Page 79 of A Secret Scottish Escape

She was like something out of a Rubens painting, all creamy skin and voluptuous curves.

Dad made me jump as he sprang to his feet like he’d just received an electrical charge. His eyes were widening so much they were at risk of falling out of his face.

“Layla?” she asked in a dusky voice.

“That’s me,” I grinned, walking towards her and offering an outstretched hand. “You must be Molly.”

“And I’m Harry Devlin, Layla’s Dad.”

I buried a smile at the sight of my blushing father, eagerly thrusting his hand towards Molly.

She drank in my dad. “Hello Harry. Very nice to meet you.” Her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners and as I stood there, observing their exchange of flushed smiles, I estimated her to be in her early to mid-forties.

“So,” I exclaimed, clapping my hands together, “I take it the drinks and snacks menus are in that box?”

“They sure are.”

Molly flushed with appreciation as I thanked her for the sign and pointed up at it above the entrance. “I love it. It’s perfect.”

“It certainly is,” insisted Dad, bathing Molly in a million-dollar smile.

Molly’s appreciative blush deepened. “Thank you. That’s lovely to hear.”

She snapped the white cardboard lid from the box and handed it to me. “I produced a total of twenty in all,” she explained, “but have only charged you mate’s rates for the dozen you ordered originally, because you know Alec.”

She shot a glance up at my dad. “I think it’s always better to have too many than not enough, especially in somewhere like a bar.”

“Oh absolutely,” nodded Dad. In fact, he was nodding so much he was in danger of giving himself a crick in the neck.

Molly could have told my father that she was the getaway driver for a criminal mastermind and he would have congratulated her.

I shot Dad a knowing look and pulled the drinks and snacks menus out. “Oh, it’s lovely!”

Molly had made it a long, parchment-like affair in soft vanilla, complete with gold lettering.

All our offerings were on there, dancing in front of my eyes in sweeping, looping text – everything from our Irish coffee with a distinct, Scottish whisky twist and roasted coffee from Costa Rica and Guatemala, to loose leaf teas, and rich drams and amber ales that made the tastebuds pop.

Below the beverages section was a choice of Scottish-inspired snacks: Dunsyre blue cheese with oatcakes; Scottish smoked salmon & avocado fromage; shrimp bites with salad, and pear & parmesan honey crostini.

For a sweet tooth, I’d decided to offer pecan or butter shortbread, marmalade cake, and Scottish snowball drop cakes, all of which would be the perfect accompaniment to a cup of strong coffee or a pot of tea.

Molly enthused about the tasty treats. She pointed a finger and said, “It’s making me hungry just reading that again.”

I frowned down at the list. “I hope I’ve covered all the bases. I want tourists to get a flavour of Scotland, but I didn’t want to go all out on the food front. After all, The Conch Club is supposed to be about the music and the location.”

“Don’t worry about that,” assured Dad, still gazing at Molly’s open, pretty features. “You can always tweak the food side of things later if you have to.”

“Totally,” agreed Molly, her cheeks fizzing at my father’s undivided attention.

I marvelled again at the glittery lettering and the impression of a conch shell that Molly had painted in the top right corner. All the colours complimented the palette she had used for the main sign.

“Oh, excuse me,” I rushed as my phone rang and Faith’s picture flashed up on my screen. “I won’t be a minute.”

Dad appeared only too delighted to have Molly to himself, so I left them chatting and sidled down the steps to plonk myself on a random rock. “I take it you got my text OK?”

“I did, and I have some news of your mysterious Australian lady.”

My heart fluttered. “And I’ve got some news for you too.”