Page 33 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

I had intended to rustle up some cheese and tomato on toast for my lunch, but just grabbed an apple and a protein bar instead before taking Bronte down to the snow-encrusted bay for her afternoon walk.

The water was swishing in a restless, icy blue motion, and the sky overhead was pearly white.

Feathery flakes were still tumbling down and vanishing into the water.

It was a magical, wintery scene, but there was a foreboding hush.

I clamped my crocheted green hat tighter down over my curls and buried my gloved hands into my coat pockets.

We started to head back up the path and in the direction of the lighthouse, Bronte skittering through the snow, her tail swinging from side to side like a brown feather duster.

She did a couple of zoomies and the chilly stillness stung my cheeks as we both carefully negotiated the winding path.

Looking down at Rowan Bay again, the cliffs sat there, hunched under shrouds of white. The snow was definitely coming down thicker and faster than it had been this morning.

I knocked on the lighthouse door, but Mitch was standing waiting for me at the entrance to his bothy. He shouted over from his accommodation. ‘Hey! Over here!’ A tail-wagging Kane was stationed beside him. ‘Come in. Quick!’

He beckoned me inside and helped me remove my coat. I was aware of him standing right behind me. His cool breath danced against the nape of my neck. I thrust my hat and scarf at him, wanting to put space between us.

He smelled of pine forest body wash. Mitch seemed to fill the interior of the living space with his broad chest, long legs and head of dark hair. His gaze lingered on me. ‘Coffee? Tea?’

My stomach gave a little twist. ‘Oh, tea, please. Just milk.’

Kane and Bronte trotted side by side and settled themselves in front of the open fire, so I snatched an opportunity to take a look around.

The interior of the accommodation reminded me of a mobile home– small but cosy. Mitch had put his stamp on the place with heavy, dark walnut furniture, as well as a couple of dramatic seascapes, a red tartan rug and faded maps that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a pirate ship.

Mitch’s furnishings were more of the classical variety, whereas when Barclay had occupied the bothy, he’d owned more tartan and dark velvet fixtures and fittings.

The air still smelled of the sea though and of fresh, crackling logs that were being swallowed up by amber flames in the grate.

A tiny galley kitchen was off to the right of the sitting room and I caught glimpses of cream, fitted units and red and white fixtures and fittings. It was just the same as when Barclay occupied it.

To the left, the door was ajar. Mitch’s bedroom. I caught a brief glimpse of a double bed, with black and white striped bedding and a pile of dog-eared paperbacks on the bedside table.

It was weird being in here and seeing the familiar layout of Barclay’s former home swept away and replaced with someone else’s. Something told me he would’ve liked Mitch though.

Moments later, Mitch reappeared and handed me a mug of steaming tea. I furled my grateful fingers around it. ‘Thanks.’

He settled himself down on his two-seater, chocolate brown couch and fired out his legs. ‘I’m sorry it’s a bit small in here, but it’s usually just me and Kane.’ He tutted. ‘Sorry. You’ll be familiar with this place after Barclay.’

‘I think it’s great. Different from how Barclay had it arranged, of course, but it’s snug.’ In other circumstances, it could even be romantic.

Mitch grinned. ‘Snug is one word for it.’ His gaze slid over me. ‘So, any ideas about what you’d like to see or have happen on opening night at the art gallery?’

I blinked over at him. God, we really were going to do this. ‘How about not get arrested for fraud?’

Mitch pulled a face. ‘I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.’ He produced his mobile from his back pocket and tapped at the screen. ‘Here. read this.’

I reached over and took his phone. It was an email from Ruth Mangan at the gallery.

Dear Mr Carlisle,

Hope you’re well.

13th December is now reserved for your exhibition, so I suggest we start making arrangements.

It was an honour to see your beautiful and enchanting paintings and I can’t wait to play a pivotal role in allowing the public to appreciate your talent.

Best wishes and I look forward to hearing from you shortly with your ideas and suggestions. If you were able to get back to me as soon as possible, it would be much appreciated.

Time is of the essence!

Ruth.

‘Good grief,’ I ground out, handing Mitch his phone back.

I took a considered sip of my tea. ‘Funny how Reece and I got the cold shoulder, but send in a good-looking man…’ I realised what I’d just said and wished I could evaporate on the spot.

Shit! What was going on with me? What was the matter with my brain today?

I tried to recover myself. My face felt alight.

‘What I mean is, send in a young man, and she’s fawning all over you. ’

Eventually, I forced my eyes up to look at Mitch. His mouth hinted at a smile.

Oh bugger.

I buried my face in my mug for what seemed like ten minutes. ‘Anyway, my grandma loved the likes of Neil Diamond and folk music, so I wondered if we could get a fiddler to play a mixture of both and welcome guests as they arrive?’

‘Okay.’

‘And if we could incorporate butterflies in some capacity as well. She adored them and collected ornaments of them.’

‘Oh yes. I remember seeing some in her studio, and of course, she uses a butterfly as her painting signature.’

I turned over images of my grandma’s paintings in my mind. ‘Maybe we should go for a theme with her paintings; perhaps just have her seascapes or ones of her nature-related pictures, still life’s, and her flowers?’

Mitch nodded. ‘It’s your call.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Did Tilda have a favourite tipple?’

My face split into a sudden, wide smile at the memory. ‘She used to enjoy a glass of Talisker.’

Mitch’s eyes twinkled. ‘She had great taste.’

‘You like it too?’

‘I do. Peat, barley and the seaside influence of the Isle of Skye. Can’t beat it. Do you like it?’

I shrugged. ‘I’ve never tried it.’

Mitch looked affronted. ‘Oh, we have to remedy that then. I expect you won’t be heading out in the car in that weather?’

‘No plans to, no.’

‘Good. Actually, that was an order, not a request. Don’t want you getting caught up in a white-out or stuck somewhere.’

I realised I was touched again by his concern.

Mitch got up and went over to a small, stout cupboard behind his sofa. He pulled out a bottle of Talisker whiskey, containing the warm amber liquid. He fetched two whiskey glasses and poured me one. ‘Here’s to Tilda’s exhibition.’

We clinked glasses and I took a sip. Wow. The single malt whiskey hit the back of my throat, but it was earthy and warming. ‘I can’t believe I never tried this before.’

He set the bottle down on the table in front of us.

‘It’s something else, isn’t it?’ Mitch took a mouthful and savoured it.

‘Did your grandma have a favourite food? This exhibition is all about her and her paintings, and it needs to reflect her. Nice touch as it happens to be falling on her birthday, too.’

I could taste the remnants of the delicious whiskey.

As I savoured the Talisker, I watched him.

Mitch was kind, thoughtful, and good-looking with a dry sense of humour, a mystery wrapped up in a mystery, but considerate nonetheless.

No harm in admiring Mitch, but that was as far as I’d allow things to go.

It would be best for everyone, especially me; I had already proved myself to be a bad judge of men.

My mouth flatlined into a sad smile as I pushed my thoughts back to my grandma.

‘Yes, it should be all about her. She would’ve loved that. ’

I felt warm and fuzzy from the whiskey hit. I eyed the bottle.

‘Like another one?’ he asked. ‘I will if you do.’

‘Yes, please.’

This time, I downed it like a pro.

‘Hey, slow down there, Rosie!’

I pulled a comical face. ‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me.’ This time, the whiskey fuzzed me inside and I found myself smiling. An actual, genuine, big smile. Not forced. Not contrived. Not one that was trying to conceal the pain of having found out my dead husband had been cheating on me.

Here I was, with the snow swirling outside, sitting in a cosy bothy, with a tall, dark and very good-looking lighthouse keeper.

Not that I had any feelings or attraction for Mitch at all, I insisted over and over.

I was just making an internal observation.

Had I been still writing, it could almost have been the plot of a book.

I leant forward and glugged another shot of the whiskey into my drained glass before snatching up Mitch’s and topping his up. Mitch gave me a jokey look and removed the bottle.

‘I know I’ve mentioned this before,’ I began, the alcohol delivering a sense of bravery, ‘but why, Mitch?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Och, not this again!’ he groaned. He sat back on his sofa and pushed out his legs. ‘Because I’m an amazing person with a wonderful sense of community spirit.’ He avoided eye contact with me for a few moments. ‘Now, back to arrangements and ideas for the exhibition.’

Mitch was doing it again. He was dodging and weaving like one of the seagulls over the harbour. Undeterred, I carried on. ‘So, tell me a bit about yourself,’ I persisted. ‘What did you do before becoming a lighthouse keeper?’

His face closed down. ‘We’re not here to talk about me. This is about your grandmother.’ What was he hiding? I was sure there was something. He was refusing to talk about himself.

I decided to try again later and returned to the subject of my grandma’s likes and dislikes. ‘She was a fan of Scottish cheeses and Cullen skink. We could arrange for a buffet of a few of her favourite dishes like that.’

‘Sounds good.’

Once I polished off the remainder of the whiskey, I stood up.

‘Right. Time to go. Whoa…’ The room began to tilt on its axis.

The Talisker had hit the spot. I tried to gather myself.

I should’ve eaten a proper lunch, not nibbled on an apple and a bloody protein bar.

What with that and not sleeping well last night, the alcohol was charging through me.

Nevertheless, I tried to walk in a straight line. Bronte saw me move to leave and departed from Kane’s side by the fire.

Mitch was unaware of my watery limbs. He’d been looking at his phone. ‘If you’re happy, Rosie, I’ll pull together a draft email for Ruth Mangan and send it to you to check it over?’

‘That’d be great. Thanks.’

Mitch fetched my coat, scarf and hat from the hallway and I started to get ready.

But as soon as he tugged open the door, we were greeted by what looked like a life-size shaken snow globe.

It was a white out.

The sky was a blank, solid block of white, with snow whirling in every direction.

What had already landed was banking up in solid clumps, swallowing everything, from the cliffs to the cottage roof.

The trees down in the woodland were hanging heavy under the growing weight of the snow bearing down on them.

You couldn’t even see the line of the water on the wintry horizon.

Even the lighthouse was a faint outline across the way, drowning in swirls of white.

Everything was vanishing in a snowy onslaught. A glittering Christmas card sprung to life.

As I stared down in disbelief at my grandparents’ cottage, all I could make out of it was the odd roof slate and the peeking chimney pot.

A huge blast of freezing air hit me in the face and I found myself starting to sway on the spot. I fought to steady my feet. Bloody insomnia and bloody whiskey!

I made a move to leave, but Mitch closed the door shut. ‘You aren’t heading back home in that and certainly not when you’re tipsy.’

I whirled round to look at him and wished I hadn’t. Shit! It was as if I was stuck on a carousel and couldn’t jump off. ‘I’m not tipsy! And anyway, the weather isn’t that bad.’

‘Did you just see what I did?’

I bristled under my coat. I don’t know why, but I suddenly didn’t want to be here anymore. Mitch was making me feel self-conscious and vulnerable, and I’d had enough of it. I wanted to be back with Bronte in the cottage.

‘I suggest you wait it out,’ said Mitch calmly. He eyed me. ‘It’s not that terrible here, is it? Not as bad as venturing out there after a few drinks and having an accident.’

I jutted my chin out in defiance. ‘I wish you’d stop going on about me being tipsy. I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much.’ I realised I was wobbling again on my legs and made a point of standing to attention.

Mitch’s lips carried an echo of an amused smile.

‘Are you always so bossy?’ I asked in an accusing tone.

‘When I have to be.’

My stomach did another weird, twisty thing as he continued to stare at me. It almost stole the breath from me.

I fixed my attention back out of the hallway window. The snow would subside soon, wouldn’t it? Of course it would.

Mitch let out an exasperated sigh and gestured for me to hand over my coat, hat and scarf. ‘Is it so bad here that you can’t wait it out?’ he repeated.

I swallowed, feeling fuzzy at the edges. The whiskey was heating up my veins. With an exasperated groan, I began to snatch off my hat. It looked like Bronte and I wouldn’t be going anywhere for the time being.