’re doing just fine.
Movement catches my eye—a slim blonde woman jogging along the shoreline from the direction of town, in leggings and a fitted long-sleeved top. I wince just looking at her. That cannot be a fun run on pebbles.
The woman slows and lifts a hand. “Struan!”
He returns the wave, says something to Isla, and straightens, dusting off his hands. The jogger stops beside him, breathless and smiling. Recognition prickles at me. I saw this woman at the pub the other night—after the Celtic Kicks finished their set, when people were crowding round Struan at the bar. She was twirling her hair around her finger, making her interest painfully obvious.
From here, I can’t make out much of their conversation—just the odd word carried on the breeze—but I can see enough. The smiles. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear and laughs at something he says.
Then she pulls out her phone. Struan does the same.
Are they . . . swapping numbers?
My stomach does something uncomfortable. I tell it to behave.
Maybe she needs a joiner. Plenty of people need joiners. And if it’s not about joinery? If it’s for a date?
Then it’s none of my business. Absolutely none.
The woman slips her phone back into her pocket, gives Struan one last smile—and a quick arm squeeze—then jogs off the way she came. Struan watches her go for a moment before turning back to Isla.
Aye, none of my business.
And yet the thought of Struan taking this woman out for drinks—or dinner, or whatever—sits in my chest like a splinter. Which is ridiculous. I don’t care who Struan Walker dates. I don’t.
In fact, if he starts seeing someone, maybe he’ll finally stop flirting with me. That would be agoodthing. A relief, even.
Aye. A relief.
Mm-hmm.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
STRUAN
Dinner’s long gone, but my parents’ kitchen still smells of roast beef and gravy. I’m at the sink with Mum, sleeves rolled to my elbows, scrubbing while she dries. The rhythm’s familiar—we’ve been doing this since I was tall enough to reach the taps.
From the living room, a giggle floats through, followed by Isla’s bossy wee voice: “Grandpa, you can’t move your rook like that! It only goes straight, remember?”
Mum shoots me an amused look. “She certainly keeps your da on his toes.”
