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“All right, fine!” Although, as soon as I say it, a thought flashes through my mind: I can’t afford this! I quickly flip it, though, just like the self-help book I read earlier this year taught me. I can afford this.

It’s all about the power of positive thoughts and manifesting abundance, baby. I used the same technique when buying this place, and look how that turned out! It’s not every twenty-four-year-old who can say they’re a home owner.

The universe provides for you when you put good energy out there. Or at least, that’s the theory. True, my bank balance may be low, but things will sort themselves out. I’ll just . . . leave it to the universe to handle the details.

“Just a reminder,” Robbie says, “but my rate assumes you’ll be out at your job while I’m working. If you distract me with chat and . . .” He waves a hand at my outfit. “. . . this, I’ll have to increase my quote accordingly.”

I gasp, outraged by his insinuation. Also, it turns out Project Bang a Bad Boy might be more difficult than I was expecting. Still, I can’t help feeling a teensy bit smug that my choice of attire is getting under his skin.

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, but I assure you, this is purely functional sportswear.”

“Mm-hmm.” He pulls a tape measure from his pocket. “Anyway, I need to take some measurements and jot down a few things. Won’t take long.”

While Robbie moves around the flat, his tape measure snapping, I pop on the kettle. I take down two mugs—one with a Shakespeare quote and the other featuring a Highland cow—and pop a teabag in each. When the kettle clicks, I fill the mugs and leave them to brew.

“Do you normally have two drinks at once?” Robbie asks, returning to the kitchen.

“One of these is for you, silly.”

“No, thanks.”

“I’ve got beer if you prefer?” I open the fridge to reveal several bottles of Golden Stag Lager. Maisie mentioned it was his usual order at the Pheasant.

“Er . . . no.” He pops his notepad into the back pocket of his jeans. “That’s me got everything I need. If you’re happy with the quote, I can start tomorrow.”

Part of me itches to come up with an excuse for him to stay longer, but no, best not to push my luck. Besides, he’s going to be here every day for the next two weeks. That’s plenty of time to wear down his grumpy exterior.

“Tomorrow is perfect.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ROBBIE

The scraper makes a satisfying ripping sound as I tear away another strip of the hideous floral wallpaper. Whoever thought this pattern was a good idea should be banned from interior decorating for life. Beneath it, the wall is a patchy mess, uneven and cracked. That’ll need sorted before any new paper or paint goes up.

It’s my second day of working in Cat’s flat, and I’ve been at this task for hours. It’s tedious, but a bit of mindless work is exactly what I need right now, or so I keep telling myself. Each strip I peel away is another minute where I shouldn’t be thinking about the resort, or the accusation hanging over me, or the fact my own father is willing to believe I stole from guests. But try as I might, those thoughts keep creeping back in.

The front door clicks open. “Just me!” Cat calls. A few seconds later, her voice fills the living room. “Wow! I’ve been dying to see the back of this wallpaper since I set foot in here. Great work, Robbie!”

I pause the rock music playing through my phone, checking the time as I do. Bang on four o’clock, just like yesterday. Don’t teachers have marking or lesson planning or whatever to do? And wouldn’t it make more sense for Cat to do that in her classroom than here, surrounded by dust and mess?

“Cheers.” I get back to it with the scraper. “Should have it all down before I leave today.”

She moves into my peripheral vision. “No rush. Honestly, I could watch you strip all night—and I don’t just mean the wallpaper. Last week’s shirtless wood-chopping show was quite the spectacle.” She fans herself.

Christ, here we go again. I shake my head and focus on the wall. The seven-year age gap between us feels like twenty when she comes out with stuff like that. There’s something distinctly immature about her approach, like a teenager who’s just discovered flirting and is trying it out for size. Didn’t I make it crystal clear when I accepted the job that there was to be none of this nonsense? And yet here we are. She’s persistent, I’ll give her that.

“Can you pass me that bucket?” My strategy for dealing with Catriona McIntyre’s flirting attempts is to simply not engage.

She goes over to the corner, picks it up, then sashays back and hands it to me with a flourish. “Here you go. Need anything else? A drink? A snack?” She pauses and bats her eyelashes. “Me?”

Jesus Christ. She’s barely in the door! There’s no build-up whatsoever. It’s straight from zero to sixty.

“Nope. Just the bucket, thanks.” I take it and get back to work.

Apparently, she gets the message because she leaves me to get on with things in peace—for all of ten minutes. Then she calls, “Robbie? Could you help me with something? I’m too short.”

With a sigh, I put down my tools and head into the bedroom, where she’s standing by the built-in wardrobe, a box in her hands.