Page 73 of A Secret Scottish Escape

“Pretty house,” he said over the rim of his mug.

I cleared my throat, wondering what Heather would make of the sight of her musical hero drinking coffee in my sitting room. No doubt she would spontaneously combust.

“How is your wrist now?”

I caught a flicker of Mask’s spidery lashes as he glanced down at where he had cut himself. The plaster was gone and the skin was healing nicely.

“I don’t think I’ll lose the use of my arm, if that’s what you mean.”

I sighed in frustration. “Do you always have to be so grouchy?”

“And do you always have to be so neighbourly?”

I was sure I caught a glimmer of a smile teasing his lips.

I took a sip of my coffee, enjoying the rich taste. “So has everything been OK since the other night?”

Mask’s mug screeched to a halt halfway to his lips. “Is this your way of trying to find out what happened that evening?”

“I’m sorry?”

Mask clattered his mug down on my glass-topped coffee table. The banter between us had vanished. “Is this what the coffee and cosy chat is all about? Inviting me in for an interrogation?”

My lips parted in shock. “No, of course not! I was only making conversation.”

“Next you’ll be asking me about my scar and why I wear these things.” He tugged at his hoodie for effect. “I don’t do touchy-feely,” he ground out. “Only music helps me cope with my guilt and even then—”

His shoulders stiffened as he realised what he had said.

Mask snatched his mug back up and took a final large gulp. “Thank you for the coffee, Ms Devlin. I really should be going.”

I sat there, stunned, as he stormed out of my house.

Chapter Thirty-Five

I hurried to my front door and jerked it open.

Mask’s truck was already indicating right out of my drive and then set off down the lane in a streak of black gloss.

What was he hiding? What guilt?

I closed my eyes for a moment in frustration. Shit. I hadn’t meant to touch on something sensitive.

Feeling annoyed with myself, I noticed Mask’s note propped up against the vase on my hall table.

I picked up the white envelope and eased it open. It contained one sheet of expensive-looking writing paper. It made a brief whisper as I unfolded it and began to read:

Layla,

Please accept my apologies for my attitude the other evening.

I realise that you were only showing concern and I should have shown my gratitude.

As you might have guessed, I don’t find it easy to express my emotions – that’s where my music comes in.

Hope you are continuing to enjoy the exclusive CDs I gave you and that they are warmly received on the opening night of The Conch Club.

Wishing you every success,