FOUR
SUMMER
As I look at the contents of my suitcase, I realise I’m screwed. I packed photoshoot outfits, not farmwear. After a few minutes of despairing, I pick out my most countryside-appropriate outfit: a pair of pink yoga pants I packed just in case I suddenly became a new person and decided to start working out; and the lacy camisole I brought to sleep in. So, notactuallyvery appropriate, but better than a microskirt or a handkerchief top. For shoes, I mostly packed pumps, so the best option I have are a pair of cute heeled ankle boots. They have no grip at all, but they’re better than nothing. I rejoin Fraser, who glances at my legs quickly before coughing and looking away.
“Lovely. Right this way.” He opens the door and leads me outside. We start trudging up the hill.
In the daylight, the farm isn’t scary at all. It’s actually beautiful here. The air is fresh and clean. Birds are singing. The sky is a pale baby blue, and the green hills of the Highlands rise up around me. A deep-blue loch shimmers on the horizon. It’s miles away from smoggy, overcrowded London.
“So,” Fraser says brightly, “didn’t catch your name yet, lass.”
I almost trip over my own feet.
“Whoops!” He grabs my hand to steady me. My stomach flips at the touch. Yep. I definitely need to get laid. “You alright?”
I can feel my cheeks burning. “Do youactuallycall girls ‘lass’up here?” I squeak. I’ve only seen it in books and films. Coming from this mountain of a man, though, it isveryhot.
Fraser’s eyes twinkle. “Not unless they’re pretty tourists. I know your lot love it.” My mouth falls open, and he booms a laugh. “Your name?” He reminds me. “Unless you’re keeping it quiet so I call you ‘lass’ again?”
“I’m Summer!” I say quickly. “I’m visiting from London.”
“London, eh? What brings you to these parts then? We don’t get many guests here, other than hikers looking to spend the night.” Letting go of my hand, he glances at my feet. “And you seem to have forgotten your walking shoes. Not that these aren’t very pretty.”
I look down at my boots. “It’s kind of a long story,” I say as we reach the farmhouse. It’s a large, plain building with a thatched roof. I feel Fraser’s gaze trail up my legs. Something buzzes inside me.
He’s checking me out.
“Well, you can tell me it over coffee,” he declares, pushing the front door open. “After you.”
I step inside, and my eyes widen. While the outside of the farmhouse isn’t much to look at, the inside is like a fairy-tale cottage. The ceiling is arched wood, and the walls are built from natural stone. The doorway opens into a lounge space with a handful of big squashy armchairs crowded around a huge fireplace. I notice a cabinet wedged next to the coat stand. It’s mostly full of dusty old books and records, but taking up the whole bottom shelf is?—
“Ohmygod, is that a vintage Singer?” I say in one breath, gravitating closer.
“Nah,” Fraser says. “I reckon that’s a sewing machine.”
“It’s aFeatherweight,” I practically coo, reaching out to stroke the gold filigree. The Featherweight was my dream vintage sewing machine back when I was in fashion school. I was going to buy myself one as a graduation present, before I dropped out. I can’t help turning the wheel. It still spins beautifully.
I can feel Fraser watching me. “Aye, it was Alec’s mum’s, I think. You like to sew?”
I suddenly realise I’m being weird. I need to tone myself down. I step back and give him a smile. “Oh, um, a bit! I haven’t in ages though.”
His eyes narrow, like he’s looking right through me, and I brighten my smile even more. The tension is broken by my stomach gurgling loudly.
Fraser laughs. “All right, London. Let’s get some scran in you.”
“Scran?”
“Scran. Food. Breakfast. Can’t have a guest starving away in my house.” He touches my back and leads me through the lounge, into a kitchen decorated with wooden counters and stone floor tile. In the centre of the room is a long table set with pastries and coffee. Cameron is sitting at one end reading a newspaper. He looks even hotter in daylight. Scruffy and rugged.
He looks up at me. Blinks. Then his face twists into a scowl. “Fraser,” he growls.
“What?” Fraser says happily. “She needs Wi-Fi. I’m just being a good host.”
“Hi, Cameron!” I say, waving.
He looks me over, his mouth turning down at the sight of my shoes. “See you survived the murder shed,” he mutters.
“I’m sorry I called it that,” I say. “It’s actually super cozy! It was just scary in the dark, you know. You should put more lights outside.”
