Page 111 of Journey to the Scottish Highlands

Chapter Twenty-Three

My limbs were rigid; my feet stuck to the carpet like they were trapped in mud.

Just about to leave the kitchen and return upstairs with our champagne and croissants, Evan called up cheerily, ‘I’m on my way.’

This was like some warped dream. Evan was Fox. Fox was Evan.

I rubbed at my bare arms so hard I was in danger of removing a layer of skin.

I’d fallen for him. Hard. The man who had criticised the high-profile TV drama I’d been in. The man who had all but sabotaged my chances of securing another significant role in the near future. And I’d just gone to bed with him.

Evan had played me. He’d kept his secrets tucked away. He’d let me think he was someone else. Was his story about Sacha just a ruse to get me into bed? Or had he asked me to stay here because he felt sorry about his scathing review of Sinister? Was he trying to assuage his guilt?

Pain and anger swirled through me. My wild eyes gawped back at me from the mirror. Part of my brain was telling me I’d misread the situation. Perhaps I’d got the gist of the email wrong?

But as my attention drilled into the email and I read it over yet again, the words blurring in front of my eyes, I knew I hadn’t imagined it or misunderstood. The facts were glaring at me from the illuminated screen.

I stumbled away from Evan’s laptop and sank onto the corner of the bed. What now? Had Evan been playing some twisted game with me? Making me think he had feelings for me?

My head was stuffed with questions. My fists balled in anger in my lap. I swallowed back tears. I wanted to scream and cry and throw that bloody laptop across the room. I wanted to watch it crash and splinter, just like my heart was doing right now.

What should I do?

I couldn’t look him in the face. I didn’t want to. Evan wasn’t who I thought he was. Literally.

‘Croissants and champagne, just for you!’ Evan burst in, angling the tray in his arms. He’d even slipped a single red rose in a vase onto the tray. Talk about adding insult to injury.

I leapt up from the bed, clamping my arms around myself like a protective barrier.

He set down the loaded tray on top of his writing desk. The golden champagne popped in two flutes, and the warm, almond scent of the croissants drifted towards me.

I watched as Evan reached for the long-stemmed red rose. ‘This is for you.’ He proffered it towards me, but I shrank away from it as though it were something hideous.

‘You ok? What is it? You look pale.’

My heart was cracking in my chest. He was standing there, clutching the rose, looking irresistible. ‘You just got an email,’ I croaked. ‘From someone called Robin.’ I let my words hang there for a moment. ‘Seems like you’re late turning your Fox copy in for next week’s column.’

He suddenly looked desperate. Evan’s expression collapsed. ‘Oh shit.’ He lowered the rose. His troubled eyes never left me. ‘Daisy. I wanted to tell you myself. Jesus, I didn’t want you to find out like this.’ He scratched his stubble. ‘Nobody knows. I mean, not my family.’

So it was true. A tiny part of me had still been wishing I’d hallucinated it, or that the email had been sent to the wrong person. ‘And that’s supposed to make it ok?’

‘Of course not.’

I flung a disgusted look at the champagne glasses, the buttery croissants and the rose Evan was still holding. In slow motion, he slid it back into the vase.

‘So, what was that, Evan? Or do I call you Fox? Was it a sympathy shag?’ I was fighting with every breath to speak.

‘What? No! Of course not! You really think I’d do something like that?’

He took a couple of steps towards me, but I put up one hand. ‘Don’t.’ My lips wobbled.

Evan swallowed.

‘So, what was it then?’ Tears sprung out of my eyes. ‘Was it a joke to you? A bet maybe?’

‘It wasn’t any of those things.’ His voice was imploring. ‘I didn’t recognise you at the party. I didn’t know who you were until you told me. I mean, you wore that blonde bobbed wig in Sinister.’

‘Yes, I know I did. You don’t have to remind me.’