Page 126 of A Secret Scottish Escape

I forced out a laugh. “Oh, it wasn’t like that. We were friends, that’s all.”

Dad fell silent, before managing a simple, “Right.”

I didn’t want to prolong this conversation. It was making me conjure up images of Rafe greedily kissing me and his breathing growing ragged as I cupped my hand against his scarred cheek.

I had been so bloody stupid, reading into the situation and seeing things that simply weren’t there. I was inconsequential to Rafe. What I had thought we had didn’t exist. It didn’t matter. I didn’t matter.

I pressed my eyelids closed. I had to keep busy and put all that in the past. I was going to tear myself up inside if I didn’t. I had to take on board the advice I’d given Hazel. I arranged a tight smile on my face, even though Dad couldn’t see me. “Anyway, I’d better go. I’ve got more emails to check.”

“Sure. I know you’re up against it before the big opening.”

There was an uneasy silence between us again.

“Enjoy your romcom,” I said with fake joviality. “Please say hi to Molly for me and don’t eat all the popcorn.”

“Oh, I won’t. I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

Dad started to ask me again if I was all right, but I couldn’t answer.

I sat still for a few moments after having ended the call, blinking back the hurt in my eyes and willing images of Rafe to go away.

The wounded part of me didn’t want to play those sodding songs of his on the opening Saturday night, but I knew I was being childish. I had a new business I wanted to make a success of. I had to deliver on my promises, no matter what.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

The remainder of August was a blur of repeated visits to the boathouse to check on the arrival of stock and have informal meetings with my new members of staff, not to mention confirming arrangements for opening night, such as the delivery of lights, catering, and the arrival of the marquee.

I was also very enthusiastic about seeing the team modelling the new Conch Club outfits I’d ordered for them.

Danielle had tipped me off about one of her friends, Rachel, who was a fashion student in Glasgow. She was keen to earn some extra cash, and I was keen to secure a smart and easily washable work outfit for my staff at a competitive rate.

I wanted a simple, classy design for the team to wear that didn’t look like a uniform. So Rachel came up with a black, long-sleeved shirt for the guys, shot with discreet silver stripes and slim-fitting dress trousers.

For the girls, strappy black tops overlaid with a little bolero and teamed with a knee-length pencil skirt bearing the same silver pattern as their male colleagues’ shirts.

There was unanimous agreement that, as they would be constantly on their feet, black loafers would be the most sensible option.

When they emerged from the boathouse toilets, strutting and putting on exaggerated pouts (and that was just the guys) I beamed with satisfaction. They all looked dapper and professional, but still approachable.

Faith was a godsend, dealing with any last-minute emails that she could on my behalf, while she kept the tourist office ticking over.

Even Danielle, known for her somewhat scatty approach to work, was a great help too, stepping in and handling the tourist office so that Faith could help me.

I hadn’t received any more text messages from Rafe since our kiss, and that suited me fine. Or at least, that’s what I kept trying to convince myself.

My heart tempted me to contact him, even if it was simply to establish why he was thinking of moving away. But as soon as I eyed my phone, my pride would kick in and my head would scream, Don’t you dare! He didn’t even have the decency to tell you himself that he was considering moving.

Dad had an eventful date with Molly, even if he did fall asleep for the last ten minutes of the movie and missed Ryan Reynolds sweeping his love interest away in a speedboat.

My father had been horrified, but Molly had dismissed his snores with a wide grin and they’d been out together a dozen more times since then.

“I hope Molly’s coming along on the big night,” I told him.

He assured me that she was. “I’m intending to impress her with my rock star moves.”

“Well, just make sure you don’t take forty winks in the middle of your set.”

On the Thursday evening, two nights before the grand opening, I was nursing a glass of ruby-red wine and dashing off the last few paragraphs of my phone interview with a local breeder of prize-winning birds to submit to a commissioning features editor.