Page 45 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

My hands fiddled with the giant amber- and claret-coloured gerbera bouquet I was creating for Mrs Sweeney’s mother’s ninetieth birthday.

A thought bounced about my head, gathering traction. What if I tried to find Declan? What if I could speak to him? The prospect made my stomach churn, but what else could I do?

I was flinching every time the shop door opened and my bell let out its merry tinkle. Would he try to show up? That was very likely, knowing him. But if I tried to cut him off at the pass? Let him know I was onto him? Would that be a deterrent?

Something told me it might take more than me speaking to him, to have an effect, but surely me doing something was better than doing nothing? There was every chance he’d try to extort money out of me, to keep quiet but I realised I was prepared to take that risk. Too much was riding on this.

Declan might only keep his mouth shut if he did indeed get something in return. He must have been hoping to sell “our story” for a tidy sum, after all.

I eyed my half-eaten cheese and salad sandwich on my plate further up the shop counter. I couldn’t carry on like this, knowing Declan was only a couple of hours’ drive away from my new life here.

I picked up my mug of tea and drained the remainder of it.

Yuck.

It was cold.

I pulled a face and thumped it back down again.

Then I reached for my coat and bag which were hanging on one of the hooks behind me.

I thrust on my coat, refusing to dissect what I was doing in case I changed my mind. “Girls, I’ve got to pop out for a few hours. Could one of you tie up this bouquet for Mrs Sweeney please, with a piece of tangerine satin bow? I’ve just finished it.”

Rowan came striding over. “No problem. I can do that.”

Amber paused as she swept the floor. “Off anywhere nice?”

“Er … just checking out a flower market on the outskirts of Glasgow,” I lied, wrapping my long scarf around my neck and hoisting my bag onto my shoulder. “Now both of you just call me if you have any questions or worries, ok?”

“Sure, but don’t worry,” beamed Rowan. “We’ll be fine.”

“And make sure you both get your lunch––”

I froze as I heard the shop door clatter open behind me.

“Off out, sis? I was going to suggest we take a walk for half an hour, if you can drag yourself away from your blooms.”

Bugger!

Marcus was standing there, buried in a grey woollen scarf and his coat.

“Yes … erm … flower market near Glasgow. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Marcus’s expression brightened a little, which made me feel even worse. “Oh, I’ll tag along then, if you don’t mind. I could do with a break from the laptop––”

“No!” I snapped before I could stop myself, then tried to disguise it with a small laugh. “I mean, no, don’t worry. You stay here and relax. It won’t be exciting for you and it’s a bit of a schlep.”

Marcus narrowed his eyes at me. “Bailey…”

But I was already grinning like a maniac. “See you soon. Bye!”

I banged Flower Power’s door closed and raced round to the rear car park, to jump into the van.

Chapter Nine

I reached the outskirts of Glasgow a couple of hours later and pulled into a parking space at the back of The Old Barrell pub.

This was where Declan had told me the landlord, a Bernie McKew, had given him and the rest of his band, their first series of gigs. It was situated up a cobbled lane, next to a betting shop and a small café, the kind that has Formica tables and laminated menus.