Page 79 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Disappointment registered in my chest. Had he been debating whether to kiss me? The truth hit me like an out-of-control express train. Oh God. I’d actually wanted him to. I’d wanted him to kiss me. So much.

I quickly shut the front door and pressed my back against it. My breathing was galloping. What was going on? What was happening between Mitch and me? My emotions were all over the place. I mean, I’d just invited him over for coffee to say thanks for taking care of me. Hadn’t I?

Talk about a myriad of contradictions. Mitch was a walking enigma of attraction, with so much depth, but he was also a troubled soul, always striving to do the right thing.

Irritation pulled at me again. I didn’t want to be intrigued by him. I didn’t want to be fascinated by his looks, personality, his kindness and his insistence that he’d done wrong and that was why Noah’s life had taken such a tragic direction. I didn’t want to be standing there now, with my heart thudding against my ribs, imagining what it would be like to kiss him.

A game of push and pull was playing out inside of me.

I removed my coat and hung it up on one of the hallway pegs together with my hat and scarf. I peeled off my gloves next. Think about something else, Rosie, instructed my inner voice. Start making more plans for the exhibition. Focus on plans for the Lumiere Gallery.

Ruth Mangan nudged again at the corners of my mind. What the hell was her issue with my grandma? She definitely gave the impression she had one. All nicey-nicey to us and gushing over the idea of Grandma’s paintings one minute and then throwing me, Reece and the artwork out of her gallery the next.

I set my shoulders.

Right.

I’d dump the clothes I was still wearing from yesterday in the washing basket and put a load on. Then I’d throw on clean underwear, jumper and jeans and start some detective work on our Ms Mangan.

But it seemed that today had other ideas.

As I was about to head to my bedroom to put on clean clothes, I glanced out of my window.

Mitch was standing outside the lighthouse, scanning his surroundings. He spotted me at the bedroom window and began gesticulating wildly at the top of the cliff path. What was going on?

I grabbed a fresh jumper, jeans, socks and underwear and threw them on. Then I hurried back to the front door and opened it. Mitch was scrambling his way through the melting snow towards the cottage fence. I stuck my head out. ‘Everything okay?’

Mitch looked grim. ‘It looks like someone’s in trouble in the bay.’

And then he was off, slipping and sliding down the wet, slushy path to help whoever it was in difficulty.

My heart lurched. Christ, that water would be freezing! Was Mitch going to tear into the water and conduct a one-man rescue?

I didn’t know what to do. But I had to do something. Racing to my grandma’s linen cupboard, I grabbed some clean, fresh towels and a couple of thick picnic-style rugs. ‘I won’t be long,’ I called out to a confused Bronte.

I dropped them to the floor, pulled my coat, hat and scarf back on, laced up my walking boots and bundled the towels and blankets back up in my arms. I locked the cottage door behind me and made my way down the path to the bay.

My heart stilled in my chest, as I took tentative steps on the slick, wet stones. I could see that Mitch had made his way to the bottom of the path. There was somebody thrashing about in the water sending chilled, grey spray up into the air. Mitch was shouting to them.

I watched with an increasing sense of dread as Mitch tugged off his coat, jumper and boots. ‘I don’t have time to go and get my boat.’ He threw his clothes onto the sand and then charged towards the water and dived in. It closed over his head. Panic and horror gripped me. ‘Shit! Mitch! What are you doing? No! Don’t!’

Hanging on to my armful of blankets and towels as though my life depended on it, I managed to keep myself upright on the thick, melting snow. When I got to the bottom of the path, I staggered towards the shoreline and dumped my armful of linen on top of a nearby rock.

Worry rattling through me, I squinted out towards the water. The person who had been bobbing up and down in the water like a spinning top was still there but there was no sign of Mitch. I swallowed. Where the hell was he? Why did he have to try and be bloody Action Man all the time? Why did he insist that he had to try and help everyone, and put himself at risk?

Bile rose up in my throat. Don’t tell me I was on the brink of losing someone else that I cared about.

Oh, thank God! Relief charged through me as Mitch’s head forced its way out of the water beside the struggling person. He took them in his arms and began making his way back to the shore.

Under the churning winter sky, time seemed to slow down. The water was strong and resistant, disturbed waves slapping against each other, but Mitch ploughed on with his swim, kicking his legs as he guided the person in his arms back to shore.

I watched him, with burning admiration, awe – and irritation. What if he’d got into difficulties?

I reached for the towels and blankets I’d brought and rushed towards Mitch and the bedraggled figure he was carrying out of the water. Her sodden clothes were clinging to her like a shiny second skin and her mascara was trailing down her face in black streams.

It was only when Mitch set her safely on a rock and I bundled her into one of the thick blankets that I recognised her. Her burgundy hair was stuck to her face. It was Rhea Stafford. What the hell had she been doing that she’d fallen in the sea?

Rhea gazed up at Mitch and me with big sorrowful eyes. She gulped in some of the tangy sea air before dissolving into tears. ‘Thank you,’ she managed in racking sobs to Mitch. ‘Thank you.’