Page 29 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

‘Hey. How’s it going?’

It was Mitch.

‘In a hurry?’ he asked.

I pulled my eyes from my shopping basket. ‘Er. Yes. Just wanted to do a smash and grab. Bronte’s outside.’

He was smiling down at me, a sort of friendly, expectant smile that was making his eyes shine.

I fidgeted on the spot. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. Sorry for almost knocking you over just now.’

Mitch grinned at me, while brandishing the litre of milk he was clutching. ‘I think I’ll recover.’ He gestured outside. ‘I only came in for this and I’ve got my car parked nearby. I can give you a lift back, once I get some more petrol.’

I was aware of his sculpted shoulders under his long coat and the breeziness of his smile. He was being friendly, twinkly. But I didn’t want friendly. I didn’t want anything from anyone. ‘Thanks, but it’s fine. Bronte and I could do with the walk.’

‘Are you sure? You’ve got a couple of bags worth of shopping there, I would guess.’

I flapped away his concern. ‘Like I said, thank you, but we’ll be fine.’

And with that, I wheeled away towards the tills.

The cashier attempted small talk about the icy wind and whether I’d started my Christmas shopping yet, but all I could manage were grunts or stony silence.

My head was mashed and I just wanted to get back to the cottage.

I stashed my groceries in the reuseable carrier bags I’d brought with me. I hoped nobody noticed me. I kept flicking surreptitious glances around, but the couple of other shoppers also in the supermarket were too preoccupied with their own business. Mitch had gone by now.

I thrust my credit card at the cashier, whose name badge informed me that she was called Eva. She glowered as she directed me to swipe it against the machine. Then she muttered something sarcastic under her breath about the joys of working with the public. Bronte leapt up at me when I reached the exit.

I ruffled her warm, solid flank and let out an exhausted sigh.

I couldn’t be around anyone.

As if detecting my morose thoughts, Bronte let out a whimper as she gazed up from the pavement. I crouched down and rubbed her head. ‘Well, okay. Apart from you. You’re the exception.’

I stood back up again, adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder, and was just about to untie Bronte’s lead from the railing, when I noticed an older man emerging out of the newsagents a little way up the opposite side of the street. He was approaching a car, an old petrol-blue Ford Escort.

There was something familiar about him.

The man, with a newspaper under his arm, unlocked his car and tossed the paper onto the vacant passenger seat. He yanked open the driver’s side and proceeded to clamber in.

Bronte was making impatient whimpers to get going, but I stood there and continued to examine the man. I couldn’t get a close-up view of him, but…

It was as he fired up his car that my brain caught up.

Wait. I did know him. It was him. The dark, greying hair and long, sharp expression.

It was the same man who’d been staring at me through the cottage sitting room window!