Page 80 of The Cottage in the Highlands

I composed myself as he began to eat lunch. “You know you can trust me, Flynn.”

He sliced up a rasher of bacon. “Do you know something? I think I can.”

“Finally!” I joked with an exaggerated eye roll.

My heart juddered as he held my gaze again across the table. “Seriously, Leonie. I do trust you. You could have gone straight to your magazine or a newspaper about my grandfather and yet you didn’t. You kept your word. It means a lot.”

I busied myself with dissecting a strawberry.

Oh God. Don’t let your heart rule your head, Leonie. Look what happened the last time!

I paused as I pricked the strawberry with my fork. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you’ve hinted a couple of times before about having had an issue with journalists?” Then I smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m just curious. Goes with the job.”

Flynn shot me a look. At first, I wondered if he was going to answer. Then he gave a rueful half-smile.

“I was involved with a journalist a couple of years back. Her name was Rachel. I thought I could trust her, but when she discovered who some of my A-lister photography clients were, she started snooping on them, on the lookout for stories.” He shrugged. “She went behind my back, writing up some nasty articles. It lost me a number of real high-profile names and we split.”

Flynn heaved a sigh as he reflected on it again. “I felt so gullible and let down at the time. My family have always been so paranoid about reporters anyway, ever since my grandfather started doing all his street art stuff.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been hard to deal with. Trusting someone like that and then they let you down.”

Miles reared up again in my mind, but I pushed him away.

“Yes, it wasn’t a good time. The fact what Rachel did also affected my business and the faith my clients had in me wasn’t helpful either.”

“What about your parents?” I asked, moving the conversation onto other territory. “What are they like?”

“A bit detached,” he admitted. “Don’t get me wrong. I know they love me and I had a happy childhood, but I don’t think they were really cut out for all the sacrifice having a kid entails.” He chewed on a chunk of pancake. “They never liked me calling them Mum and Dad either. I’ve always known them as Diana and Carl.”

He explained that he was born in Darroch. He eyed me. “So, what about your parents?”

“My mum, Marina, is Italian and from a little town close to Palermo. She and my late grandparents moved to Scotland when she was small, as my grandfather wanted to seek out new work opportunities in the hospitality industry. My father, Ross, is Silver Ness born and bred. My mum often says he has salt water running through his veins.” I speared a strawberry with my fork. “My mum is forever insisting I need to eat more and my dad still thinks I’m eight years old and his little girl.”

Flynn smiled at this. “And what do they do?”

“Mum is a mobile hairdresser and Dad is a painter and decorator.”

Flynn’s attention travelled to my hair. “That explains why you look like one of those Botticelli girls. I wish I had my camera with me right now. The way the light is drizzling through your curls would make a stunning shot.”

My hand shot up to my wayward hair. “Your sales pitch is excellent, Mr Talbot.”

“Nope. Not a sales pitch at all. It’s true.”

I trained my attention back on my lunch. This conversation was travelling off in a direction I hadn’t envisaged – and it felt lovely.

“My hair is down to my Italian side of the family,” I explained. “That and my love of food.”

Flynn grinned over the table at me, displaying white even teeth. “I think a woman who loves her food is very sexy. I can’t be bothered with girls who sit and anguish and prod over a lettuce leaf.”

I found myself blushing. “I think I know what you mean. A passion for food often indicates a passion for other things.”

Flynn’s teasing, dark brow made me even more self-conscious when I realised what I’d said and how it could be construed. “Life,” I clarified quickly. “You know. Experiences.”

Oh, shut up Baxter, before you make even more of a tit of yourself!

I focused all my attention again on my plate in front of me.

This was so ridiculous! I was fine one minute – a perfectly normal, functioning human being. Then when I was in Flynn’s company, I was finding more and more that I was morphing into a bumbling, self-conscious sixteen-year-old again.