Page 6 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

He fell quiet as if debating whether to say something else.

“So, you’ve moved nearby?” I asked in a tentative voice.

“Yes,” he blurted out. “To Heather Moore.”

I blinked at him in surprise, flattered he was confiding in me. “Wow! Well, you’ll no doubt notice a difference between living here and city life.”

His long mouth curled up. “Good God! I bloody hope so!”

Jackson, who was leaning by the shop door, grinned at his boss but remained discreet.

Ezra let his hands rise and fall. “My manager holidayed here once a couple of years ago and raved about the place. She said it was the prettiest Scottish town she’d ever seen and mentioned something about the history of one of the trees you have around here. And the hillsides … well, she loved it.” He gestured towards the shop window, explaining that his manager was “a real fuss-pot with very high expectations”, and so he had decided to check out the place that had enchanted her so much.

“And so, you decided to escape the rat race and move here?”

“In a nutshell.”

Ezra King glanced over his shoulder, even though it was only the three of us. “Look, Miss…”

“Bailey McArthur,” I answered quickly, “but please call me Bailey.”

Ezra nodded. “Look Bailey, I’d very much appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about me. I just want some peace.”

I rushed to reassure him. “There’s no need to explain, Mr King. You have my word.” I understood his situation far better than he knew.

Ezra’s light grey hooded eyes shimmered with relief. “Call me Ezra. And thank you.” He performed a resigned shrug. “I wanted a bolthole, I suppose. Somewhere I could breathe and appreciate the simple things.” A wry smile enveloped his face. “Sorry again to crash land in your shop like this on a Monday afternoon. I’d planned to come in and browse, not put you to so much trouble.”

“You didn’t,” I assured him. “As long as you’re feeling better now.”

Jackson looked at me quizzically.

“Ezra felt a little faint,” I said.

Jackson frowned. “You told me you just felt a bit tired. Perhaps we should get you checked over, Mr Ezra.”

Ezra shook his head. “Thank you for your concern but no. I’m feeling top notch again now. No fuss required.”

Jackson glanced over at me and rolled his eyes.

“Well,” I began, trying to unscramble my head. “I’m not Heather Moore born and bred either. I only moved here earlier this year, but I do love it and I’m sure you will too.” I allowed my thoughts to drift for a few moments. “My brother and I had great family holidays here with our parents when we were younger. I feel like this town has let me start over again.”

Whispers of Declan loomed over me once more like a black cloud. The realisation that he’d only loved my family’s bank balance and not me, gripped me like a cold chill.

I bit my lip. “I hope you enjoy living here.”

“I’m sure I will,” he beamed. He looked around at my plants and bouquets again. “So, what did you do before?” he asked.

I floundered for something to say. “Oh, I’ve always been a florist. I just fancied a change of scene.”

Ezra’s considered gaze raked over my face. “I sometimes think we’re all trying to escape from something – or someone – even if we don’t realise it at the time.”

His words struck me in the chest. I managed to force a smile, keen to change the subject.

His expression shifted, before righting itself again. “Does floristry run in your family?”

I shook my head. “No, not at all.” I bit back the information that it was dear old Ernie Saunders, our late gardener at Bannock House, who nurtured my love of plants and flowers from an early age.

I would watch him turn over the warm, rich, dark earth of the flower beds, pat the rainbow-coloured blooms in place and plant out our herb garden.