Page 3 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

I slunk off straight afterwards for a six-month trip around Europe to recover. I soaked up the sun as I sat outside sweet little cafes in Venice and savoured the atmosphere and bonhomie in Barcelona. It didn’t take away my humiliation and heartbreak, but it helped put some much-needed distance between me and the pain.

I swallowed down a growing, choking ball of emotion and fiddled with some ribbon. Come on, I chided myself. Don’t stay stuck in the past. Forget about what happened.

When the name for my new floristry business came to me six months ago, I thought Flower Power was perfect. It made me feel like I was taking control of my life and my future. I reclaimed my love of flowers, started over and put Declan and what he did behind me. My much-loved Uncle James passed away suddenly last year and left a substantial amount of money in his will to both me and to Marcus. Thanks to him, I’d been able to recover from a lot of the financial difficulty Declan had dropped me in and buy the cute little former teashop that was up for sale and transform it into Flower Power. At least flowers were a bright, fragrant, beautiful constant in my life.

I shuffled further to the right from behind the pale pink wooden counter and angled my head around the edge of the display I was working on. I could see Mrs Vardy in her woollen beret examining some new potted gardenia I’d bought from the flower market in town a few days ago. Their leaves were speared and glossy green while their stunning frilly flowers were white and lacy, and I took pleasure in surrounding myself with such treasures.

My attention flew back to the loitering man who seemed oddly fascinated by the vases of lilies I had put at the front to draw customers into the shop.

Panicky thoughts started to leap around in my head. Hold on. Has he recognised me? Is he preparing to confront me?

No, that’s just not possible. I forced myself to relax.

I’d changed my appearance since my partying days and since the aborted wedding. Gone was my pale, straight blonde hair – I’d reverted back to my natural, light brown waves. I’d also put a few pounds back on, after slavishly dieting and exercising in the run-up to the big day. I was curvier and healthier and I felt better, so that was one good thing. At least I didn’t look like a starved twiglet anymore.

I snapped my attention back to the man again.

He did seem more interested in my stock than in me. Or was that just an act to hide his intentions? Was he a journalist, trying to make me think he wasn’t?

Memories of the sneering headlines about the “Uptown Girl” being stood up at the altar by a struggling Irish musician zipped through my mind at one hundred miles an hour.

No. Stop it. I was being stupid. That was all in the past. It was society-column fodder. Wasn’t it? I was getting irritated with myself. I had to stop surmising that every new face in Heather Moore was here for an ulterior motive.

Declan had done a wonderful job of destroying my trust in people. Apart from my family, since being jilted by him and having gone through such a heart-breaking deception, I found myself building an imaginary wall between me and everyone else. It was safer that way. No risk of being let down or hurt. I eyed the man again. Perhaps he was a shoplifter? Or he was planning to rob the till?

He might have seen my baby-pink-and-white shop as an easy target. But why focus on my business when there were others strung along beside mine that did more cash transactions?

Bolts of worry shot through me. Perhaps I was being naïve. It might only be a matter of time before someone did recognise me and then my quiet life here would be over before it had begun. “Oh, there’s that rich girl who was publicly humiliated by that mercenary rogue.”

My heart began to gallop against my ribcage.

Shit!

I don’t need this.

Oh, this is ridiculous! I can’t just stand here and watch him for the rest of the day.

Maybe the police were pursuing him? No. I was letting my imagination go wild.

I couldn’t hide behind this half-completed bouquet any longer. I had to stop being afraid and face the situation head-on. I could also close up for the day and go home; the prospect of lounging in a hot bath was delightful.

My curiosity piqued, I set my shoulders. I had to ask him what he was doing and what he wanted, otherwise he was going to become part of the fixtures and fittings.

I pushed my mouth into what I hoped was a polite smile and made my way towards him. Mrs Vardy brushed past me with a friendly nod and left the shop without buying anything. Again.

I turned my attention back to the man.

I had to be brave, otherwise I could be hovering there, carrying out surveillance, for another hour. I cleared my throat.

“Excuse me, sir. Is there anything I can help you with? It’s just⁠—”

He didn’t give me the opportunity to finish my sentence.

“Oh, no. No. I’m fine.” His accent was educated English. “I spotted your shop the other day and just had to come in.”

I expected him to remove his sunglasses and swipe off his hat, but he did neither. He dug his chin even deeper into his scarf.

“Oh, thank you.”