Page 42 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

M y head kept snapping round to look at Mitch and then back at Romilly.

She reminded me of one of those louche, French fashion models with killer cheekbones and a bored air. I suddenly felt rather scruffy.

‘Hey, Mitch,’ she drawled, sliding me a bemused look. Her voice was anglified and soft. She turned to me again, her cool, navy eyes appraising me. She attempted a smile.

Mitch pushed a confused hand through his hair. His voice was disjointed. Puzzled. ‘Romilly. Hi. What are you doing here?’

‘I thought I’d drop by and see where you were hiding out nowadays,’ she purred.

Mitch looked thrown. ‘What brought you here? I mean, why didn’t you go up to the lighthouse?’

‘I did but there was no answer. I went to your accommodation but there was no sign of you there either. Then I saw this place and thought a neighbour might know where you’d got to.’ She flicked me a cool look. ‘It seems I was right.’

She huddled deeper into her coat. ‘Couldn’t you have chosen anywhere more remote to live than this place? It’s the back of beyond!’ She performed a theatrical shudder. ‘It’s taken me hours to get here!’

‘It’s not that remote,’ argued Mitch, jumping to the defence of Rowan Bay. He gestured to me. ‘Sorry. This is Rosie Winters. Rosie, this is my… wife… Romilly.’

‘Hi,’ I said, managing somehow to dredge up a friendly smile.

She nodded. ‘Hi.’ She swung away from me and drilled all her attention back into Mitch. ‘Can we talk? I could murder a drink after all this bloody travelling.’

Mitch looked like he’d stood on something painful. ‘Aye. Okay.’

He moved out onto the top step, with the cold, mushy snow behind him. ‘I’ll catch up with you later, Rosie.’

‘Fine. Sure.’ I hoped I sounded casual enough. ‘Nice to meet you, Romilly.’

She pushed some of her hair back behind one ear. ‘And you.’

Yeah, right, I thought to myself as they made their way up towards the lighthouse, with Romilly bumping her leather wheelie case behind her. As I began to close the front door, I spotted Mitch gallantly take the handle from Romilly’s gloved hand and pull it along instead.

I kept my strained smile plastered on until I shut the door.

As soon as I did, a leaden feeling lodged itself in my ribcage. She was very good-looking. Was she hoping for a reconciliation with Mitch? Had she come to realise she’d made a huge mistake in letting him go?

I drew up in the hallway; all these questions tumbled through my head. Why was I dissecting her arrival? What did it matter why she was here? It was none of my business.

But with a hard, shocking stab of reality, I realised it did matter to me. Very much. The thought of Romilly and Mitch all snug in his bothy, just like we’d been during that angry, unforgiving snowstorm, was wounding me.

That intimate moment between us only moments ago, right here in the hallway, the close proximity of him, those sparks of jade in his eyes, the scent of his woody aftershave, that very faint, silvery scar above his top lip I’d never noticed before. God, why was I thinking this way? What was I doing?

Mitch was still married.

Fear crept in.

I widened my eyes at the realisation. But whether I wanted to recognise it or not, I knew I was beginning to harbour feelings for Mitch. They had stealthily crept up on me and caught me off guard.

It was as if my heart was expanding to allow someone else in to take Joe’s place. At one time, that idea would have been incomprehensible. There would never have been anyone else for me, apart from Joe. But now… there was Mitch.

His selflessness, his kindness, his altruism, his conscience about Noah and what had happened, not to mention his dark, intense good looks, were beginning to consume me, and I suddenly felt helpless. Now I was the one who felt like I was drowning in the bay.

But Romilly had rocked up here, and I had no idea what was going to happen now. Were these growing feelings I had for him a waste of time? Was I about to put myself through more emotional agony?

The truth reverberated in my head.

More pictures of Mitch tumbled in front of my eyes.

No. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face going through all that again.

I couldn’t wake up each morning like I had been after Joe’s death, turning over my emotions again and again and picking at a wound that I thought was healing, only for it to open and hurt me again.

What if I lost Mitch? What if he let me down?

I’d be putting myself through the same cycle of hurt and grief again.

When would I ever learn? I’d promised myself I would keep a lid on my feelings for him.

I was convinced I could do that. But here I was, allowing my emotions for Mitch to spill over and now look what was happening!

His glamorous wife had turned up and they were no doubt cosied up together right now, with the bay romantically serenading them.

I tried to mentally push Mitch back into the recesses of my mind. I had to try and move on.

The words filled my head. If Mitch decided to reunite with his wife, it might be better for me to leave Rowan Bay. I couldn’t imagine the awkwardness, living here in the cottage and so close to them.

If they gave their marriage another chance, then selling this cottage would be the best option.

I liked living here. It was everything London wasn’t: green, peaceful and with the bay swishing like a silver curtain.

But staying here, gazing up at the proud, white and blue column of the lighthouse each day, knowing Mitch and Romilly were all loved up together in the bothy, it would be too much.

I gave a tearful blink. Decision made. If Mitch and his wife were reuniting, I’d put the cottage up for sale.

I’d start over with Bronte elsewhere. I’d always carry the memories and my love of Rowan Bay with me, but I’d take them somewhere else. Put all this mess and mayhem behind me.

I forced a jovial smile down at Bronte. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go get some air.’

* * *

I didn’t see Mitch or Romilly for the rest of the day.

That night, I got ready for bed. The beam from the lighthouse cast itself over the top of the choppy harbour water, like liquid gold.

They’re up there together, hissed an inner voice. What were they talking about? What were they doing? Were they snuggled up by the fire, with the flames popping?

I hitched the duvet up over my head and clamped my eyes shut.

* * *

It was raining the next morning, the raindrops splatting on everything. All but small, irritating patches of snow remained.

As Bronte and I ventured out, swathed in our cosy waterproofs, my eyes insisted on pulling themselves towards the lighthouse. I so wished I could stop looking up there, but I couldn’t help myself.

I swore under my breath, cursing my vivid imagination. Were they in bed, having a lie-in? Had they decided to reconcile?

It was like I was deliberately torturing myself. Had I turned into a masochist?

It was only a few weeks now till Christmas. The prospect of that filled me with dread. The scenery had changed here, from a picture-perfect Christmas card, with pretty snowflakes dancing from the sky, to rain-slicked rocks and cliffs, which looked as deflated as I felt.

If I was going to put the cottage on the market, I’d get Christmas and New Year out the way and then hit the ground running with a valuation in early January. There was no point in hanging around Rowan Bay longer than I had to. I’d also tell Reece of my plans, and Barclay, of course.

In the meantime, I could start looking at a few properties to get a feel for what was out there, although I had no clue where I wanted to go. I’d also have to decide what to do about the flat in Hampstead.

I watched Bronte weave amongst the trees in the woods. If Mitch had experienced a change of heart and decided to get back together with Romilly, then we’d have to tell Ruth Mangan the truth about him not being the artist of my grandma’s paintings.

Yes, I wanted to have my grandma’s work out there, but I was going to insist to Mitch that we put an end to our plan.

Having to be close to Mitch would be too painful, especially with Romilly around.

And Romilly could inadvertently put a spanner in the works by saying the wrong thing.

It wouldn’t be worth the aggravation. It would be like treading on eggshells the whole time in the run-up to the exhibition, and after everything that had happened, I didn’t fancy the stress.

The best thing would be to put plenty of space between Mitch and me. It was the only way.

Keeping up this pretence of him as the talented painter would be too protracted and hurtful when I knew he was off to give his marriage another chance.

I’d had enough of mayhem and disorder, but I couldn’t turn back time.

It was down to me now to sort out my life and start taking some grown-up decisions.

Bronte and I ambled amongst the wet dankness and moss.

I was glad I’d stopped writing though I reassured myself for the hundredth time. You can’t keep flogging a dead horse. How could I ever return to romance writing, when my real-life heroic inspiration had turned out to be a fraud?

I buried my chin deeper into the high collar of my quilted winter coat.

Bronte snuffled ahead, her pert, little black nose skimming across the top of the damp grass of the woodland floor.

We were just about to reach the other side of the woodland and begin the slow journey back when a voice travelled from behind me. ‘Rosie. Hey!’

Oh no.

My heart swooped.

I straightened my shoulders and turned around, pinning on a smile.

Mitch had Kane with him. On spotting Bronte, Kane picked up speed and they went careering off ahead together amongst the trees.

‘How’s things?’ I asked, feigning a casual air.

What I really meant was, is your glamorous wife still around? But I held it back with all the force I could muster. It was none of my business if Romilly was waiting to drag him to bed when he got back.