Page 14 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

A few seconds later, Mack pulled up alongside a house set on a hillside with views over the loch. It was a lovely spot, but Mack’s nearest neighbour probably wasn’t within screaming distance, and a frisson of unease shivered through her as Freya realised just how alone she would be with this man.

Oh, for goodness’ sake, she told herself.

She’d known Mack since they were kids. OK, she mightn’t have known him well, in that they’d never hung out together, but they’d gone to the same primary and secondary schools.

Anyway, his mum lived two doors up from her dad.

Mack was hardly a stranger or a serial killer.

She’d been living in the city too long, seeing danger around every corner.

‘Didn’t you used to live near the post office?’ she asked.

‘That was years ago. Mum sold the house when I moved out. Said it was too big for her, now she’s on her own. Carter was already married by then.’ He showed her into a little porch, and she looked around curiously.

‘Bathroom’s through that door there.’ He pointed to a door directly in front, with a set of stairs next to it.

To her right, through an open door, she could see a bedroom, and to her left was a sitting room.

When she followed him into it, she saw there was a kitchen beyond, with a boot room-cum-utility room leading off it.

The house was modern and light, with white walls, yet had a cosy feel.

She’d been expecting something rougher, more in keeping with his job maybe, and she chastised herself for being so judgemental.

‘Make yourself at home,’ he told her, unlacing his work boots. She noticed he was wearing odd socks, and the sight was strangely endearing.

Slinging her bag onto the sofa, Freya removed the fleece she was still wearing and folded it carefully. ‘Would you like me to launder it?’

‘Was it dirty?’ He looked worried.

‘No, but I’ve been wearing it, so…’ She suddenly felt its lack.

Despite not being cold, she’d found it comforting.

When he’d first given it to her, she’d felt self-conscious wearing something of his, and she hadn’t been able to prevent herself from sniffing it.

It had smelt of him. Now the fabric only smelt of the outdoors, with a vague hint of the Paco Rabanne perfume she favoured.

‘Och, it’ll be fine,’ he said.

She placed it on the arm of the sofa and wondered what to do with herself.

Mack didn’t have any such worries. ‘Let me log on to the computer and you can have a play with the photos while I fetch the prawns.’

‘Excuse me?’ Weren’t they in the kitchen, ready and waiting? Please don’t tell me he has to go out and buy some , she thought. Or worse, catch them!

‘Tavish will have dropped them off for me on his way home.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘He leaves them in the byre – the old cowshed out the back. This used to be a farmhouse long ago, you see. Anyway, I’ve got a fridge out there, just for the purpose.’

‘Ah, I see.’

‘The food will be ready in half an hour, if that’s all right?’

‘Brilliant. I’m hungry.’

‘Aye, I thought you might be. So am I.’

While he set up the computer, she scanned the room: wooden floors, log burner, battered leather sofas, artwork on the walls.

One of the pieces caught her eye. It was a stunning picture of a loch, with a small beach and mountains behind.

Made mostly of sea glass, there were also some shells, small pebbles and driftwood, and it was gorgeous.

‘There you go,’ Mack said, and gestured for her to take his seat at the computer.

He left her to it, and she was soon engrossed in the task of sifting through the photos she’d taken earlier.

Gradually, though, an enticing aroma began to distract her, until eventually it made her tummy rumble and her mouth water.

If the smell was any indication, this meal promised to be delicious.

Mack popped his head around the sitting-room door. ‘Five minutes?’

‘Perfect, I’m almost finished. Can I help with anything?’

‘It’s all under control, but thank you anyway.’

‘No, thank you . It smells divine.’

‘Wait until you taste it first, before passing judgement.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be delicious,’ she insisted, following him into the kitchen where a table only big enough for two had been laid.

‘Sit down,’ Mack said, flicking a tea towel onto his shoulder as he took the lid off a wide pan and stirred the aromatic golden contents.

Freya’s tummy gurgled loudly, and she winced. Thankfully, Mack didn’t appear to notice. He was busy dishing up the food into bowls: rice first, topped by the curry, and finished with a scattering of something green (parsley?) and a flatbread on the side.

‘Here you go.’ He placed the bowl in front of her.

Freya stared at it greedily. ‘I’m so looking forward to this.’

‘Me, too.’ He sat down opposite and picked up a fork. ‘Get stuck in.’

Freya didn’t need telling twice. She dived into her meal, almost inhaling it as it was so good.

‘Do you do much cooking?’ Mack asked, after the first few mouthfuls had been hungrily devoured.

‘When I remember. I have an awful habit of forgetting to buy groceries, or if I do buy them, I forget to cook them. I usually eat on campus when I’m at work. At home, I either grab whatever’s still in date or order in, unless…’ She ground to a halt.

‘Unless, what?’

‘Unless I’m seeing Hadrian, and then we usually eat out.’

‘Hadrian…?’

‘He’s my boyfriend.’

Mack’s expression didn’t change, but she sensed he was disappointed.

He broke off a piece of flatbread and dipped it in the sauce.

‘Been together long?’ he asked, before popping it in his mouth.

She must have imagined his disappointment, because now he just looked mildly interested.

‘A couple of years.’

‘I expect you’re missing him.’

Not as much as I should , she thought. ‘A bit, but I only saw him on Sunday, so I’ve not had much time to pine. Sometimes we don’t see each other for days.’

‘You don’t live together?’ He looked surprised.

‘My flat is on the ground floor, with a studio attached. His is a penthouse, with no room for a kiln.’

‘You have your own kiln?’ More surprise.

‘I do. It’s essential – renting space in a kiln would be impractical.’

‘Isn’t there one in the college you could use?’

‘There are several, but they’re for the students, as are the drying rooms. But even if I could use them, I wouldn’t. I need my own studio, my own kiln and my own space.’

‘I see.’

Freya could tell that he didn’t, so she explained.

‘I wouldn’t want to risk anything getting damaged, or fired at the wrong temperature, or…

Any number of things can, and do, go wrong when making pottery, and I want to try to minimise the risk, so having my own studio is essential.

My kiln has got a 500-litre capacity and weighs half a tonne.

It also needs good ventilation, so a penthouse is definitely not the place for it.

Besides, Hadrian doesn’t like that my ceramics end up all over my apartment.

He’s more of an acrylics man. Pottery is too messy for him and takes up too much space. ’

‘I see. Would you like a glass of pop? Coke, or dandelion and burdock?’

Freya laughed. ‘Do they still make that?’

‘Aye, and cherryade.’

‘Oh, God, cherryade .’ She groaned. ‘I used to love that stuff.’ And suddenly the conversation turned away from her London life, and the vagaries of her and Hadrian’s living arrangements, to the remembered tastes of childhood.

‘Old Mrs Ferkin at the corner shop used to make her own tablet,’ Freya said, after the meal was finished and Mack was cleaning it away.

She’d offered to help, but he’d turned her down with an, ‘Och, it’ll only take but a minute.’

‘Do you remember?’ she asked.

Mack grinned. ‘It was the best. I can almost taste it. Mmm, sweet, buttery, caramelly…’

‘Is caramelly even a word?’ Freya laughed. ‘Gosh, I could eat a piece of it now.’

‘I’ve got a Wagon Wheel you can have.’

‘Dandelion and burdock pop, and Wagon Wheels? What are you – ten?’

‘Hey, don’t knock it till you try it.’

‘Go on, then,’ she said, and he refilled her empty glass with more of the bubbly pop and took a Wagon Wheel out of the fridge.

‘I like them cold,’ he said. ‘Anything chocolatey has to be cold.’

‘Uh-uh.’ She shook her head. ‘Room temperature, you heathen.’

‘Chilled, Sassenach.’

‘I’m no Sassenach, as well you know!’ she objected with a laugh. ‘Have you been watching reruns of Outlander by any chance?’

‘Never seen it.’

‘You don’t know what you’re missing. Sam Heughan is to die for.’

‘I’ve heard of him. Doesn’t he make the Sassenach Whisky?’ Mack said. ‘But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not into men, so I don’t think I’m missing much.’

Oh, God – that was it! Mack Burns had a touch of Jamie Fraser about him, the longish blond hair and beard notwithstanding. An image of the Outlander actor flashed into Freya’s mind, with one of Mack and his delectable chest following hot on its heels. There wasn’t a lot to choose between them…

Abruptly, she got to her feet. ‘It’s time I made a move.’

‘Got what you need?’ He jerked his chin towards the sitting room.

‘Yes, thanks. Thank you for taking me out in the boat and for the loan of your camera.’

‘You’re welcome.’ He grabbed his work boots and stuffed his feet inside.

‘And thanks for dinner,’ she added.

‘Aye, well, we both had to eat.’

God, he even spoke like Sam Heughan. How come she hadn’t noticed it before? And those eyes: bluer than the waters of the loch on a summer’s day, they were even more arresting than the actor’s.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you home.’ And she realised she’d been wool-gathering.

Neither of them said another word until Mack pulled up outside her dad’s house.

‘Thank you,’ she said again, cringing at how formal she sounded.

‘You’re welcome.’

She noticed that he waited until she was safely inside before he drove off, and she was touched by his chivalry. Not that she was in any danger in this quiet village backstreet.