Page 8 of A Scottish Highland Hideaway

It was because I had loved Declan with all my heart that my dreams had crashed and burned. Along with it went any notion of trusting another man, let alone starting a serious relationship. That was something I didn’t need – putting my feelings and emotions out there, to be deceived and trampled over again.

Whatever my brother said, I felt like I was striking out on my own, trying to put the past behind me, and let go of the betrayal and public humiliation Declan had inflicted on me. Ok, so my trust issues still festered like an open wound but at least I was making something of my future.

Still, it was a relief that Wednesday evening to climb the rear staircase to my flat above the shop. The couple who’d run it as a tearoom had also lived above it for many years, so when I bought it, the place had been clean but dated. I had done a complete renovation and it now boasted a sitting room in warm butterscotch, and was teamed with flashes of sunshine-yellow cushions on the toffee-coloured leather sofa and chairs. The shelves were decorated with wooden ornaments of cute foxes and dogs I’d thrifted from various charity shops.

The chintzy rose wallpaper in my bedroom was gone, replaced by muted lavender walls with blonde wood furniture and simple white cotton bedding.

The kitchen was the one room which hadn’t required as much attention, so I retained the cream cupboards and had a local tradesman freshen up the space with poppy-red and white tiles and a black marble breakfast bar.

It was a small two-bedroom flat, but it was cosy, it was above my new business, and it was mine. The perfect home for my fresh start.

I tapped my pen against my teeth as I mulled over possible ways to improve Flower Power’s fortunes. This would be the first Christmas for my new business and I was determined to make a splash. Marcus’s comments about me hiding away here in Heather Moore had fired me up to make sure I was doing everything I could to make a success of Flower Power. No one would be able to accuse me of not actively promoting my work.

As well as bouquets, I was planning to offer Christmas table centrepieces, festive wreaths and decorated boughs. There were a couple of hotels in the area; perhaps I could offer my festive floristry services to them.

And I still had to decide what I was going to do about decorating the shop window. Perhaps an ice palace theme with white tea roses, lilies, frosted cones, fake snow, and silver decorations might be a little more original than robins and reindeer.

I’d just finished scribbling down more actions on my to-do list, which now included contacting the local hotels as well as some of the restaurants and other businesses in the surrounding areas, when I shot up straighter in my seat in surprise. The landline telephone was ringing.

It was part of the fixtures and fittings and had belonged to Mr and Mrs Rankin, the tearoom couple who lived here before me. I never gave the number to anyone, because I never used it. Anyone who wanted to get hold of me either used my mobile number or rang me on the phone in the shop. It was only because the landline phone in the flat was such a gorgeous vintage treasure that I was loathe to part with it. It was an opal affair in a cream finish, with rotary dialling and a brass cradle for the receiver. It looked like something out of Downton Abbey, and I loved it.

Its ringtone, however, was sharp and insistent. I padded over and stared down at it for a few seconds. Ok, Bailey, looking at it isn’t going to help!

I lifted the receiver, as though it was about to burst into flames at any moment.

“Hello?”

There was a pause.

“Who’s that?” barked a deep male voice.

My spine stiffened. I had to stop leaping to conclusions, but the sound of a strange, questioning voice made my shutters clang down. The doubting whispers were back, insisting that it was only a matter of time before someone realised who I was. Had the moment finally arrived when I would be torn from the peace and quiet I was creating for myself here? Could this be it? My stomach pirouetted at the thought.

I tried to find a level of calm. Stop it, I told myself. Stop thinking the worst. This could be an innocent case of a wrong number. I took a breath. “Who are you looking for?”

I heard a sound like paper being crumpled at the end of the line, as though he were reading something. “I’m looking for Archibald and Hazel Rankin.” His accent was a cultivated English one.

A kernel of relief bloomed in me. “I’m sorry. They don’t live here anymore. They moved down to London to be near family.”

The male caller’s irritation was evident. “But what about this tearoom business of theirs? The Tea Cup…?”

“You mean The Little Teapot⁠—”

His gruff vocals interrupted me. “Yes. Well. Whatever. What’s happened to that?”

I blinked, taken aback at how abrupt he was. I clutched the receiver. “I’m the new owner of the business. It’s a florist’s now.”

“A florist?” he repeated, incredulous.

“That’s right.” I could feel my defensive hackles rising under my fleecy pyjamas. Anyone would think I’d just told him I was money laundering.

There was a series of growls down the line. “The Rankins are no longer around,” the rude voice relayed to someone else in the background. “This girl says she owns the place and it’s now a florist.”

Girl?! This man certainly hadn’t graduated from Charm School or, if he had, they needed to conduct an urgent review of their teaching practices.

I overheard another even gruffer male voice rear up in the background. This one was Scottish and fast-paced. “Och, well then, you’d better think of something else, hadn’t you? I’m not prepared to let this one slip through our fingers.”

Which one? What were they talking about?