Page 31 of Scotlander

Charmer.

And also . . . what had he been expecting? A bit of bracken and a blanket under the stars? She’d been expecting ridiculous thread counts and butlers.

‘And you, Willa?’ Orla was asking, as she gave the huge pot of porridge a stir. ‘How’d you fare?’

Memories of her triple-X dream sent a rush of red to her cheeks. ‘Oh, fine. All good. Without incident.’

Orla looked up from the porridge pot. ‘That’s just grand. Oh! Are you not wearing your new frock?’

Willa looked down at her hastily tugged-on outfit. Compared to the other guests who were wearing more elaborate frocks than they’d worn yesterday, she was definitely looking like something that the cat dragged in.

‘Messy eater,’ she said, pointing at the bowl Orla was filling with a huge dollop of oatmeal. ‘I wanted to make sure I didn’t spill anything on it. It’s so beautiful,’ she added, meaning it. Dress-up or no, it was the prettiest dress she’d ever seen.

‘Well, you’ll have to hustle a wee bit after your breakfast, so here’s your porridge. There are a few berries and things over on the tea table to pop on top if you like. We’ve a busy day ahead, so make sure you get enough to eat.’

Willa and Gabe headed over to the little table underneath the covered walkway where the rest of the group were loading their bowls of steaming porridge with dollops of homemade jam, fresh strawberries or raspberries and, in Jeff’s case, whopping great spoonfuls of set honey.

‘It’s heather honey,’ he said when he caught her looking. ‘It’s got a different taste from the stuff we get in the squeezy bear at home. It’s more’ – he rubbed his fingers together as if trying to divine just the right word – ‘genuine.’

Willa dug her spoon into the honey pot (an actual honey pot!) and watched as the thick, crystallised dollop melted into a golden puddle atop her porridge. The heat released a sweet, herby scent that instantly transported her back to the first moment she’d leant in and smelt—

‘Good morning, all.’ A lilting baritone came from behind her. ‘Did everyone sleep well?’

She whipped round, heart in her throat as her eyes connected with Finn’s blue-grey ones. Here he was. The star of her sex dream.

Mortified, she turned away. She’d never had a good poker face and if a frozen smile could betray the fact that she’d pictured herself buck naked riding Finn like the winning horse at the Kentucky Derby, she was sure her face was doing it right now. She fastidiously focused on shovelling porridge into her mouth while everyone else told him how delighted they were with their rooms, the antler clothes hangers, the jam jars filled with colourful wildflower posies and all the other little touches Willa had somehow managed to miss because she’d been too busy alternating between worrying she’d killed Gabe and having pornographic dreams about a man who very clearly disliked her.

It was actually shocking that she hadn’t put two and two together straight away. The rough straw-coloured stubble that, when it caught the sun, looked red gold. The large, capable, callused hands. The alpha-male strength combined with an unusually insightful level of tenderness. Here it all was, standing right beside her in living, breathing colour. A ripple of goose pimples ran the length of her spine then turned to lightning as they arrowed between her legs.

She made a silent note to herself to never, ever get horny over a catalogue model again. When dreams came true, it was far too easy for them to turn into nightmares.

‘This is, hands down, the best oatmeal I have ever had,’ Rosa gushed. ‘Do you have this every morning?’

All eyes turned to Finn.

The corners of his mouth tipped down and, once again, Willa saw a micro-moment of absence shift through him. As if, for the blink of an eye, he literally disappeared somewhere far, far away. Where had he gone? And more to the point, why was a question about steel cut oats making him sad?

After a moment, he said, ‘Oh, aye. It’s famous round these parts. Orla’s porridge.’

‘What makes it so creamy?’

Finn’s soft smile returned. ‘Cream.’

Everyone swallowed and licked their lips.

Oh, this was too much. Turning a solitary, monosyllabic word into a delectable poem?

She shifted her stance. Just because he could roll his Rs and visit her nocturnally did not mean her lady garden should be at his mercy. And yet, here she was, wishing she could strip off the layers of petticoats hothousing a bajingo puddling like a pat of butter on a summer’s day.

‘She puts loads in.’ Finlay made an mmm sound, then pointedly looked at Willa before adding, ‘Delectable.’

Oh my god. He wasn’t a murderer. He was a porn pimp! Had to be. There were probably hidden microphones or cameras or . . . oh, she got it now . . . there were subversive messages being fed in through the hay bales FORCING her to have filthy, wanton sex dreams. There was no other explanation for her having the only room with electricity. Pictures of her moaning and groaning as fantasy Finn went down on her had probably gone viral in some niche world of erotica. A get-yer-rocks-off-in-the-hayloft kind of thing.

Jules asked whether the cows were raised organically or biodynamically. A discussion on the merits of rewilding ensued while Willa remained caught in the questioning storm blue light of Finlay’s eyes.

Why was she here they asked.

She thought of the letter burning a hole in her luggage (double Ziplocked to prevent damage). She could practically hear it calling out to her to please, please, tear it open and read it, but . . . something more powerful overrode it, insisting it wasn’t time yet. She made a quick mental note to ask Gabe if he’d opened his yet.