Page 67 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

He smelled of pine forest body wash. Mitch seemed to fill the interior of the living space with his broad chest, long legs and head of dark hair. His gaze lingered on me. ‘Coffee? Tea?’

My stomach gave a little twist. ‘Oh, tea, please. Just milk.’

Kane and Bronte trotted side by side and settled themselves in front of the open fire, so I snatched an opportunity to take a look around.

The interior of the accommodation reminded me of a mobile home – small but cosy. Mitch had put his stamp on the place with heavy, dark walnut furniture, as well as a couple of dramatic seascapes, a red tartan rug and faded maps that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a pirate ship.

Mitch’s furnishings were more of the classical variety, whereas when Barclay had occupied the bothy, he’d owned more tartan and dark velvet fixtures and fittings.

The air still smelled of the sea though and of fresh, crackling logs that were being swallowed up by amber flames in the grate.

A tiny galley kitchen was off to the right of the sitting room and I caught glimpses of cream, fitted units and red and white fixtures and fittings. It was just the same as when Barclay occupied it.

To the left, the door was ajar. Mitch’s bedroom. I caught a brief glimpse of a double bed, with black and white striped bedding and a pile of dog-eared paperbacks on the bedside table.

It was weird being in here and seeing the familiar layout of Barclay’s former home swept away and replaced with someone else’s. Something told me he would’ve liked Mitch though.

Moments later, Mitch reappeared and handed me a mug of steaming tea. I furled my grateful fingers around it. ‘Thanks.’

He settled himself down on his two-seater, chocolate brown couch and fired out his legs. ‘I’m sorry it’s a bit small in here, but it’s usually just me and Kane.’ He tutted. ‘Sorry. You’ll be familiar with this place after Barclay.’

‘I think it’s great. Different from how Barclay had it arranged, of course, but it’s snug.’ In other circumstances, it could even be romantic.

Mitch grinned. ‘Snug is one word for it.’ His gaze slid over me. ‘So, any ideas about what you’d like to see or have happen on opening night at the art gallery?’

I blinked over at him. God, we really were going to do this. ‘How about not get arrested for fraud?’

Mitch pulled a face. ‘I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.’ He produced his mobile from his back pocket and tapped at the screen. ‘Here. read this.’

I reached over and took his phone. It was an email from Ruth Mangan at the gallery.

Dear Mr Carlisle,

Hope you’re well.

13th December is now reserved for your exhibition, so I suggest we start making arrangements.

It was an honour to see your beautiful and enchanting paintings and I can’t wait to play a pivotal role in allowing the public to appreciate your talent.

Best wishes and I look forward to hearing from you shortly with your ideas and suggestions. If you were able to get back to me as soon as possible, it would be much appreciated.

Time is of the essence!

Ruth.

‘Good grief,’ I ground out, handing Mitch his phone back. I took a considered sip of my tea. ‘Funny how Reece and I got the cold shoulder, but send in a good-looking man…’ I realised what I’d just said and wished I could evaporate on the spot. Shit! What was going on with me? What was the matter with my brain today? I tried to recover myself. My face felt alight. ‘What I mean is, send in a young man, and she’s fawning all over you.’

Eventually, I forced my eyes up to look at Mitch. His mouth hinted at a smile.

Oh bugger.

I buried my face in my mug for what seemed like ten minutes. ‘Anyway, my grandma loved the likes of Neil Diamond and folk music, so I wondered if we could get a fiddler to play a mixture of both and welcome guests as they arrive?’

‘Okay.’

‘And if we could incorporate butterflies in some capacity as well. She adored them and collected ornaments of them.’

‘Oh yes. I remember seeing some in her studio, and of course, she uses a butterfly as her painting signature.’