Page 27 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

“More privately than this?” I gestured to the empty shop.

They shuffled awkwardly, still looking frozen by the chill wind and I was glad my parents had insisted I have a panic button installed under the shop counter, just in case of armed robbery.

Even so, I’d have been surprised if they’d suddenly morphed into raging criminals.

The women drank in the sight of the frilly petals, sprouting leaves and trumpeting blooms.

“This is lovely,” said the dark-haired woman appreciatively. “Have you been open long?”

“Thank you. Only since May.”

Neither of them had yet introduced themselves. They just stood there in their stylish coats and boots. Going by the way they were appraising me, they weren’t interested in flowers, though. I knew I couldn’t spend my life wondering about every person who came in or happened to pass me in the street or I’d end up an anxious wreck, but I couldn’t deny that these two young women were acting rather weird and exchanging odd glances.

“Sorry, but who are you and why did you want to speak to me?” I hoped I didn’t sound abrupt or rude, but I was becoming unnerved.

The dark-haired woman wrung her hands together in front of her and shot her friend another, somewhat knowing, glance. “It’s all a bit awkward.”

I could feel my eyebrows rising. “Oh?”

“We’re hoping to find someone.”

I blinked back at her and forced a polite smile. “Who is it that you’re looking for?” I asked with apprehension.

“We understand someone high profile was seen coming into your shop recently.”

My senses screeched onto high alert. Ezra. They must be talking about Ezra. Oh no. Not again!

The brunette, dressed in a ruby-coloured belted coat, took a few steps forward in a pair of pointed, black boots. “We’re looking for a gentleman called Ezra King.”

I felt my jaw tighten. I gave a dismissive shrug. “What, the actor? What about him?”

The strawberry-blonde woman hopped from foot to foot.

“I don’t mean to sound rude, but you’re mistaken,” I said, adding a light-hearted smile for good measure.

The delicate-featured strawberry blonde’s hand fluttered up to the burgundy scarf knotted at her throat. “But we were told he’d been seen in Heather Moore, and in this shop in particular?”

“Told by who?”

Her dark-haired companion’s freckly complexion zinged with two spots of colour. “My mother.”

“Your mother?” I repeated, confused.

The blonde hitched her leather bag higher up her shoulder, a smear of embarrassed colour appearing in her cheeks and reached out to squeeze the brunette’s fingers, as though in an act of solidarity.

There was an electrified silence while I tried to work out what was going on.

“This is just as big a shock to both of us as I’m sure it will be for him…,” said the brunette. She straightened her shoulders and took a steadying breath. “But we’ve just discovered we might be Ezra King’s daughters.”

The two women seemed to morph from well-groomed young women into self-conscious adolescents as they stood there.

I blinked at them. Ezra possibly had a family? I didn’t recall ever reading about him having kids in interviews and he’d never mentioned children to me, but I supposed I didn’t know everything about him.

The dark-haired girl gathered herself. “We wondered if you had an address for him or knew where he was staying? We wanted to speak to him.”

If they were telling the truth then Ezra obviously didn’t know about them, otherwise they would have a way of contacting him.

I studied both of their pleading expressions.