Page 85 of The Christmas Highland Lodge

His business phone reverted to another voicemail recording:

‘Hi. You are through to Blake Dempster at Rock Solid Ramblings. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now. No doubt I’m out with hiking clients at the moment. Please leave your name and number and I will call you back as soon as I can. Thanks.’

I jabbed at my phone and hung up.

I would drop by Christmas Crackers now and see Mum. Perhaps by the time I’d spoken to her, Blake would be back.

I fired up the engine, threw my car into reverse and headed back towards Craig Brae.

* * *

‘That sounds odd,’ murmured Mum.

She stopped dusting the shop shelves, her open, enquiring face frowning.

‘Why was this person asking all these questions about Blake? Surely, if they wanted general information, they could have accessed the lodges’ website. Or they could easily have looked up Blake’s business.’

I nodded. ‘That’s what I was thinking.’ I hesitated, mulling it over. ‘You don’t reckon this man is a journalist, do you, Mum?’

Mum dashed the duster on top of the shiny wooden counter. Wizard and ‘I Wish it Could be Christmas Every Day’ serenaded us in the background. ‘But why would a journalist be up here so close to Christmas?’

Orla emerged from the store cupboard, waggling a reel of Sellotape. ‘One of the magazines I read often has a Where Are They Now? feature. They find celebrities and report on what they’re doing with their lives after stepping out of the limelight.’

I considered this. Well, that was possible. Blake had written a couple of books and presented his own successful TV series.

Mum thought about what Orla had just said and began nodding. ‘And don’t forget about the local gossips we have living here. All it takes is one phone call to a newspaper to tip them off.’

‘No doubt they would get paid for their tip-off as well,’ added Orla.

A pang of concern punched at me. I could see someone like Casper Frew, the local pharmacist, taking great delight in ringing up one of the tabloids to tell them about Blake having moved here.

Mum folded the duster over and over. ‘When it comes to money, you can’t say what some people will do.’

I frowned. It did all seem to add up. The sudden booking, the stream of questions about Blake Good grief. If this man was a journalist and he was intending on writing an article about Blake coming to Craig Brae, Blake would feel deceived and exposed – just like anyone else would.

Then another worrying thought took hold. What if there was an article about him coming here? He might decide to leave… to move on.

My stomach lurched.

Mum rivered her hand through her caramel highlights, sending her hair flying back from her face. ‘So, when is this man arriving at the cabins?’

I blinked and dragged my attention back to what she was saying. ‘Tomorrow.’

Mum returned to fiddling with the bright-yellow duster. ‘Well, please make sure you don’t put yourself in any vulnerable situations with this character, just to be on the safe side.’

My jaw hardened as I thought about it all. If this man was a reporter, I had to try and get hold of Blake and warn him. Forewarned was forearmed. The wellbeing of the people I cared about was paramount.

Pictures of Blake’s dancing dark eyes shimmered in front of me. Unrequited love was horrific. Had I been just some sort of passing diversion to him? A bit of flirtatious fun when he felt bored?

I gave myself a mental talking-to. I would just have to confront the heart-wrenching fact that Blake didn’t feel the same way about me.

A leaden feeling settled in my stomach.

What if my suspicions were correct though, about this stranger asking so many questions about him?

I managed to rearrange my mouth into something approaching a reassuring smile at my mum. Despite feeling like an utter tit over Blake, I knew I couldn’t just stand by and let some journalist tear up the life he was trying to build here in Craig Brae – even if it was a life that didn’t include me.

If my dad were here, he would expect me to do the decent thing. The prospect of what could happen – Blake being embarrassed in the papers and his life here put under scrutiny – was making me feel ill. Whatever secrets he had in his life, they were his own business and though it was frustrating and painful that he hadn’t confided in me about them, they sure as hell didn’t belong splashed across the pages of a newspaper.