‘Thanks, er...’ God, this is so embarrassing. What was his name again?
‘It’s Greg, hen,’ he supplies in a much kindlier tone than I would’ve were the circumstances reversed.
‘Sorry,’ I murmur, my cheeks immediately heating. Sorry for forgetting your name,Greg the Giglio.I almost giggle at the thought, rolling my lips inward instead. ‘That’s the second time you’ve called me hen.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes. Why?’Is it because I’m cute or he enjoys ruffling my feathers?His answer dashes those thoughts, PDQ.
‘Because you’ve been peckin’ my head since you arrived.’
‘Oh.’ Hmm. Well, I know where I stand, I suppose. And I know I am a little full on, a little demanding, but it comes with the job.
‘So Greg,’ Greg repeats, touching the glass to his chest. I can’t help but notice his expression is curiously indulgent. ‘And it seems there’s a Mo, which just leaves you. And you are ... ?’
‘Oh. Isobel,’ I supply, grasping the tumbler from the counter. ‘Izzy, actually.’
‘Hmm. I can’t see it,’ he says.
‘I’m pretty sure that’s my name. At least, that’s what my parents have been calling me for almost thirty years.’ The way I look at it is, under thirty-five is closer to thirty than forty. Therefore, I’m almost thirty if anyone asks. If they take that to mean I’m not yet thirty, which I suppose is technically twenty-nine, that’s not my fault either, is it?
‘Really? You don’t look a day over twenty-five.’ Oh, this man is good. Compliments and whisky delivered in pyjamas. ‘But I meant you don’t look like an Izzie. Definitely more an Isobel.’ I’m not sure if it’s his tone or the way his eyes roam over me that heats more than just my cheeks this time as I bring the glass to my lips. And come up spluttering.
‘Oh, Jesus. Whisky?’
‘Well, it wasn’t likely to be juice, was it?’
‘You might’ve warned me! I was expecting something nice, like amaretto.’
‘She thinks amaretto’s nice?’ He sounds more than a little mildly disgusted. ‘It’s like marzipan in liquid form—and you can’nae get drunk on cake,’ he protests.
‘So you’re trying to get me drunk?’
‘If it’ll make you shut your trap,’ he mutters. ‘Upstairs, I didn’t say I need cake, did I? I said I. Need. A. Drink.’
‘Needa drink?’ I repeat a little sharply.
‘Aye, and I’ll be needing another one right after this one.’
‘Do you have a problem?’
His eyebrows draw together as he replies, ‘Aye. I’m lookin’ at her.’
‘Look,’ I begin in a friendlier tone, ‘I think we have a few things to straighten out.’
‘Absolutely.’ He places his glass down, then folds his arms across his chest. ‘First things first, this is my place. I own it.’
‘How can that be? No, absolutely not. I paid to stay here for the next few days. I have a wedding to attend over on the Isle of Lewis. I booked my stay months ago.’
‘A few months ago, this place wasn’t fit for the sheep that wandered in and out of the place. It was a midden—a ruin, y’ken.’
‘No, I saw photographs of the interior,’ I reply evenly. Even if I can’t remember every detail, the place looks familiar. Apart from the bath in the bedroom but that’s a small thing to overlook.
‘Face it. You’ve come to the wrong place.’
‘No,’ I repeat firmly. ‘You’re wrong. The navigation system brought me here, right to the front door!’
‘Because those things have never been wrong before, have they? Especially in the Highlands where some roads don’t even have actual names.’
