Page 26 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

The next morning, Sunday, dawned with me turning over in my head what I was going to say to Zach Stern about Ezra/Joshua.

Oh God. All this had sounded far better yesterday but now that I was giving it much greater thought, my confidence in my “plan” was beginning to droop like my tea roses if I forgot to water them.

I gave my head a mental shake. No. This could work. It had to. It would. We just had to convince ourselves it would and then Zach would believe it as well … wouldn’t he?

I showered, washed my hair, slipped on my dark brown polo neck and dark brown jeans and popped two slices of bread into my toaster for breakfast.

I had to sound convincing when I told him about what I believed was “mistaken identity” where Ezra was concerned. Zach didn’t strike me as gullible, so it was imperative I make this convincing.

I poured some milk into my tea and glanced out of my kitchen window at the wind-whipped hills over in the distance. Talk about playing with fire.

* * *

Monday zoomed up to greet me.

I’d tried to call Zach yesterday, but his phone was switched off. Desperation had raced through me. Although Zach hadn’t rumbled who I really was, the longer he was here in Heather Moore, the greater his chances of making that discovery. The sooner we could get shot of him, the better. Frustration swelled inside me when he didn’t answer. So much for putting my cunning plan into action.

I’d set off earlier this morning for the flower market and was back, armed with an array of shiny new plants and flowers in a festive array of rubies, pillar-box reds and oranges.

I opened up the shop and was just sipping a mug of tea when I heard two murmuring female voices outside the shop door.

Wow. Some people were keen for a Monday morning in November!

Curious as to who they might be, I stole a look out of one of the shop windows.

Two young women, who both looked around my age, were huddled in their winter coats. They kept staring into Flower Power and shuffling from foot to foot as they talked to each other. One had a blocky fringe and waist-length straight brown hair, while the other was a shoulder-skimming strawberry blonde.

I angled my head as I drank my tea. Were they anxious brides, keen to book my floristry services? Or perhaps they were hospitality employees, here to talk to me about an upcoming event?

I tried not to dwell on the suspicious voice in my head. I couldn’t keep hiding every time a new face appeared in Heather Moore. Bloody Zach Stern! He was making me jump at shadows.

I examined the two young women again.

Refusing to think more negative thoughts, I returned to the counter, just as the bell on the shop door rattled to warn me they were on their way in. An icy blast of air shot in from the hillsides as they entered.

“Can I help you?”

The strawberry blonde gave her companion a sideways glance. “Sorry to bother you, but we’re looking for Bailey McArthur.”

I hesitated. Who were they and what did they want?

Well, I wouldn’t find out standing here, gazing at them. “Can I ask why?”

It was the turn of the dark-haired woman to speak. She glanced around herself. “It’s a bit, well, delicate.”

I frowned.

“Are you Ms McArthur?” asked the blonde woman, squinting at me. They both possessed cut-glass English accents.

I could feel myself hurriedly erecting that wall of protection again. “Are you journalists?”

They swapped confused looks. “No. Why?”

I hesitated before I answered. “I’m Bailey.” I pursed my lips in thought. “What’s this about?”

The strawberry blonde was apologetic and glanced around her. “Is there somewhere we could talk more privately?”

“We won’t take up much of your time,” assured her friend. “Please, Ms McArthur.”