Page 70 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Chapter Twenty-Three

When would this bloody snow stop?

I glowered out of Mitch’s sitting room window.

If anything, the flakes were pirouetting even heavier now.

It was as though a giant had tossed his huge, white duvet cover over everything in sight, smothering the roads, trees, roofs, the harbour cliffs.

I wanted to get back to the cottage. I’d been so stupid, downing those three glasses of whiskey the way I had, especially after not having eaten a proper lunch.

‘You’re pacing up and down like a caged tiger, Rosie. Well, when I say pacing, it’s more of an unsteady wobble. Let me make you a coffee.’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I sing-songed. I knew I wasn’t and a strong coffee would’ve been welcome, but I wasn’t about to admit to Mitch that I was almost pissed. He’d think I was a pathetic lightweight.

I flopped onto his sofa. Oooh, I shouldn’t have done that. My head felt swimmy.

Mitch gave me a doubtful look. He fetched his black digital radio from the shelf behind him, set it on the table in front of us and clicked it on.

The local radio station, Rowan Bay Today, was emphasising the scale of the snowfall, and its persistence, in an extra-long weather report.

‘We’re safe in here,’ assured Mitch. ‘Lots of logs for the fire, the fridge is stocked, and there’s plenty of hot water.’

I gawped over at him, trying not to look horrified. I couldn’t stay here in this little box with Mitch for longer than I had to. I just couldn’t. In such close proximity. Yes, it was very cosy and warm, but … it just didn’t seem like a good idea at all.

And why’s that? teased a voice inside my head. Why can’t you stay here? You’re prepared to risk your safety by trying to get back to the cottage? What are you scared of?

I ignored it. ‘As soon as the weather improves, Bronte and I will be off home.’

‘Aye, you mentioned that before.’ Mitch eyed me. There was a charged silence. ‘Rhea in the corner shop said you’re an author. You never talk about it.’

I squirmed. That bloody woman! I didn’t think Mitch knew I was a writer. I suspected he wasn’t an avid romance reader. ‘I was an author,’ I corrected.

Mitch’s brows rocketed with admiration. ‘Oh wow. What genre do you write?’

‘Did,’ I murmured, hoping my voice stayed on an even keel. ‘I used to write feel-good romance.’

‘But you don’t now?’

I fiddled with my hair, hating this interrogation. ‘No.’

‘May I ask why?’

I hoped my chin wouldn’t wobble. ‘Personal reasons,’ I snapped, not looking at him. I realised I’d been short with him. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude.’

Mitch held up one hand as the flames weaved in the grate. ‘No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘It’s fine. It’s in the past now. My writing, I mean.’

The weather outside was like someone had picked up a snow globe and given it a good shake. I flashed Mitch a look from under my lashes. The whiskey was still coursing through me and my body felt like liquid. Whether it was the alcohol, Mitch’s hypnotic gaze or a mix of the two, I don’t know.

I slumped back on the sofa and let out a resigned sigh. My tongue was loosening and I found I wasn’t scared about possibly saying more than I should. That took me by surprise. Up until now, I’d been reluctant to tell people the time, let alone be in their company.

Mitch was sitting across from me, looking dark and mysterious, and the snow was whizzing past the windows. I felt languid, able to trust him, to tell him about what had happened. Okay, Rosie. Go for it. After all, he was helping with Grandma’s art exhibition and he’d gone out of his way to find Bronte for me.

I blew out a cloud of air and hoped I could keep my voice from cracking. ‘I can’t write anymore,’ I faltered, picking my words.

‘Because of losing your husband?’