Page 95 of A Secret Scottish Escape

Mask dropped his eyes for a few seconds before looking back up at me. “You look a little tired. Why don’t you go and take a seat in my spare room for a few minutes?”

“But the guys back at the campsite will be wondering where we are.”

Mask rose from his kitchen stool, all long legs and flashing eyes. “I’ll drop you both back there once you’ve recovered a bit.”

My fingers reached up to my face. I felt as attractive as a melting waxwork. “I’m sorry we’re causing you so much trouble.”

Mask flicked me a look I couldn’t decipher. “Not at all. I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

“Thank you.”

He eased open the kitchen door and we both went along the hall to the sitting room. Ed was still sprawled on Mask’s sofa like a puppet on invisible strings.

He let out a snort.

“A vision of loveliness,” muttered Mask dryly.

There was a closed door back down the hallway and to the left of the kitchen. I’d spotted it before, assuming it was a cloakroom or cupboard.

Mask popped the gilded handle and guided me into his spare room, which was more like a music studio.

There was a small window at the back wall with the obligatory blind, but it was hitched halfway up. Milky light fed through, striking a piano in the corner, as well as a keyboard and two guitars. A microphone, threaded on a long stand, was seated beside them.

There were notebooks stacked on top of the piano and an old quilted bottle-green armchair in front of it, as well as a traditional piano stool.

Mask angled the chair away from his piano and reached for a blue and green tartan blanket that was draped over the back of it.

He urged me to sit down and I sank into its squishy cosiness.

“Here,” he said, giving the blanket a shake and placing it over me. “It can get a little cool in this room.”

“I’m twenty-nine, not ninety-nine,” I joked.

His quizzical eyebrows shot up. “Just do as you’re told for once. An alien concept, I know, but roll with it.”

He disappeared out of the open door and returned moments later, clutching a mug of strong tea. “I’ve pepped it up with a little sugar.”

I gratefully accepted it and took a long sip. “Thank you.”

Mask nodded. “Finish your tea and then rest for a bit.”

I watched him vanish from the doorway and took several more gulps of the hot, sweet tea. It hit the back of my throat, but tasted wonderful.

Stripes of mellow sunlight shimmied by my feet.

I drained the last of the tea and placed the mug on a nearside table, before flopping my head back and shutting my eyes for a moment. Images of Mac, The Conch Club, my dad, and Ed melted together behind my eyelids.

It was only when I heard Mask’s voice that my eyes leaped open again and I pushed myself upright in the chair. I must have nodded off.

I blinked several times and pushed away the blanket. It slid off my knees and onto the carpet.

I rose out of the chair and moved towards the partially open music-room door. Ed was speaking now, his voice wafting down the hall to me. It was insistent, but Mask cut across what he was saying. “You need to do this for Layla. For her and her father.”

My mouth fell open and I leaned one shoulder against the magnolia wall. Bloody hell! Mask was speaking to Ed, and it sounded like he was trying to persuade him to play on my opening night with the rest of the guys.

I squeezed through the gap of the open door, keen not to make any unnecessary noise.

I tiptoed towards the sitting room, the breath clouding at the base of my throat. Through the narrow crack, I could see Ed sitting on the edge of Mask’s sofa with a wary expression.