Page 91 of A Scottish Island Summer

‘I like your hair like that.’

My chest heaved at the sight of Logan strolling towards me. My hand reached up to fiddle with my high ponytail, which I’d tonged into big curls.

Logan appraised my outfit of a black jewelled jacket, fitted jeans and sugar pink V-neck sweater.

His lips turned up with amusement. ‘If this isn’t another date, you sure as hell have made an effort for nothing.’ His light eyes glittered almost as much as the stars over our heads. ‘You look lovely.’

‘Logan, this isn’t another date. It’s a fact-finding mission,’ I heard myself say. Who was I trying to convince, though? Him or me? I tugged at the hem of my jacket, just for something to do. ‘And most couples who go out on a date, don’t tend to take an archaeologist along with them.’

‘Ah. So, we’re a couple now?’ He grinned.

I ignored the persistent swish in my stomach at such a prospect. ‘In your imagination.’

‘Oh, I have a very vivid imagination.’

‘I don’t think I want to know.’

‘You sure about that?’

I couldn’t help but break into a smile. Logan grinned back. He did look gorgeous, in his heavy checked shirt, jeans and leather jacket.

‘No pink-cheeked, flaxen-haired local girls who you wanted to ask along tonight?’ I could’ve chewed my own tongue off. Why the hell was I even asking Logan that question? It made it sound like I was interested in him.

That’s because you are, teased an inner voice.

‘I’ve already been out with all the flaxen-haired local girls,’ joked Logan.

‘That wouldn’t surprise me.’

Logan winked. ‘Trust me, they’re very overrated.’

‘Sorry for keeping you both waiting,’ boomed Campbell from behind me, interrupting us as he tapped down the steps of the guest house.

I jumped as though I’d been doing something I shouldn’t, but also let out a mental sigh of relief that Logan and I now had company.

We both studied Campbell’s appearance.

‘You’ve had a haircut,’ I remarked with surprise.

‘Well observed.’

Campbell proceeded to trace his hand lightly over the top of his new, shorter, layered hairstyle.

‘You look like a new man,’ said Logan.

‘I feel like one, or at least I will, if I can prove to the doubters round here that the Skye Lovers’ Cross is a real thing.’ His silhouette began to march ahead of us, towards the glowing pub.

Logan kept sliding me long glances as we made our way towards The Old Dog and Duck.

‘What?’ I asked him, feeling increasingly hot from his attention. I was glad that it was dark and he couldn’t see my zinging cheeks.

He took his time answering, which infuriated me more. ‘Nothing.’

The pub was buzzing with bodies and ceilidh music as we stepped up to the entrance and deposited our charity donations into a giant bucket a man dressed head to foot in tartan was holding. The bucket was even decorated with tartan ribbon on the handles.

The Old Dog and Duck was fitted out with a semi-circular oak bar, and marine blue velvet bench seats were dotted around circular tables.

Silver streamers, bunting and balloons were strung from the beams, bobbing above heads and along the walls. Shiny foil digits forming the number 100 fluttered along the edge of the bar and the clinking of glasses could be heard over the sound of laughter and chatter.