Page 32 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

Whisky, a sunset and an incredibly sexy man didn’t mix, Freya concluded, staring at the bottom of her glass.

She would dearly like another, but she didn’t trust herself.

Although she was fairly certain Mack didn’t think of her as anything more than a friend, it didn’t stop her from fantasising about running her hands over his chest or pressing her body against his.

She’d managed to keep such lascivious thoughts in check until now, but finding herself suddenly single seemed to have set them free, so the last thing she wanted was to have too much to drink and make a fool of herself by throwing herself at him – after all, as well as her lustful thoughts, she also had her heart to consider.

Becoming involved with Mack, no matter how fleeting the encounter, would be a serious mistake, as she couldn’t shake the suspicion that he would be an easy man to fall in love with.

However, with the likelihood of having any kind of relationship with him being so small, it was pointless even thinking about it.

Or was it?

Once or twice, she could have sworn she’d felt a connection, seen a spark of interest in his eyes. It came and went so quickly that she’d assumed she’d imagined it.

What if she hadn’t? What if he did fancy her? What if, what if, what if…

None of the what ifs in the world would make the least bit of difference, because she had no intention of acting on any of them.

She’d be better off concentrating her attention on her dad, her work and her new job in the States.

The contract had finally come through and she was more than happy with it, so it was all systems go and she was becoming increasingly excited.

Aw, but look at him… Mack was bloody gorgeous. And the nicest thing was that he didn’t know it – unlike Hadrian, who was well aware how handsome he was.

The two men couldn’t be more different, and she knew which one was responsible for getting her knickers in a twist – and it wasn’t the slick, confident, well-dressed, over-styled artist.

Mack broke into her thoughts. ‘Do you want a refill?’

‘Better not. I should be getting back. Dad will wonder where I am.’ Actually, he probably wouldn’t be wondering at all. He was fully expecting her to be out all evening and possibly all night, too. As if she’d do that, with him still needing her to keep an eye on him.

‘I’ll walk you back.’

‘Oh, hell, I’d forgotten I’ll have to walk.’

‘It’s not far.’

She glanced down at her feet. Mack followed her gaze. ‘Ah,’ he said.

While she wasn’t wearing ridiculously high heels, they were high enough, and she didn’t fancy walking any distance in them. She should have worn her trusty old Doc Martens, posh castle or no posh castle.

‘I’ve got some wellies you can borrow…’ Mack began, then trailed off as she stared at his feet. ‘Or maybe not.’

His feet were considerably larger than hers. It didn’t matter that she’d look like a kid in her mum’s boots; the issue was that she wouldn’t be able to manage more than a shuffle.

‘It might work with four pairs of socks?’ he suggested.

‘How about ten?’

‘You’re winding me up.’

‘I’m guessing the taxi situation isn’t any better than it was when we were kids?’

‘Nope. If we phone now, we might get one before midnight and that’s assuming a cab will come all the way from Portree.’

‘I’ll have to take my chances and walk,’ she said, hoping her feet wouldn’t be rubbed raw by the time she got home.

‘No, you won’t. I’ll phone Cal or Angus.’ He pulled a face and Freya guessed he wasn’t keen on phoning either. ‘Or my mum,’ he added. ‘She’ll come fetch you.’

Freya shook her head firmly. ‘I’ll walk. It’ll sober me up.’

‘You’re not drunk.’

She wasn’t, and neither was he. She’d noticed that he’d been nursing his whisky, not gulping it. Still, it was kind of him to let her intrude on his evening. She hadn’t meant to burst into tears, and she wasn’t the weepy type, but the stress of the past month had finally caught up with her.

She had to admit that she felt better for having had a little cry, and the restorative whisky had also helped. So had Mack. His calm support had been just what she’d needed to help her see reason and get her back on an even keel.

‘We’ll take it slow,’ Mack said and Freya bit her lip, trapping in the ‘Yes, please,’ she’d almost let slip, as the thought of an entirely different kind of slow to the one he’d meant popped naughtily into her mind.

Dear God, she shouldn’t have drunk that whisky on an empty stomach. Lunch, even though it had been a late one, had been hours ago.

‘Do you need anything before we set off?’ Mack asked.

Hmm, yeah, you . ‘Such as?’

‘Is there anything in your van you can’t live without until tomorrow?’

Oh . ‘No, nothing.’

‘Hang on, I’ll grab some plasters. There’s some in the first-aid kit.’

She hovered in the hall while he rummaged through the bathroom cabinet. ‘You’ve got a first-aid kit?’

‘Hasn’t everyone?’

Not really. Hadrian hadn’t.

Mack emerged from the bathroom with several plasters in his hand. ‘Do you think these will be enough?’

‘Plenty. I hope.’ If they weren’t, her feet would be in serious trouble.

They set off at a gentle stroll, Freya thinking that this wasn’t so bad. The shoes weren’t uncomfortable as such, she simply wasn’t used to walking any distance in them. That was what her Doc Martens and trainers were for.

‘I saw you at the castle,’ Mack said. ‘You were in the lounge.’

Surprised, Freya gave him a sideways look. ‘I didn’t see you .’

‘You were busy.’

‘Ah.’ She took it to mean that he’d seen her with Hadrian. How embarrassing. ‘Did you manage to book a table?’ she asked.

‘Um, not really. I wasn’t sure when you would be free.’

A thought caught her off-guard, coming out of left field, and she stumbled. Mack’s arm immediately snapped around her waist, keeping her upright.

‘Are you OK?’

Oh, God, that felt so good, and she leant into him. ‘I think so.’

‘You haven’t twisted your ankle or anything?’

She was so tempted to say yes. ‘No, I’m fine.’

He released her, and she breathed out slowly, her body tingling. She was left with the impression of arms of steel, a solid, muscular chest, and a woody cologne filling her nostrils.

Reluctantly, she resumed walking, aware that there was still some way to go and that her heel was already rubbing. She’d have to ask him for a plaster soon.

What was it she’d been thinking that had made her stumble? Oh, yes: Mack, the castle, him seeing her with Hadrian, two glasses of whisky, and ‘Angie’ playing at full volume… She was joining the dots, but the picture didn’t make sense.

‘Ouch!’ Stopping abruptly, she grabbed hold of his arm for balance and reached down, easing off her shoe. A blister the size of a dinner plate had formed on her heel. Sod it.

‘I’m going to need a plaster,’ she said.

He peered at her foot. ‘More than one.’ He took the plasters out of his pocket while she wobbled precariously on one foot. ‘It’ll be easier if you sit down,’ he suggested.

She lowered herself onto the verge, thinking it was lucky the grass was dry, and grabbed her ankle, trying to get a better look at the offending heel.

‘Let me.’ Mack sat beside her and took her foot in his hands.

Freya let out a squeak.

‘Did that hurt?’

‘Ticklish,’ she managed. But it wasn’t ticklish she felt, it was lust. His touch was soft, almost a caress, and it sent shock waves through her.

He tightened his grip, his hold not as gentle but equally as erotic. ‘Is that better?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I think two should do it.’

She watched him peel the backing off the plasters, and almost squeaked again when he stroked them gently into place.

‘How is your other foot looking?’ he asked.

‘Fine, I think.’

‘Let’s make sure. Take your shoe off.’

Freya did as he instructed.

‘Hmm, I think we’d better put a plaster on this one as well.’

Having him fondle her other foot was almost too much, but she kept as still as she could while he ministered to her, and when he finished and stood up, she exhaled slowly.

Stress. That was it – stress. There was no other explanation. And maybe the whisky. Except… she’d never got drunk on a single glass before. She was a Scot, for goodness’ sake – she’d grown up with the stuff.

Mack held out his hand. She took it and he hauled her to her feet.

Upright once more and with her shoes on, she wondered whether she’d had some kind of episode, because a reaction like that to something as unglamorous as having a blister tended to wasn’t normal.

Maybe she was having a breakdown. Or maybe she simply needed a slice of toast, a cup of tea and an early night.

Freya tried her best not to limp, but it was hard not to.

Even with the plasters, both heels were sore and getting worse.

Damn these blasted shoes. She didn’t even like them much.

In fact, when she got home, the first thing she was going to do was put them in the bin.

If her dad still had an open fire in the sitting room, she would have burnt them.

‘We’ll cut through the castle grounds,’ Mack suggested. ‘It’ll be quicker than taking the road. It’ll be rougher underfoot, though. Unless… You could wait at the castle, and I’ll run to yours and fetch you some proper shoes?’

‘Ones I can actually walk in, you mean?’

He chuckled. ‘Aye.’

Freya thought of Hadrian inside those walls, probably still in the lounge, drinking. ‘No, thanks. I’ll be OK. It’s not far.’

‘It’s far enough.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ she insisted.

She managed to make it to the start of the path, before she decided that she definitely wasn’t fine. If she had to walk another step in these bloody shoes, she was going to cry. So Freya did the only sensible thing – she took them off.

Mack was aghast. ‘You can’t walk home barefoot!’

‘Watch me.’

‘I’ll be damned if I will! Come here.’

Freya wasn’t prepared for being scooped off her feet and she let out a shriek as he swept her into his arms.

‘Put me down!’ she cried, but all he did was tighten his grip.