Page 97 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

My attention lingered on his chiselled, dark looks. Mitch gazed down at me. ‘You behave yourself, Ms Winters, otherwise I’ll have no alternative but to throw you over my shoulder and take you straight home.’

A frisson of anticipation rocketed through me at one hundred miles an hour. ‘Promises, promises.’

Mitch allowed his gaze to rake my piled-up curls and then my knee-length, mint green woollen dress. ‘It’s not a promise. It’s a fact.’

Reece, also looking very dapper in a pin-striped suit, blue shirt, and silver tie, materialised beside us. ‘I don’t think Cruella de Vil has spotted either of us yet, Rosie.’ He took a swig from his flute.

‘No, she can’t have done, otherwise she would’ve been straight over, asking what the hell we’re doing here. She’s too busy schmoozing.’

Despite my nibbling nerves about what would happen this evening and Ruth’s reaction to our revelations about the artwork, I was also experiencing bubbles of happiness exploding inside me whenever I looked at Mitch.

And because of that, what happened next was my own fault. I’d been too busy mooning over him and not concentrating on what was happening around me.

I’d allowed myself to drift within Ruth’s line of sight without realising I had done so. I’d been too preoccupied making plans for the future. Everything seemed to be slowly slotting into place now, but what about my writing? I hadn’t really thought about what I intended to do in the future. My confidence had taken such a devastating knock ever since Joe. I’d had the courage to admit my feelings for Mitch, but what about my novels? Did I feel brave enough to reconsider that too?

Whilst I was mulling all this over, I inadvertently glanced across and realised with a jolt of horror, that I was in Ruth’s eyeline. I moved to duck behind a tall, thin couple who were engaged in animated conversation, but it was too late. Ruth had spotted me. Her smile collapsed.

The woman she’d been chatting to, who I realised was Kirsty Ralston, watched in bemusement as Ruth stalked rudely away from her, mid-conversation.

Shit.

She came storming towards me. ‘What are you doing here?’ she snapped, her red mouth contorting into a grimace. ‘I don’t remember you being invited.’

I should’ve been careful for a little bit longer.

I opened my mouth, willing my brain to come up with something fast, when Mitch emerged at my side. ‘Rosie’s with me.’ He allowed his simple explanation to hang in the air. His expression brooked no argument. ‘You said I could bring a plus one on the invitation. Well, Rosie is my plus one.’

There was an embarrassing silence. Ruth’s hard eyes scorched into me. ‘Oh. I see. Right.’

I noticed out of the corner of my eye, that Reece had spotted what was happening and had managed to dart behind a gentleman in a checked cap who was admiring my grandma’s painting of the dressing table still life.

‘Hello again,’ I said, conjuring up a cool smile for Ruth.

She didn’t reply.

‘So, this is the talented artist?’

The icy exchanges were broken by the man in the red spectacles. He cut through our threesome and shot out one hand towards Mitch. ‘Your work really is sublime, Mr Carlisle. It has an old worldly feel about it, which I love.’

Mitch remained unflustered. ‘I appreciate that. Thank you.’

The man in the spectacles let out a chuckle. ‘Oh, forgive me. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Grant Hefton, art critic for The Review magazine.’ He gestured at the paintings. ‘What art techniques do you prefer to use in your work?’

Mitch carried on. ‘Very nice to meet you, Mr Hefton. Well, I tend to enjoy dry brushing. It gives me that scratchy, textured finish when I’m trying to capture the essence and texture of nature: trees, clouds and hedgerows in particular.’

I gazed at him. He really was something special.

But he wasn’t finished yet. ‘And then, of course, there’s gestural painting, where I apply the paint in a series of free, sweeping gestures. It’s a great way to show your emotion on the canvas. Jackson Pollock was an advocate.’

Grant Hefton nodded vigorously as he plucked a notebook from his trouser pocket and started jotting down notes.

Mitch gave me a discreet wink.

My heart inflated. God, Grandma Tilda would’ve fallen in love with Mitch almost as much as I had.

Grant Hefton looked up from his spidery scrawl and was on the point of asking Mitch another question, when a woman with candy-pink hair, wearing a long, fringed, patterned skirt, appeared at Ruth’s elbow. She angled her way into the semi-circle. ‘Excuse me. Aren’t you Ruth Mangan?’

Ruth bathed her in a mega-watt smile. ‘Yes, I am. And you are…?’