Page 76 of The Cottage in the Highlands

I stuck my tongue out, even though he couldn’t see me. “We aren’t all heartless bastards, you know. I keep telling you that.”

“Perhaps you’re right. I’m beginning to discover that at least one journalist in particular is full of surprises.” His voice had become a little softer.

I clamped my phone harder to my ear, not sure that I had heard him correctly.

He broke through my skittering, confused thoughts with a cough. “So, you’re meeting my grandmother at 11am on Saturday?”

“Yes. At her hotel. She’s staying at The Fontaine.”

“Very nice. Well, you won’t be going alone.”

“Aren’t I?”

“No,” he growled. “I’m coming with you. I want to know what the hell is going on with my family. There’ve been enough secrets.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

I could see the top of Flynn’s dark swept-back curls above the festive shoppers and meandering families, the children pink-faced and jumping about with excitement at the sight of the glittery Glasgow Christmas lights and the shop windows bursting with foil-wrapped presents.

My stomach wriggled, catching me unawares.

I dismissed the sensation and adjusted the collar of my smart brown coat instead. Behind me, the Fontaine Hotel glistened in a maze of buttery brick and mullioned glass.

Flynn stared for longer than necessary at my bottle-green knitted dress and brown ankle boots. I found my cheeks heating up as he studied me.

“You look very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

In reality, I’d found myself agonising over what to wear, with a bemused Harley watching me from the top of my bed.

I had rifled through everything in my wardrobe, dismissing countless outfit combinations from flared trousers and pussy-bow shirts to one of my ankle-length skirts and a high-necked blouse, before finally settling on this one.

Trying to impress a certain someone? an amused inner voice had tormented me, whilst I’d applied my lipstick and frothed up my curls.

Not at all, I’d hissed back, my cheeks flaring. I was about to meet the ex-wife of one of the country’s most iconic artists. I had to look presentable. Yes, that was it.

My eyes appreciated Flynn’s navy-blue shirt and light trousers under his long military style coat. His hair was still a bit damp from his shower.

I whizzed my attention back to the hotel, determined not to linger on the images of Flynn and showers. All of this – whatever it was – was just an uneasy truce of sorts. He was learning that he could trust me and I had discovered he wasn’t quite so much of an arrogant cretin as I first thought.

That was as far as it went. End of.

“When was the last time you saw or spoke to your grandmother?”

“I saw her a couple of months ago, when she came over on one of her flying visits.”

“So, you’re close to her then?”

Flynn pulled an ironic face. “I don’t know if you could ever get close to Astrid.”

When I frowned, he ushered me into the hotel reception. “Once you’ve met her, you’ll see what I mean.”

It was all white and hessian interior, with sumptuous Christmas decorations and bouquets of festive flowers in deep reds and creams thrusting out of tall gold vases.

A huge white and silver Christmas tree, like something out of Narnia, welcomed guests in the foyer.

My attention was drawn to an immaculately attired willowy lady with a curtain of ghost-grey shoulder-length hair. She was dressed in a long tunic and matching wide-legged trousers, topped with a set of shiny wooden beads.