Page 34 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Twenty-Three

W hen would this bloody snow stop?

I glowered out of Mitch’s sitting room window.

If anything, the flakes were pirouetting even heavier now.

It was as though a giant had tossed his huge, white duvet cover over everything in sight, smothering the roads, trees, roofs, the harbour cliffs.

I wanted to get back to the cottage. I’d been so stupid, downing those three glasses of whiskey the way I had, especially after not having eaten a proper lunch.

‘You’re pacing up and down like a caged tiger, Rosie. Well, when I say pacing, it’s more of an unsteady wobble. Let me make you a coffee.’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I sing-songed. I knew I wasn’t and a strong coffee would’ve been welcome, but I wasn’t about to admit to Mitch that I was almost pissed. He’d think I was a pathetic lightweight.

I flopped onto his sofa. Oooh, I shouldn’t have done that. My head felt swimmy.

Mitch gave me a doubtful look. He fetched his black digital radio from the shelf behind him, set it on the table in front of us and clicked it on.

The local radio station, Rowan Bay Today, was emphasising the scale of the snowfall, and its persistence, in an extra-long weather report.

‘We’re safe in here,’ assured Mitch. ‘Lots of logs for the fire, the fridge is stocked, and there’s plenty of hot water.’

I gawped over at him, trying not to look horrified. I couldn’t stay here in this little box with Mitch for longer than I had to. I just couldn’t. In such close proximity. Yes, it was very cosy and warm, but… it just didn’t seem like a good idea at all.

And why’s that? teased a voice inside my head. Why can’t you stay here? You’re prepared to risk your safety by trying to get back to the cottage? What are you scared of?

I ignored it. ‘As soon as the weather improves, Bronte and I will be off home.’

‘Aye, you mentioned that before.’ Mitch eyed me. There was a charged silence. ‘Rhea in the corner shop said you’re an author. You never talk about it.’

I squirmed. That bloody woman! I didn’t think Mitch knew I was a writer. I suspected he wasn’t an avid romance reader. ‘I was an author,’ I corrected.

Mitch’s brows rocketed with admiration. ‘Oh wow. What genre do you write?’

‘Did,’ I murmured, hoping my voice stayed on an even keel. ‘I used to write feel-good romance.’

‘But you don’t now?’

I fiddled with my hair, hating this interrogation. ‘No.’

‘May I ask why?’

I hoped my chin wouldn’t wobble. ‘Personal reasons,’ I snapped, not looking at him. I realised I’d been short with him. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude.’

Mitch held up one hand as the flames weaved in the grate. ‘No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘It’s fine. It’s in the past now. My writing, I mean.’

The weather outside was like someone had picked up a snow globe and given it a good shake. I flashed Mitch a look from under my lashes. The whiskey was still coursing through me and my body felt like liquid. Whether it was the alcohol, Mitch’s hypnotic gaze or a mix of the two, I don’t know.

I slumped back on the sofa and let out a resigned sigh. My tongue was loosening and I found I wasn’t scared about possibly saying more than I should. That took me by surprise. Up until now, I’d been reluctant to tell people the time, let alone be in their company.

Mitch was sitting across from me, looking dark and mysterious, and the snow was whizzing past the windows.

I felt languid, able to trust him, to tell him about what had happened.

Okay, Rosie. Go for it. After all, he was helping with Grandma’s art exhibition and he’d gone out of his way to find Bronte for me.

I blew out a cloud of air and hoped I could keep my voice from cracking. ‘I can’t write anymore,’ I faltered, picking my words.

‘Because of losing your husband?’

I pressed my lips together. ‘Kind of.’ I threw my head back.

Snowflakes rocked past the windows. ‘Joe was running late. He always was. Didn’t matter what the appointment was.

’ I cleared my throat. ‘Anyway, I was waiting for him to join me at my book launch, and after an hour, he still hadn’t appeared.

He’d got caught up in the office. Well, that’s what he led me to believe.

’ The memories of that evening darkened my mind.

I took a moment. ‘Anyway, I was starting to get quite upset that he still hadn’t arrived, so I called him on his mobile and he answered. ’

Mitch didn’t say anything.

I rubbed my hands together as I sat there.

The only sound was our two slumbering dogs and the spitting fire.

‘I told him to hurry up, Mitch. I told him that I was waiting for him. So, he put on a spurt, dashed across the road and a lorry was coming the other way.’ I tried to bite back a gulp in my throat.

‘The driver couldn’t stop. Joe was killed instantly. ’

Mitch sighed long and low. ‘Oh, Rosie. I’m so sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

Mitch looked pensive. ‘But it’s not your fault Joe died. It’s circumstances. A tragic accident, whatever you want to call it, but you’re not responsible for what happened.’

‘I thought I was. I was carrying around all this guilt.’ I pushed my hair from my face. ‘I tortured myself. I took on all the blame.’ I cleared my throat. ‘That was until I found out what he’d been doing.’

I sucked in some air. The whiskey was swimming inside me and Mitch’s big, silent support was encouraging me to carry on.

I couldn’t believe I was opening up to him like this, but I decided not to question it, otherwise I’d clam up.

I spoke again. ‘It turns out he was dashing to see me after having been in bed with another woman who he’d been having an affair with for three years. ’

Mitch’s expression collapsed. ‘Jesus.’ He dragged a hand over his curls. ‘I don’t know what to say, except that he must’ve been an utter prick to cheat on someone like you.’

The snow continued to patter against the bothy’s windows. Our eyes sought out one another. I snapped mine away first. ‘Anyway, sometimes you just fall out of love with something and it takes time to readjust to life without it. That’s how I feel about my writing.’

He nodded, a knowing glint flashing through his eyes.

‘I understand that, but if you don’t mind me saying, I get the impression you haven’t fallen out of love with being an author.

You just think you should because of what happened, because of how he treated you.

’ Mitch flicked me a glance. ‘You didn’t deserve that. ’

My head was stuffed with tiredness and whiskey, but my body was trying to fight it.

I veered the subject away and onto safer ground.

‘Nobody knows I’m here, apart from my literary agent and my editor.

Not my in-laws, other author friends…’ I raised my chin.

‘It’s what I wanted. To just escape and leave everything behind.

I didn’t want to be answerable to anyone after what happened.

It’s just Bronte and me against the world. ’

‘I appreciate that, believe me.’ Mitch’s gaze was earnest. ‘And your parents?’

‘Both gone. Mum passed away two years ago and I lost my dad when I was ten.’

Mitch pulled a pained face. ‘I’m sorry.’ He sat up a little straighter. ‘Both my parents passed away years ago, too.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

His chest lifted. ‘Life ain’t easy sometimes, is it? In fact, it can very often be a pile of shit.’

I made a sound that was something between a laugh and a cough. ‘You said it. You think you’ve got everything sorted out and then it implodes.’

Mitch gave me a thoughtful look. ‘What did Joe do?’

‘He worked in the legal department of my publishers, Jarred Roberts Publishing. That’s where I met him.’

I found the whiskey had really prised opened the gate to my pent-up frustrations, despite my protestations to the contrary. ‘So now you know why I feel it would be hypocritical of me to write about something that I no longer believe in.’

Mitch shook his head and gave me a prolonged look that made my heart give an odd jolt. ‘You don’t believe in romance and love anymore?’

I reddened. ‘Nope.’

‘Why don’t I believe you, Rosie?’

Mitch’s directness, with the slumbering flames in the grate and the soft falling of the snow outside, made me swallow hard.

Feeling temporarily a little more sober, I straightened my back.

‘It’s true. I don’t. Not anymore. I did, but I’m done with it.

I won’t be putting myself and my feelings on the line again.

’ My voice disappeared. I was gazing across at him.

I pushed myself more upright on the sofa.

‘So, enough about me. What about you? How did you end up here?’ I asked him, veering anyway from his line of questioning.

I suddenly felt like my armour was being stripped away too fast, too quickly, and I wasn’t ready for it.

I was being exposed far more than I’d intended.

A strange expression gripped his face. ‘Oh, I’m quite boring.’

I arched my brows. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

Mitch called Kane over from where he was nestled beside Bronte and made a fuss of him. ‘The fire needs a few more logs,’ he insisted, before vanishing out of the sitting room. ‘I keep a stock of them in a bucket out in the hall.’

Wow. Well, that was an abrupt end to that conversation. What was going on with Mitch? He seemed to go out of his way not to talk about himself. I mean, I could relate to that, especially lately, but his secretiveness was on another level.

He returned a few moments later with more logs than were needed.

He cradled them in his arms and crouched down in front of the open fire.

The russet flames lit up the contours of his angular face.

‘Still wild out there,’ he remarked, giving the logs a good prod with an iron he picked up from beside the fireplace.

Mitch returned to his armchair and sank back down on it. He pushed a frustrated hand through his dark hair.