He looks up, eyes still a little heavy with sleep—and unfairly attractive.
“Like a baby,” he says with a smile. “You?”
“Great,” I lie smoothly, impressing even myself.
“Good. Roads are clear,” he adds, lifting his phone slightly. “We can head back whenever we want.”
A small, inconvenient part of me—the one I’d rather not analyze too closely—is disappointed. Like I’d secretly hoped we’d be stuck here a little longer.
“Great,” I repeat, with slightly less conviction.
He gives me a curious look but doesn’t comment. Instead, he stands and stretches, and I very deliberately look away from the way his T-shirt pulls across his muscles. Apparently, my brain has clocked out and left my hormones in charge.
Breakfastat the lodge is a full traditional Scottish spread that briefly restores my faith in the universe—eggs, bacon, black pudding, haggis, and those little oatcakes my grandmother insists on calling bannocks.
Alistair and I eat in comfortable silence, watching the other guests—fellow storm refugees.
The elderly couple from last night waves us over from their table.
“So, how was your first almost-honeymoon night?” the woman asks with a conspiratorial wink.
I nearly choke on my tea. Alistair, of course, remains perfectly composed.
“Very restful, thank you,” he says smoothly, flashing that devastating smile. “The suite is beautiful.”
“Oh, we know!” Rory chimes in. “We stayed there for our anniversary last year. And that bathtub—” he adds with a knowing look.
My face burns. Of course they think we used that ridiculous two-person tub.
“We… mostly enjoyed the view,” I manage.
“Oh, the view is spectacular,” the woman agrees. “Especially from the bathtub!”
Alistair coughs into his napkin, shoulders shaking. He’s enjoying this far too much.
“We should probably get going,” I say, standing abruptly. “Long drive ahead.”
“Of course, of course,” she says. “But before you leave, you must take a walk to the loch. It’s stunning after a storm—and there’s an old shepherd’s shelter with the most romantic view.”
Twenty minutes later,I’m hiking along a narrow path beside Alistair, breathing in crisp Highland air that smells like heather and wet grass.
The landscape is breathtaking—lush green hills glowing under a deep blue sky, streaked with fast-moving clouds.
“She was right,” Alistair says, taking it all in. “It’s incredible.”
“Mmh,” I murmur, trying not to notice how close we’re walking—close enough that our hands occasionally brush.
After a few minutes of silence, he speaks again.
“I’ve been thinking about what we talked about last night. And about those documents I found.”
“Oh?”
“I think we should keep digging—together. There’s something we’re missing. That whole treasure reference… it doesn’t feel like a coincidence.”
I turn to him, surprised by his tone.
“You really think there was something between our families? Something bigger than a business feud?”
