Romantically speaking, my interesting bits have been in thedeep freeze ever since.
But now, staring up at my rescuer, I have the oddest feelingthat some thawing might well be taking place.
I clear my throat. ‘Sorry. It was all my fault.’ Anembarrassed laugh escapes. ‘I – erm – I think I stood on your toe.’
‘You think?’ His mouth curves with amusement and he lets goof my arm. ‘I wasn’t going to mention that. Being a gentleman and all.’
I grin. ‘But you just did. Mention it.’
‘True.’ He runs a sheepish hand over his face, lookingsuddenly rather vulnerable, and my heart performs a funny little quickstep.
Realising I’m probably full-on gawping, I clear my throat andsay the first thing that comes into my head. ‘Actually, that board was inentirely the wrong place. Don’t you think? Far too near the door. It was anaccident waiting to happen, really.’ He’s studying me with a hint of a smile,which I’m finding quite unnerving. ‘I always think hotels should have asuggestion box. So the public can give their opinion and avoid things like thishappening.’ I know I’m gabbling, but with those brilliant blue eyes trained onme, I can’t seem to shut up.Is it hot in here, or is it just me?‘Imean, it makes good business sense for the guest to have a say in the servicesprovided. Don’t you think?’
I stop and take a big breath of air, giving him a chance tospeak at last.
He smiles. ‘Aye, well, I’m sure you’re right.’ He holds outhis hand. ‘Logan Mackay. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Hi. Martha Munro.’
His hand encloses mine, firm and warm, and a little shiverruns along my arm at the contact. ‘Are you here for the writing awards?’ heasks.
I give a modest nod and Logan Mackay looks suitably impressed.
The receptionist emerges from behind the desk to sort outthe easel and the board, and Logan smiles at her and says, ‘Over there would bea good place for it.’ He indicates an empty corner of the reception area. ‘Aslong as the board’s still clearly visible from the door?’ He turns back to me andmurmurs, out of the receptionist’s earshot, ‘As Miss Munro here pointed out, itwas clearly in the wrong place to start with.’
His eyes are twinkling – I think he’s teasing me – butthat’s fine. And I’m glad he isn’t blaming the receptionist for putting theboard in the wrong place.
I’m about to ask him if he’s on the writing awards shortlist,too, but the receptionist gets in first, calling, ‘Is that better, Mr Mackay?’She smiles coyly, indicating the new position of the easel like a forecasterpointing at her weather map. And that’s when the penny drops.
‘Mr Mackay’ sticks up a thumb. ‘Thanks, Pauline.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She slips back behind the reception deskwith a dimpled smile and a little wiggle of her slim rear end.
As for me, I feel like a total numbskull.
‘Mr Mackay’ obviously works here. He’s probably in charge. DidI really just give thehotel managera lecture on how his hotel shouldbe run? (Including helpfully telling him he should have a suggestions box.)
‘I... um... I’d bettergo,’ I mumble, side-stepping away from him.
‘Of course.’ He smiles and indicates a far door. ‘The HarringtonSuite is through there.’
As I hurry away, he calls after me, ‘Best of luck, Martha. Ihope you smash it.’
I turn to nod my thanks, only to find him staring after mewith a slightly baffled expression on his face.
‘Thank you,’ I call back, and nip through the door, relievedto escape from the scrutiny of those penetrating blue eyes.
CHAPTER TWO
On that writing awards day – the day before theaccident – I was truly living my best life.
Ever since the age of nine, I’d had this urge to writestories and see them published on a bookshop shelf. But life got in the way andit wasn’t until I was made redundant from my job as a florist at the tender ageof twenty – five years ago now – that I decided now might be the time to getdown to it.
Everyone had a book in them, right?
So I set off on my quest to get published, cleaning in thelocal primary school in the evenings to pay my way at home. I knew it wouldn’tbe easy. But I’d read a quote from one of my favourite authors, who said successin writing was ten per cent talent and ninety per cent determination, and thosewords stuck. That was one thing I had in spades: determination. As well as adeep desire to create stories that would make people happy. Now, I just had tofind out if I had the talent...
I laboured long and hard over the first book I wrote. It wasthe hardest thing I’d ever done, and there were many tears and doubts mixed inwith the occasional joyfuleurekamoment along the way (usually when aplot problem seemed to miraculously resolve itself).
