Page 47 of A Scottish Country Escape

Dexter’s bemused attention flicked from the chair beside him to the one I sat myself down in which was at a safe distance. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged. ‘I don’t know how much longer I can carry on like this.’

A desperate edge took over his bright-blue eyes. ‘It’s not the financial security I’m concerned about. I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s wonderful my books sell so well. But I miss not being able to write. It’s not like I want to write. It’s more that I have to, if that makes sense. It’s all I know and all I’ve ever wanted to do.’

I listened, touched by his honesty and worry. ‘It does make sense.’

He dragged a hand down his face. ‘Maybe you’re right, Elle. Perhaps this isn’t a curse. Maybe I’m losing my touch and at the back of my mind I’m trying to find an excuse rather than face up to it.’

I stared over at him. ‘Don’t say that.’ I leant forward in my chair. ‘This doesn’t sound like you at all, Dexter.’

He sighed. ‘It took me a long time to get published. I have some real howlers stashed away and a pile of rejection letters from publishers and agents that could paper half of Hawk West Hall. It’s all I ever wanted to do.’ His shoulders sank further. ‘I just can’t begin to imagine not writing anymore.’

My breath lodged in my throat for him. ‘We won’t give up. Let’s track down Linda Carlucci and take it from there. Sound like a plan?’

His full lips hinted at a grateful smile. ‘It’s a plan.’

I realised he was studying me again from under his lashes and I gave myself a mental shake. ‘Right. So, I wondered if it might be worth putting an advert in the local paper, asking if anyone knows of Linda Carlucci’s whereabouts?’

Dexter considered this. ‘Anything is worth a shot.’ He let out a long, slow sigh. ‘And I’m more than happy to put up a generous reward for finding her.’

Oh god. He looked so forlorn and lost sitting there, his handsome, haunted poet’s face etched with worry. Without thinking, I shot out my hand. My fingers closed around his. He had short, square nails and his skin was warm and welcoming.

Oh shit! What am I doing?

I snatched my hand back across the table, as if he’d just burnt me. What’s gotten into me?

Dexter examined his hand for a moment, as if wondering whether I did really just touch him there a moment ago. He took a few moments to answer. ‘Let’s give it a try.’

I ignored the long look he was giving me.

‘Good! We can come up with the wording now, if you like.’

‘Elle…’

Relief swamped me as the shop phone let out a series of sharp rings.

I felt sorry for Dexter. Yes. That’s what it was. I had reached out my hand to comfort him, as I would have done with anyone else. I was being empathetic. That was all.

I kept my back turned away from him to conceal the scalding heat in my face. My grandmother’s experience with Lorenzo played on a continuous loop in my head, like those concussion stars in a Tom & Jerry cartoon. She was still carrying hurt and regret, even after all those years. And look what happened between Lloyd and me. I had trusted him, loved him, and yet he hadn’t been there for me when I needed him most. I wasn’t prepared to put myself through that again.

I snatched up the silver and black phone receiver on top of the kitchen cupboard. My voice sounded as though it belonged to someone else. ‘Good afternoon, Paper Roses. How can I help?’

I kept my back turned away from Dexter’s charged gaze.

I spoke again into the phone, longing for something to break the tension in the shop. My voice was disembodied; strangulated. Why did I have to touch his hand? Why didn’t I make some understanding noises instead?

My iPod was channelling some classic Sir Elton John, but the track was fizzling to an end, which made the atmosphere throb even more.

I snatched a glance over at Dexter before turning my attention to my pink and white framed cork notice board, bearing pinned reminders of the bin collection dates, phone numbers for our main suppliers, and ripped pages from a catalogue in which I’d spotted Advent beauty calendars.

His dark expression was unfathomable.

It was one of the greetings card reps calling to ask if I might be interested in checking out their new range of West Highland terrier themed products.

I turned around with an apologetic smile for Dexter and to reassure him I wouldn’t be a minute.

I need not have bothered.

His chair was empty. Dexter had gone.