Chapter 2

2

N athan started awake. His sleep-fogged mind struggled to make sense of a tiny elbow jabbing into his side. He blinked, squinting against the pale blue light filtering through the gap in the heavy curtains.

Abby was sprawled out like a starfish in her Octonauts-jammies. Sometime during the night, she’d wriggled under the covers and commandeered his pillow, leaving him teetering on the edge of the mattress.

Poor squirt must have had one of her nightmares again.

Nathan sighed and dragged a hand down his face. So much for a good night’s sleep. Might as well stay awake.

He stared up at the whitewashed ceiling beams. They could use a touch-up. He’d poured his heart and sweat into restoring this house ten years ago. Glenwood Lodge was their sanctuary. A place untouched by his past or the public. Here, surrounded by the Perthshire forest, he could be himself. Nathan MacMillan, the man. The single dad. The artisan gin distiller.

Not the fallen teenage pop star.

A throaty purr – and a solid weight thumped onto his torso.

‘Oof,’ Nathan grunted, as Sir Hubert kneaded his chest with his paws. His green eyes blinked slowly in the dim light. ’Good mornin’ to you too, your Grace.’ He gave the cat a scratch behind the ears, careful not to disturb Abby. As if he’d fulfilled his duty of rousing Nathan for the day, Sir Hubert leapt gracefully to the floor and sauntered off, fluffy tail held high.

Abby stirred beside him. Her lips smacked as she nestled into the down comforter and the familiar blend of love and guilt cinched around Nathan’s heart. She looked so innocent in sleep, her light blonde hair reminded him of her mother. They hadn’t seen Sophie since Abby’s last birthday. Now it was just the two of them.

It was all he needed.

Nathan grabbed his phone from the bedside table and squinted at the time. Too bloody early. He pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Bare feet brushing the cold stone floor, he made his way into the kitchen and filled the kettle on autopilot. Abby would be waking soon.

‘Porridge it is,’ he said to the quiet house, reaching for the oats. As he set the table, he smiled at the thought of his daughter’s bright-eyed morning chatter. A bowl for Abby and a mug of shockingly strong black coffee for himself. He would need it.

‘Mornin’, Da!’ Abby’s bright voice broke the morning silence as she dashed into the kitchen and climbed onto her chair with the grace of a wombat.

‘Good mornin’, sunshine.’ He greeted her with a kiss on her soft hair. ‘Did you sleep well in my bed?’

‘I had a bad dream, but then I slept like a bear,’ Abby declared and spooned a mouthful of porridge.

‘You certainly snore like one.’

‘Da!’ she protested. ‘Don’t be silly. I don’t snore. You do!’

The shrill ring of the phone sliced through the morning’s peace like a scythe. With a sigh, Nathan dabbed his hands dry on his apron and answered.

‘Nathan, darlin’! It’s Fiona from the Starlight Agency. We have a fabulous opportunity for you—’

‘Save it, Fiona.’ He clipped off her practised pitch, his tone as icy as the River Tay in January. ‘I’ve told you, I’m not interested in any of your “opportunities”.’

‘Ah, but love, this is different,’ she insisted. ‘A retro-TV special, “Teen Idols: Where Are They Now?” Believe me, the British public are dying to see their favourite heartthrob of yesteryear.’

He gave the space between his eyebrows a firm, irritated rub. ‘And I’m dying to forget that part of my life ever happened.’ The idea of rehashing old wounds for the cheap, voyeuristic pleasure of the masses turned his stomach. He hadn’t forgotten the backstabbing, the shame, the ruthless media harassment. Almost worse than with James Blunt or Nickelback.

No, he was only too aware of the price he’d paid for a few years of early fame.

‘The money’s good. Come now, Nathan, think of the exposure for your gin!’ Fiona had the cadence of a shoe saleswoman pushing the stain repellent.

‘Exposure is the last thing I want.’ His grip on the phone tightened. He felt the weight of the camera lenses, the vicious scrutiny, piercing the veil of peace he’d woven around Glenwood Lodge. ‘My answer is no. It will always be no. No to “Big Brother”, no to “Dancing with the Stars”, no to “I’m A Celebrity”. Because I’m not a celebrity. I don’t even know why you’re still calling me.’

There was a momentary pause on the line before Fiona let out a defeated sigh. ‘Very well. But the offer stands if you change your mind.’

‘I won’t. Bye.’ He hung up without waiting for her reply.

Abby dangled her feet and the heels of her sparkly unicorn slippers tapped rhythmically against the wooden chair legs. ‘Who was that?’

Nathan sighed. How could he explain the twisted knot of his past to his innocent seven-year-old? The scars, invisible but ever-present, that he’d spent years trying to cover up?

‘A woman who wants me to do a job I don’t want to do.’

’Why?’

He squatted beside her chair. ‘Because I don’t like the job, sweet pea.’

Abby’s little nose scrunched up in concentration as she tried to unravel the mystery of adult decision-making. ‘But why?’

‘Makes me feel daft. I’m not the person she needs to do the work.’

‘Why not?’

He reached out and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. ‘It’s like…like trying on a jumper that’s too itchy and tight. That’s how this job makes me feel. All itchy and uncomfortable.’

Abby nodded slowly. ‘Like when Auntie Jo made me that pink one for Christmas?’

‘Exactly like that.’

He loved his sister to bits, but she changed her hobbies faster than her boyfriends and her manic knitting phase had lasted about seven months. That ugly jumper was buried in the back of the wardrobe for a reason. ‘Why don’t you finish your porridge and then I’ll get you ready for school?’

‘Okay. Will you do my hair?’

‘I’ll try. But no guarantees.’

While his fingers struggled to plait Abby’s hair into neat braids, he thought about that call. Fiona was insane. Never again. Nathan MacMillan, former pop star, would remain just that – former.

He’d made mistakes in his life, choices he’d always regret. Abby was the one thing he’d done right. His life was now about protecting his daughter and preserving the tranquillity of their existence, far from the prying, judgemental eyes of a world that had once devoured his youth.

Far from the betrayal of the people he should have been able to trust.

After dropping Abby and her friends Paul and Becca off at school, Nathan bent over piles of paperwork scattered across the worn wooden table in the study and shuffled through invoices. The figures seemed to grow larger with each glance. It was like watching storm clouds roll in, the pressure slowly building until it threatened to crush him.

‘Fuck!’

Sir Hubert on the windowsill opened a disapproving eye.

Nathan picked up the council tax bill, the paper as cold and unforgiving as the dwindling balance in his bank account. He would have just scraped by this month. But repairing damage on the distillery roof after the storm two weeks ago left him with a ￡5,000 excess to pay.

Due in three days.

He set his jaw in quiet frustration. No matter how many times he ran the numbers, they refused to add up in his favour. The royalties from his music days had slowed to a pathetic trickle. And while the camping pods on the outskirts of Glenwood estate were bringing in some cash, it was nowhere near enough. The gin was selling, aye, but far too slowly to make any actual difference.

Savings? Long gone. Investments? Never happened. His parents didn’t have money lying around, either.

Nathan rubbed a hand across his chin, rasping against the two-day growth of his beard. At least the house was paid for. A small mercy in the ever-growing pile of financial woes. But that didn’t make the other bills disappear, no matter how much he wished it.

Nathan’s gaze settled on the framed photo of three-year-old Abby on his desk, taken in the nursery, six months after Sophie had left. The corners of her mouth turned down. She only faintly remembered living with her mother. It hadn’t been easy for either of them. Especially at first.

Sophie was paying child support and made an effort to turn up for birthdays and Christmases and their weekly video call.

But she lived in Dubai, not in Scotland.

No, keeping Glenwood afloat wasn’t about his pride. It was about protecting his daughter. And protecting her meant keeping Glenwood, giving her a stable and safe home. Keep her far away from treachery and the gory fangs of the British tabloid press.

Yet the irony wasn’t lost on him – his escape was now the anchor that pulled him down financially.

There was, of course, a solution.

One he’d been avoiding for weeks. He’d shoved the mail from the production company into a folder and ignored it.

Renting out a part of Glenwood to that bloody film crew.

But at what cost?

The thought of strangers invading his privacy made his skin crawl. Nosy people poking around. Fuck that.

Still, the whisper persisted and promised a short respite from the constant nagging of existential worry.

As a matter of fact, he couldn’t go on like this.

Nathan pushed away from the table and paced the length of the study, each step heavy with the weight of the decision. Financial stability was within reach, at least for a while. Hollywood paid well, a lifeline thrown over the abyss of uncertainty.

If he did this, if he let them in…it could solve so many problems. Give him room to breathe and the chance to be more than a struggling single dad, who scrambled to keep the wolves from the door. His love for Abby made him a fierce guardian, a warrior shielding his clan. But even warriors had to make alliances with their enemies when the battle turned against them.

He paused at the window and stared out at the loch with its steel-grey water. He pictured Abby out there in a few years, her hair whipping behind her as she learnt to sail. Strong, fearless, and carefree.

But first, he had to secure her future.

With a muttered curse, he turned back to the desk. He opened the agreement he’d read twenty times since it arrived, the words etched into his brain. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his child. No risk he wouldn’t take, no battle he wouldn’t fight to ensure her happiness.

Even if it meant making a deal with the showbiz devil.

It was a hell of a lot better than singing a medley of his greatest hits and making a complete dick of himself. His finger hovered over ‘send’, his past colliding with the potential of an uncertain future. ‘Fuck it. Here goes nothing.’

And he sealed their fate with the click of a button.