Page 43 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

Helena’s spine stiffened with loyalty. “I don’t think you should be referring to Mrs Auld like that. It’s not very professional.”

She moved out from behind the counter. She wanted him to leave. He was making her uneasy and she didn’t appreciate the way he was talking about Mrs Auld. “I think you should give me your name and the reason why you’re here, please, and I’ll pass it on to her.”

A shocked gasp from the shop doorway made Helena jump.

“Christopher! I don’t believe it! What on earth are you doing here?”

Helena watched Mrs Auld almost fall through the door when she saw the blond man. One hand flew to her mouth. She paused for a moment before picking up speed again and engulfing the stranger in a prolonged and fierce hug. She was holding onto him as if she were struggling to convince herself that he was there in the flesh. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, you’ve certainly managed that! Come here.” She planted a series of frantic kisses on his cheek. “Have you lost weight? You look a bit thinner since the last time I saw you.” Her fingers reached round and ruffled the ends of his hair snaking over his collar. “And I was going to say you need a haircut, but…”

The man rolled his eyes and smiled. “But?”

She gazed up at him. “But it suits you like that.”

Mrs Auld switched her attention back to Helena, like she had just remembered her employee was observing everything. She was flushed with happiness. “I see you two have already met.”

A creeping embarrassment crawled over Helena. Oh no… She knew him … and he knew her, very well, by the looks of things.

Helena noticed he had slid his arm around Mrs Auld’s ample waist. Dread pooled in her stomach.

“This is Christopher,” she beamed.

The man gave Helena a wink, which made her flush a deeper shade of pink. “It’s Chris, but Mum always insists on giving me my Sunday name.”

Mum?

Reading Helena’s shocked expression, Mrs Auld let out a tinkle of mischievous laughter. “Helena, I’d like you to meet my son.”

My new Cunningham Clan purple tartan curtains were delivered not long after Jake Caldwell’s departure.

I proceeded to hang them on the white curtain poles that Dad had installed for me, scooping them back in their purple ribbon tie-backs and allowing them to frame the window, like a gilded frame would enhance a painting. They complemented the white shelves and lilac walls and would add a touch of pizazz to the many window display themes I would have to come up with.

I had rung Dad, asking if he could drop by to help me put Jake Caldwell’s new painting up on the far wall. He said he could be there in about ten minutes. There was also a dodgy light fitting I wanted to ask Dad about. It had come loose and was dangling down like a jungle vine into the centre of the shop.

Moments later, there was a knock on the shop door.

I stepped back from admiring my new painting acquisition, which I’d propped up against the skirting board of the wall I wanted to put it up on. “Blimey, Dad. You were quick.”

I yanked open the door, to be confronted not by my silver-haired, craggy-faced father, but by Xander North.

“I know I might have had a bit of a rough night, Ms Harkness, but I hope I don’t look like your father.” His dark, intense looks remained impassive.

I invited him into the shop. “No. No, of course not,” I blustered, wrong-footed. “I’m expecting my father to arrive soon to help me put up that piece of art over there.”

Xander stepped further into the shop space, looking at me and unaware of the dangling light from the ceiling. “Xander! Look out!”

But it was too late. He turned his head and gave his forehead a swift bang against the silver and white light fitting. “Sod it! Ouch!”

“Oh, God! Are you all right?”

Xander had one hand on his forehead. “Yes, I’m great. Terrific, even. I’ve just walloped my forehead on this sodding thing!”

I guided him to behind the counter and ordered him to sit down on one of the two stools. “Now, where does it hurt?” As soon as I asked him that, I could have bitten off my own tongue.

“My left knee,” he growled, glowering out of one turquoise eye. “Where the hell do you think it hurts?”