Page 31 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

He was sitting on the lawn to the rear of the house, the evening sun on his face, and since there were no neighbours within disturbing-distance, he could play his music as loud as he wanted. Unfortunately, though, it failed to drown out his thoughts.

Staring vacantly across the loch, he tried to work out why he was feeling so damned miserable. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know that Freya had a boyfriend. He’d known all along. So why had seeing them together disturbed him so much?

Was it because he was disappointed that she didn’t have better taste in men? No – although he was, and she should have. The guy was a dick, but why should that make any difference?

Unless… Cal’s words floated through Mack’s mind, and he finally acknowledged that they’d hit their mark. What Mack felt for Freya was more than lust, desire and attraction.

He liked her, damn it. He liked her one hell of a lot. He liked her so much that if she wasn’t buggering off soon, he would have made a serious play for her. The kind of play that he’d never made for any woman. The playing-for-keeps kind of play. He liked her that much.

He would have had to get rid of the boyfriend first – which mightn’t have been too much of a problem, since Mack was here and the boyfriend was six hundred miles away. But what happened to his rule of staying clear of attached women?

Aware that if Freya hadn’t been leaving soon, he would have broken that rule, Mack didn’t like himself right now.

How could he be this miserable over a woman he hardly knew and hadn’t even kissed – although those two things weren’t mutually exclusive, as he’d kissed quite a few women whom he’d hardly known and had thoroughly enjoyed it.

He should eat something before he drank any more whisky. He wasn’t hungry, but he could feel the effects of the single malt on an empty stomach, and knew he’d be three sheets to the wind if he wasn’t careful.

Oh, who cared? If he wanted to get drunk, he would.

The upside of being single and living alone was having no one to answer to.

No one would give him the look he’d seen Angus’s missus give to Angus when he’d had one too many.

No one would tell him he’d had enough. He could get absolutely bladdered if he wanted, and no one would say a word.

The downside of not having anyone to ply him with painkillers, tea and sympathy in the morning was a small price to pay.

There was no point in being miserable, since he didn’t want to be tied down anyway.

He’d hate it. He liked his life fine, just the way it was, so why was he busy drowning sorrows he didn’t want?

Married life wasn’t for him, so there was no need to cry over spilt milk when he had no intention of drinking the stuff anyway.

He needed food. And he needed to pour the rest of this glass of whisky down the sink and not down his throat.

He wasn’t drunk yet but he soon would be, and although he didn’t mind getting plastered once in a while, he preferred to do it in good company and for a good reason.

Getting pissed over a woman wasn’t reason enough.

Maybe he wouldn’t dispose of the whisky just yet, though. It would be a shame to waste it. He’d eat first, give himself time to sober up, then finish it later.

Irritated by the music, he switched it off and the sudden silence was deafening: not even a bird tweeted. Perhaps his feathery friends didn’t like The Stones?

Going inside, he put the tumbler on the counter in the kitchen and made his way a tad unsteadily towards the bathroom.

As he did so, a flash of red outside the front of the house stopped him in his tracks.

Freya’s little red van was parked beside his truck, and Mack’s heart lurched.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite as tipsy, and questions danced through his mind. Why was she here? Had she brought Dickwad with her? Was she currently packing up her stuff?

There was only one way to find out… And if Hadrian Loud-Mouth was with her, Mack might be tempted to order the bastard off his property.

However, Freya was alone.

She was seated on the stool at the workbench with a ball of clay in her hands. She was working it, turning and pinching the material, absorbed in her task.

He didn’t think she was aware of his presence until she said, ‘Do you always play music that loud?’

Mack stepped inside. She didn’t look up when he replied, ‘No.’

‘“Angie”, eh?’

‘It suited my mood.’ He moved closer. ‘You’re not normally here in the evenings.’

‘No, I’m not.’ There was a hitch in her voice. Could she be upset? Might she have had a row with her boyfriend? Probably not; from where Mack had been standing, they’d looked pretty cosy.

He said, ‘You’re busy. I’ll get out of your hair.’

She didn’t say anything, but when her shoulders began to shake, he realised she was crying.

In three strides, he was at her side. Crouching, he peered up at her. She had her face in her hands.

‘Has he hurt you?’ Mack demanded.

‘Who?’

‘Your boyfriend. Freya, look at me – has he hurt you?’

Head bowed, she let her hands drop. Her cheeks were damp and her eyes brimmed with tears.

Mack had never felt such rage. The sight of her distress made him want to tear the bastard limb from limb and feed the wee gobshite to the fishes.

‘I’ll kill him,’ he muttered.

‘He hasn’t hurt me.’

‘So what’s wrong? Is it your dad? Please don’t tell me he’s had another fall.’

‘He’s fine. It’s just…’ Her chin wobbled and she bit her lip. ‘Hadrian accused me of lying about Dad’s fall so I could come up here and work on new pieces.’

‘That’s not fair. He only has to take one look at him to know you’re not making it up.’

She drew in a juddering breath. ‘It’s kind of true, though. Look at me; I’m here having fun when I should be at home looking after my dad!’

‘Vinnie wouldn’t want you fussing around him all day. It would drive him mad. And it’s not as though you haven’t been looking after him, because you have .’

‘But there’s more. You see, Hadrian didn’t know about the offer from New York. He’d heard a rumour, but I don’t think he believed it until I told him we were over.’

‘What?’

‘I broke up with him this evening. That’s why he said those things.’

Mack reeled at the news. His heart thumped and a treacherous glimmer of hope flared in his chest. She was free, which meant—

Realisation doused his hope. She was still going to New York, whether she had a boyfriend or not.

Pulling himself together, he said, ‘He’s hurting. Love can make people do or say things they don’t really mean.’

‘He doesn’t love me.’

It was a bald statement, and his heart went out to her.

He cast around for something to say, but all he could come up with was, ‘I’m sorry, Freya. No wonder you broke up with him.’

Her lips twitched into the smallest of smiles. ‘I didn’t break up with him because he doesn’t love me. I broke up with him because I didn’t love him .’

It took Mack a second to process it. ‘You don’t love him?’

‘No. I feel awful, because we’ve been together two years, but I don’t love him. I’m not sure I even like him.’

Mack was utterly positive that he didn’t. ‘You’re not crying because you split up?’ he clarified. ‘You’re upset because you think you’re not taking good care of your dad?’

She nodded.

‘You muppet.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re working yourself into a tizzy because some wee gobshite who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow has made you doubt that you’re taking good care of your father? What does he know?’

‘It’s what I know.’ She tapped her chest.

Mack threw his hands up. ‘Shall we go ask Vinnie what he thinks?’

‘Definitely not!’

‘Because you know he’ll tell you that you’re making Ben Nevis out of a bloody molehill.

So what if you take an hour or two for yourself now and again?

So what if being back on Skye has fired your imagination?

It’s not an either/or thing, Freya. You can look after your dad and still have ideas, and work on them if the opportunity allows. ’

Freya was staring at him, her mouth open. ‘That’s some speech.’ She sniffed. ‘Is that whisky I can smell?’

‘It is. If you didn’t want me to drink it, you shouldn’t have given it to me.’

‘Is there any left?’

‘I haven’t drunk it all.’

She sniffed again. ‘You’ve had a good go.’

‘I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re hinting at. I’ve had two.’

‘Large ones?’

‘If you’re gonna have one, have a proper one, not a piddling thimbleful.’ He struggled to his feet, his knees stiff and his thigh muscles cramping from crouching for so long. ‘Shall I bring a glass out to you?’

‘Do you mind if I drink it inside?’

‘Not at all. Do you mind if I have one with you?’

‘I was hoping you would. Drinking on your own is a bit sad.’ Freya pulled a face. ‘Oops – I didn’t mean to imply that you’re sad because you’re drinking on your own.’ Her eyes widened. ‘You are on your own, aren’t you? I haven’t interrupted anything?’

Nah, just him trying to drown the sorrow of knowing that Freya Sinclair was out of bounds.

She wasn’t out of bounds now , though. She was very much in bounds. Whether he acted on it depended on whether he wanted to risk being rebuffed. Or being hurt, because he had a suspicion that this woman had the power to hurt him badly.

So maybe it was best to leave things as they were, he told himself, as he poured her a tumbler and topped up his own glass.

Unfortunately, he failed to heed his own advice.