Page 5 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

The mysterious man had removed his hat and sunglasses and was in the process of loosening his scarf.

I took in his features, from the shock of centre-parted silver hair falling onto his shoulders, to the cleft in his chin. My brain was trying to catch up. Mr King. Ezra King.

My brain shuffled through snapshots of him on TV playing William Shakespeare, a playboy sleuth in a romantic comedy, and a dodgy barrister in a recent crime drama.

My eyebrows rocketed to my hairline. Bloody hell!

My mouth flopped open.

Oh my God!

My voice squeaked with excitement. “You’re Ezra King.”

He had just accepted a BAFTA lifetime achievement award in front of an applauding, star-studded throng a few months back. I had seen clips of it online.

This was ridiculous, and I did wonder for a few seconds if I was hallucinating.

Why would Ezra King be here, in Heather Moore? It was such a quiet little part of the Scottish Highlands, welcoming but sleepy. The locals meant well and always gave the impression that although they wanted to know every detail of your life, they would be there without question if you found yourself in any sort of difficulty. So far, I’d been able to fly beneath the radar and just live under my new persona – Bailey McArthur, the florist, and that’s the way I liked it. I was determined to make my new life matter here. I would do everything I could to protect the new me. I’d fight to keep my new future that I was carving out for myself. Good grief. If my mother knew Ezra King was only a few feet away from me right now, she would be drenching herself in Coco Chanel and charging over from Tweed Muir like Wonder Woman on steroids.

I thought of my mum, dad and brother co-existing beneath the regal towers, crenelations and flower-studded gardens of Bannock House. Declan had even managed to taint the memories of my childhood home for me, and I had avoided going home as much as possible since the wedding. That was where I had met him, at one of Mum’s fundraising events a couple of years ago. His ceilidh band, Reeling, had been performing and he was the fiddler. Quite apt.

I dreaded the whispers and the pitying looks from the Tweed Muir locals after my car-crash of a non-wedding.

Guilt pulled at me again. I knew my parents missed me visiting, but it was still an open wound. Until my pain and embarrassment had subsided, I would rely on keeping in touch with Mum and Dad by Zoom, text, and phone calls.

I made myself refocus.

Ezra King straightened himself up and gifted me with a grateful smile that made his eyes crinkle. A flash of red stole over his cheeks. “I’m so sorry for disrupting your business like this.”

I hoped I didn’t appear too starstruck. I’d had a stream of prominent clients when I was running my previous business, but this felt different somehow.

I realised I was staring at him. “Well, it’s not every day I have an award-winning actor dropping by.”

He pulled a face as he fiddled with his hat in his hands. “I’m sorry if my get-up seemed a little over the top, but I just want to live here in peace and enjoy some anonymity for a change.”

He smiled ruefully over at his chauffeur. “Jackson here normally takes me where I want to go, but I was going stir-crazy at home and just wanted to get out and be a regular person for a bit. Does that make sense?”

You have no idea, I thought to myself. “Yes, it makes perfect sense.”

Ezra King paused to drink in his surroundings. He gestured around with a sweep of one theatrical hand towards the explosion of plants and flowers on the shop floor. “So, what was this place before?”

“It used to be a tearoom.”

“It’s lovely. Your displays are beautiful.”

I glowed with satisfaction. “Thank you. I only opened a few months ago, so I’m still trying to build up a client base.”

He took a few steps to appreciate my wooden shelving and cabinets that were slicked with glossy white paint, and which ran the length of the shop. I’d had the old bottle-green carpet removed and, in its place, lay a cherry wood floor. I’d chosen a shade of pale silver paint for the walls and ceiling, which I thought complemented the bright, cheery pink of my counter and the shop entrance. Warm spotlights cast a golden glow onto the array of plants and flowers billowing from every shelf and corner.

Flower Power was situated at the end of the small high street, which was comprised of a newsagent, an expensive gift shop, a deli, and a glassware business. When I took over the shop, I retained the lovely original bow windows and had the sad grey pebble dash replaced with bright white paint, and the black door renovated into a stylish deep rose-pink panelled affair.

On the other side of the tree-lined road was a dense woodland which attracted many tourists because of its rumoured connections to an old Scottish king. It was said that King Angus had concealed himself from the marauding English army by hiding in the woods and even scaling one of the trees.

I forced my attention back to the star of stage and screen standing across from me. I couldn’t believe it. This was surreal!

I gave him an admiring glance. “I loved your portrayal of Shakespeare in that TV show.”

His eyes, under his pensive, dark brows, twinkled with appreciation. “Thank you, my dear. That’s very kind of you.”