Page 33 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Chapter Thirteen

There was a hailstorm the next morning.

White, golf ball-sized stones rained down on everything, battering against the cottage windows, as though eager to break in. They pelted the top of my car and landed in the garden.

I watched the relentless winter weather, while I finished rinsing out the teapot.

Bronte was sat by my feet in the kitchen, giving me an expectant look as if to say, ‘Right. I’m ready for my walk, so kindly get a move on!’

I turned round and smiled down at her. ‘Just give it a few minutes, will you, sweetheart? I don’t fancy having my head caved in.’

Sure enough, around ten minutes later, the white bullets stopped as quickly as they’d started and the watery sun forced its way through the bank of angry clouds.

It glided across the top of the bay making it look like it was being touched by golden fingers. That was Scottish weather for you!

I wrapped myself up in my heavy winter coat, scarf, hat and boots before popping on Bronte’s fleecy purple coat and her harness and lead. Thoughts of Mitch’s confrontation with that newspaper journalist yesterday crept into my mind again. Well, whatever had happened, it was clear Mitch didn’t want to talk about it. All very odd.

I also remembered what he’d said to me. ‘You’re not on your own, Rosie.’

I realised my mouth was slipping into a small smile at the memory.

* * *

I’d made the mistake earlier, just after breakfast, of going onto social media, and there were a lot of comments from my reading fanbase, asking if some of the rumours were true, that their favourite author had decided to stop writing.

A frisson of guilt zipped through me, but I dismissed it.

It was the right thing to do.

I meandered over to the kitchen window, from where I could see the garden. Stubborn leaves were spinning over the lawn and the path.

I remembered where my grandparents kept their garden tools and decided to occupy myself by sweeping up the leaves now that the hailstones had stopped. Bronte could keep me company.

Once I’d fetched the rake from the back hall cupboard, I got myself togged up in my coat, hat, scarf and boots, and Bronte sat on the cottage step, watching me sweep the rake this way and that, until the soggy leaves slowly began to pile up.

I was stooping down to gather up another satisfying pile for the green recycling bin when Mitch’s voice made me start. ‘Hi, Rosie.’

I almost dropped my armful of leaves. I stuffed them into the open bin. ‘Hi, Mitch. Hi, Kane.’

Kane stood beside him, tongue flapping.

Mitch pointed at the leaves on the grass. ‘You look like you might need a hand there.’

‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

Mitch folded his sinewy arms. ‘What is it about you refusing help?’

His words hit home. I dusted my garden-gloved hands together. ‘I would accept help if I needed it.’

‘Something tells me you wouldn’t.’

I angled my head to one side, my curls spilling out from under my winter hat. ‘I would,’ I insisted, a little too quickly.

Mitch’s mouth hinted at an amused smile. ‘Well, don’t forget you’ve got a tall, strong and handy lighthouse keeper at your disposal. Twenty-four seven.’

My cheeks whipped themselves into a pink frenzy, which annoyed me. ‘Don’t forget to introduce me to him when you see him.’

Mitch’s face split into a dazzling grin. ‘Ouch. You’ll hurt my feelings.’