‘My bed? Wh—What’s going to happen to my bed?’
‘Well, you might find a horse’s head in it one of these nights,’ he replies seriously. ‘Maybe even tonight.’
‘Do you really think so?’ I breathe, my palms sweaty at the thought that I might have inadvertently gotten myself embroiled in the kind of drama I’m more used to watching on TV than participating in.
‘No, of course not,’ says Hunter, with a grin that shows a row of very white, even teeth. ‘That would be insane. This is the Scottish Highlands, Rosie, not 1940s Sicily.’
He chuckles quietly to himself, and my sweaty palms start itching to strangle him.
‘You’re not funny, you know,’ I say fiercely, finally managing to get Stevie off me. ‘And this might be a big joke to you, but it’s important to me. I need my clothes. I can’t just wear the same outfit for four days.’
Especially not one Bex Foster described as an ‘old lady sweater’. That’s exactly the kind of misstep that made me spend my teenage years being referred to as Raggedy Rosie, or sometimes Rosie the Reject, depending on which of my three sisters’ hand-me-downs I was wearing that day.
I donotwant to go back to that time, but that’s exactly what it’s going to feel like if I can’t find my clothes, not to mention the fact that, unlike everyone else here, who presumably just packed enough for the four day stay,Ihad to bring everything I own, on account of having nowhere else to store it all.
I haven’t lost just a few outfits here; I’ve lost literallyeverything.
And there’s absolutely no way I can afford to replace it all.
‘No, that would be a true disaster, right enough,’ says Hunter, who’s wearing almost exactly what he had on yesterday. ‘Social death. I’m not sure how you’d live with yourself.’
He grins, and I scowl back at him. I might have guessed Mr I Hate Influencers wouldn’t understand the seriousness of the situation.
‘At least it’ll give you an excuse to go to your “happy place”, though,’ he says teasingly, making scare quotes around the words. ‘So that’s a bit of good news, no?’
‘This isn’t about shopping, Hunter,’ I reply, a little too sharply. ‘Whether you like it or not, your clothes say something about you. They’re how people judge you. And I .?.?. I don’t want to be judged.’
My voice shakes a little as I say this, and Hunter blinks at me in surprise.
‘Look, relax; I’m sure your stuff’ll turn up soon,’ he says, scratching his head awkwardly. ‘It can’t have gone far. Maybe one of the housekeepers took it by accident when they were cleaning the room.’
‘How many are there, do you know?’ I ask, wondering how anyone could ‘accidentally’ steal clothes. ‘Housekeepers, I mean.’
‘Oh, at least a dozen, I think,’ Hunter says vaguely. ‘But there’s only three on duty this week, because there’s just you lot staying for now.’
‘And Lord Glenmuir, presumably,’ I say, remembering. ‘Hey, what’s he like?’ I go on, still curious about the man rich enough to own an entire castle. ‘You must have met him?’
‘The Laird? Aye, I’ve met him all right,’ Hunter says, scratching his head as if he doesn’t really want to answer this question. ‘Cranky old bugger he is. I’d try to keep out of his way if I were you.’
‘Right. Well, I guess I can cross him off my list of suspects,’ I say gloomily. ‘I just wish I knew what’s happened to the clothes. I really need them so I can take photos of the hotel.’
‘You’re going to dress the hotel in clothes?’ Hunter’s eyebrows shoot almost into his hairline, but the smirk tugging at his lips is cheeky – a private joke just between me and him.
‘No,’ I reply, returning the smile in spite of myself. ‘The clothes are for me. I need to take photos of myself enjoying my stay here. For the contest, you know?’
‘Ah. Right. But you’renotenjoying your stay here, are you? What with the missing clothes, and the jammed sauna, and that Becky one prancing around like she owns the place.’
‘Bex,’ I correct him. She might be a tough nut, but I believe in showing respect to others, even if they don’t necessarily show you any. ‘Her name’s Bex. And enjoying myself isn’t really the point. The point is to make itlooklike I’m enjoying it, so that my followers thinkthey’denjoy it too.’
‘A lofty goal,’ observes Hunter. He’s about to say something else but right at that moment there’s a clatter of heels, and Bex and Daniel appear, both of them wheeling matching, monogrammed suitcases, which I instantly covet.
‘Are you checking out?’ I ask, surprised.
‘Of course not, Wrong Rosie,’ replies Bex chirpily. ‘We didn’t get a shot of us arriving last night because the light was all wrong, so we’re going to recreate it now. Are you ready, Daniel?’
By way of answer, Daniel unzips his suitcase and produces a tripod with a camera attached to it, and a set of studio lights, which he begins setting up in the foyer.
‘Give me strength,’ mutters Hunter, his mouth twitching with suppressed laughter.
