Page 56 of A Scottish Country Escape

Oh god. There’s that killer smile again.

I smoothed my ponytail. ‘So why crime writing?’

His sea-blue gaze vanished somewhere into the distance for a few moments. ‘I was diagnosed as dyslexic at school, but I found poetry seemed to make sense to me somehow.’

I listened as cows in the distance let rip a series of indignant noises.

‘Maybe it was the rhythm, the word patterns… I don’t know, but I found reading it boosted my confidence. Then my dad gave me a Sydney Sheldon novel to read when I was about twelve and that was it.’

His expression brimmed with enthusiasm. ‘I knew then that I wanted to write stories of good challenging and overcoming evil. The hero triumphs over the bad guy, overcomes adversity, and wins.’ He threw me a look. ‘I found that I wasn’t bad at it either.’

I smiled. He was attempting to be modest and not making a very good job of it.

I decided not to tell him at this point that I had sought out his books on the internet. I didn’t want to appear like a groupie.

My first love was romantic comedies but his stories sounded engrossing, so I’d found myself ordering his first two novels to read.

I risked another look up at him through the sunshine, taking in his fine, dark features and long legs. I realised where my thoughts were going and pulled myself together. ‘Elsa said your parents are into horses? Sorry, that didn’t sound right.’

Dexter flashed his white teeth again. ‘You could say that. They own stables in the Cotswolds.’

I asked him if he had ever wanted to take over the family business. ‘No. I love horses, but I always wanted to do my own thing. My younger sister, Marcie, works alongside Mum and Dad though.’

‘You have a sister? That’s lovely.’

Dexter nodded. ‘And a younger brother.’

‘Is he like you?’

‘Not really,’ replied Dexter quickly. He moved the conversation on, his aqua eyes hardening, before adopting a hopeful spark. ‘I’d love to start my own stud farm here.’

I recalled the two photographs of stallions in Hawk West Hall. ‘So I hear.’

Dexter gave me an odd look. Then a slow smile spread across his face. ‘You’ve been chatting to a certain housekeeper.’

‘I might have been.’ I eyed him with curiosity. ‘And have you always been a writer? What did you do before you became successful?’

Dexter pulled a face. ‘I studied English at university in London, helped out my parents at the stables and drifted from job to job while I wrote my great English novel. I’ve been a barista, worked in a couple of restaurants, and taught English to some foreign students, just to support myself.’ He gave me a wink. ‘Then I got lucky.’

My heart sped up. Oh god.

We crossed a deserted part of the country road and climbed over an old wooden gate. ‘This is a bit of a short-cut,’ I explained, trying to sound matter-of-fact. ‘And I think it’s a more spectacular route.’

My enthusiasm growing, I turned around. ‘And if you look back that way, you might see a glimpse of something you recognise.’

Dexter locked in on the faint sight of one of the sloping angles of Hawk West Hall. ‘I didn’t realise I was so close to the reserve. Wow!’

We moved on, our feet stepping in unison across the grass and twigs under our feet.

‘And what about you?’ he asked pausing for a moment to appreciate the spikey pine trees that waited ahead for us. ‘Do you have any siblings?’

‘No. I think my parents wanted more kids, but it just didn’t happen for them.’

I could see the admiration in his eyes as we moved closer to the reserve. The forest of sage and emerald green had that effect.

He pulled up. ‘That must have been awful for you losing them both like that.’

I sighed. ‘It felt like it was all happening to someone else. At the beginning, I think I spent most of my time in a shocked fog.’ I managed a smile. ‘If it hadn’t been for my grandmother, my best friend Cate, and her partner Lucy, I don’t know how I would have coped.’