Page 18 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Thirteen

T here was a hailstorm the next morning.

White, golf ball-sized stones rained down on everything, battering against the cottage windows, as though eager to break in. They pelted the top of my car and landed in the garden.

I watched the relentless winter weather, while I finished rinsing out the teapot.

Bronte was sat by my feet in the kitchen, giving me an expectant look as if to say, ‘Right. I’m ready for my walk, so kindly get a move on!’

I turned round and smiled down at her. ‘Just give it a few minutes, will you, sweetheart? I don’t fancy having my head caved in.’

Sure enough, around ten minutes later, the white bullets stopped as quickly as they’d started and the watery sun forced its way through the bank of angry clouds.

It glided across the top of the bay making it look like it was being touched by golden fingers. That was Scottish weather for you!

I wrapped myself up in my heavy winter coat, scarf, hat and boots before popping on Bronte’s fleecy purple coat and her harness and lead.

Thoughts of Mitch’s confrontation with that newspaper journalist yesterday crept into my mind again.

Well, whatever had happened, it was clear Mitch didn’t want to talk about it. All very odd.

I also remembered what he’d said to me. ‘You’re not on your own, Rosie.’

I realised my mouth was slipping into a small smile at the memory.

* * *

I’d made the mistake earlier, just after breakfast, of going onto social media, and there were a lot of comments from my reading fanbase, asking if some of the rumours were true, that their favourite author had decided to stop writing.

A frisson of guilt zipped through me, but I dismissed it.

It was the right thing to do.

I meandered over to the kitchen window, from where I could see the garden. Stubborn leaves were spinning over the lawn and the path.

I remembered where my grandparents kept their garden tools and decided to occupy myself by sweeping up the leaves now that the hailstones had stopped. Bronte could keep me company.

Once I’d fetched the rake from the back hall cupboard, I got myself togged up in my coat, hat, scarf and boots, and Bronte sat on the cottage step, watching me sweep the rake this way and that, until the soggy leaves slowly began to pile up.

I was stooping down to gather up another satisfying pile for the green recycling bin when Mitch’s voice made me start. ‘Hi, Rosie.’

I almost dropped my armful of leaves. I stuffed them into the open bin. ‘Hi, Mitch. Hi, Kane.’

Kane stood beside him, tongue flapping.

Mitch pointed at the leaves on the grass. ‘You look like you might need a hand there.’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

Mitch folded his sinewy arms. ‘What is it about you refusing help?’

His words hit home. I dusted my garden-gloved hands together. ‘I would accept help if I needed it.’

‘Something tells me you wouldn’t.’

I angled my head to one side, my curls spilling out from under my winter hat. ‘I would,’ I insisted, a little too quickly.

Mitch’s mouth hinted at an amused smile. ‘Well, don’t forget you’ve got a tall, strong and handy lighthouse keeper at your disposal. Twenty-four seven.’

My cheeks whipped themselves into a pink frenzy, which annoyed me. ‘Don’t forget to introduce me to him when you see him.’

Mitch’s face split into a dazzling grin. ‘Ouch. You’ll hurt my feelings.’

‘Something tells me you’ll get over it quickly.’

He and Kane continued to watch me under the churning clouds while I dragged and pulled the leaves. ‘Catch you later then,’ he said. ‘But I mean it: just shout if you need me.’

There was that arch of a brow again, the tremble of a cheeky smile.

‘Thanks, Mitch, but I’ll be fine.’

He offered me a little salute. ‘Come on, Kane. Let’s go.’

I waited a few moments until they reached the woodland before taking a sneaky peek. Then I focused my attention back on rounding up more leaves.

* * *

After a satisfying session of leaf collecting, I picked up my mobile from the hall table and locked the front door behind me. Then Bronte and I set off towards the path that led down to the bay.

It was so wild and beautiful here. Too much had happened.

Joe’s death had happened. His infidelity.

Barclay’s retirement. My crisis of confidence.

Real life had taken over and slapped me in the face.

But at least Rowan Bay was a constant. The sea was often moody, the beach was always buttery, and the lighthouse was the local beacon of comfort.

Bronte meanwhile jumped around in the waves, frustrated that I wouldn’t let her off the lead. Once she’d got more used to the area and I felt more confident about letting her off, it would be a different story.

More used to the area. I considered what that implied.

Did that mean I was planning on staying here?

Was I going to settle in Rowan Bay permanently?

Right now, I was struggling to decide what to make myself for dinner, let alone what my future was going to look like.

Maybe I was trying to move too fast. Perhaps I was trying to walk before I could run.

I was under no pressure to decide what I was going to do next.

Any pressure that was there, I was inflicting on myself and that had to stop.

I was in Rowan Bay now, with its foamy waves and looming lighthouse, not London.

After a few more minutes of Bronte splashing about in the water, we headed back up the path towards the cottage.

As we neared the top of the path, Bronte performed another series of frantic tugs on her lead and let out a whine.

She implored me with those eyes of hers.

I gave her a stern look. She was like Mia and Lola.

They wouldn’t take no for an answer either.

I sighed. ‘Right, young lady, I’ll let you off the lead, but don’t you dare take off! Straight to the cottage, okay?’

She let out a cheerful bark and did as she was told, picking up speed on her furry legs to get back to the cottage gate.

I eyed the lighthouse, the solitary, white and blue column prising the clouds apart, with its associated buildings pressed into the cliffs behind it.

I frowned.

Mitch Carlisle was a strange one. Closed off.

He gave off this air of being a lone wolf, but there was something about the way he’d bundled that reporter away; a mixture of fury and something else racing across his features.

Perhaps I wasn’t the only one trying to deal with my problems by hiding away from the world?

I fumbled around in my coat pocket for the front door key as I began to approach and open the cottage gate.

Bronte had zoomed off to have a good sniff of the garden fence. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go inside,’ I called to her, without looking up. Then I heard her let out a sudden series of sharp barks.

Oh no. Don’t tell me she’d spotted a rabbit or a squirrel in the garden. I couldn’t face the prospect of her tearing off again.

I snapped my head up as I retrieved my key, only to barrel into the prowler.