On his way to the kitchen, he pulled out his mobile and texted Kylee: Home at the usual time? Dinner ready in an hour. If you could count putting a frozen lasagna in the outdated kitchen’s old-fashioned oven as dinner. When it was Kylee’s night to cook, they ate well, thanks to Nicola’s thorough parenting. His nights were a different story. The best he could say was that they wouldn’t starve.
With an hour on the timer and a quiet house, there was little to do with his time. He grabbed a sweatshirt and made his way out into the patchy back garden, where a large boxing bag hung from the wooden frame of Kylee’s old play set, the swings long discarded. It was barely sturdy enough to take the impact, but he’d been too busy to make a proper stand or to reinforce the frame.
Only when he was already standing in front of the bag did he realize he’d neglected to grab his hand wraps and gloves on the way out. Never mind. It wasn’t as if he were intending a full session anyway. Just some light contact to work out the kinks in his muscles and the lingering frustration over the new woman in his life who seemed determined to make him miserable.
He settled comfortably into his boxing stance—orthodox, even though he was left-handed—and circled the bag, throwing jabs and one-two combinations, just enough to touch the vinyl covering as if he were testing distance against an opponent. He’d done this as a warm-up drill so many times in the past twenty years that he didn’t need to think about it, but he forced himself to concentrate and keep his eyes focused. It was too easy to get into bad habits when all he had to train with was a heavy bag—habits he’d have to unlearn if he ever got into the ring again.
Not that it was likely, considering the lack of a proper boxing club on Skye. He hadn’t competed since his late teens, even though he had spent several evenings a week at a gym in Baltimore. It was a good way to work out the kinks that came from sitting in front of a screen all day. His girlfriend hadn’t minded the effect on his body either. “Hard to remember you’re a geek when you look like that,” she’d teased.
The thought of Teresa made him throw more power behind his next punch than he intended, and he cringed the second he made contact. He didn’t need to see the smear of blood on the bag to know his knuckles had split open on the cold, inflexible vinyl. He dropped his guard and stepped back, breathing deeply while his heart rate returned to normal. It wasn’t even that he missed Teresa, really. Not as he once had. She was just another reminder of how his plans had gotten derailed.
Malcolm fished his phone from his pocket to see if Kylee had responded—she hadn’t—then walked back to the kitchen, where he soaked his injured fist under the cold tap for a minute. There would be no hiding this one. He was careful with his hands, considering he worked with guests all day, and now he looked as if he had gotten into a bar fight. It would be the perfect excuse for Serena to complain if she were looking for one.
The buzzer on the oven went off just as he heard the rattle of the front door lock. Malcolm grabbed a folded towel from the countertop and yanked open the oven door. Even through the towel’s layers, the heat from the foil pan singed his fingers. He juggled the pan to the counter, then grabbed a couple of plates from the cupboard. “Just in time! Dinner’s ready.”
Kylee’s rucksack hit the floor in the lounge with a familiar thud, and his niece appeared in the kitchen doorway a minute later. “What are we having?”
“I made lasagna.” Malcolm cut healthy portions from the tin and put them on stoneware plates.
“You mean you heated lasagna?”
“Same difference. Here, I’ll take our plates if you’ll grab the flatware.”
Kylee rummaged in the drawer for forks and knives and followed him to the dining room, where he placed the plates on the table with a thunk.
“You know, you could serve something green on your nights,” she said as she settled into her chair.
“Why? Tomatoes are vegetables.”
Kylee rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. He watched her arrange her fork and knife properly beside her plate, struck by how much she looked like her mother at the same age. Dark-blonde hair; green eyes; tall, slim frame. Her mannerisms were even the same: her habit of tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, the way she smoothed the paper serviette into quarters. Not for the first time, he felt a pang of regret that he’d let his bad memories damage his relationship with Nicola. Being here with Kylee was almost like getting a second chance.
“Grace?” she prompted.
“You do it.”
She bowed her head and said a quick prayer, then dug into her food. “You heat up a wicked frozen lasagna, Uncle Mal.”
He chuckled. “I aim to please. Friday night I might defrost a shepherd’s pie.”
Kylee made a face. “No, thank you.”
“So how was your day?”
It was the obligatory parent question, and it always earned the obligatory teenage shrug. Today was no different, though it was followed by the ever-enlightening “Okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Lane’s decided to go to London for university.”
Ah, now it made sense. Kylee had applied to a number of schools, both in the United Kingdom and in the States, but she’d received only one acceptance letter so far. None of her top choices were in London, where her best friend would be moving. He diverted the conversation away from friend drama and toward something he could actually help with. “What are we still waiting on?”
“Berklee, UCLA, and the Royal Conservatoire.” She put down her fork. “What if I don’t get in anywhere good?”
“You will.” Also part of the script.
“But what if I don’t?”
“I don’t know, Kylee. I guess we’ll deal with it when we come to it. But listen—” he nudged her hand across the table—“you are an amazing singer. I have faith in you. And you can always attend a junior college in America and transfer in somewhere as a sophomore. There are plenty of voice coaches in the States.” If he got his old job back at the research institute at Johns Hopkins, he could actually afford to pay for it.
“I guess,” she said doubtfully. He knew how she felt. When he was her age, he’d been desperate to get out of Glasgow and on with the rest of his life. Skye wasn’t exactly the same, but it had to feel hopelessly small to a talented girl with dreams of being a famous singer-songwriter.
“Maybe I’ll just study something boring like science,” she muttered.
“Don’t tease me, young lady. My old heart can’t take the shock.”
That earned a faint smile from her, which faded as she toyed with her fork. He recognized that look. It meant something was coming that he wouldn’t like. “Can I ask you something?”
He was tempted to say no and avoid the issue, but that probably wasn’t an example of good parenting. Cautiously he nodded.
“Do you remember that music festival I was talking about in Glasgow?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Kylee chewed her lip, then spilled out her words in one breath. “Lane actually managed to get tickets and her parents said she could go if she went with me. The term will be out and they were really hard to get—”
“Hold up. You want me to let two seventeen-year-old girls drive five hours to a festival that’s as well known for its drug use as it is for its music?”
“I know, but Lane and I don’t do any of that. I’m hoping that maybe you’ll just think about it?”
“I’ll think about it,” he said, but her expression fell anyway, as if he’d said no. And he still might. He’d attended the festival a decade ago, and it had already been toeing the line between innocent fun and debauched hedonism. He could only imagine it had gotten worse over the years. Not someplace he wanted his sheltered, innocent niece and her even more innocent friend going alone, especially when Kylee looked twenty-two and already drew the wrong sort of attention.
Not that any male attention was the right kind when it came to his niece.
Kylee finished her meal in silence and piled her utensi
ls on her plate. “May I be excused? I want to finish a song.”
“Sure. My turn to do the dishes anyway.”
As Malcolm filled the sink with soapy water a few minutes later, he heard the faint strum of a guitar from Kylee’s room. He’d prepared himself for drama after her parents’ death, and there had been no shortage of tears and bad attitudes, though like tonight, Kylee kept it mostly in check. He attributed it to the fact that almost immediately she had poured all her energy into her music and songwriting. But he always wondered if maybe it was just a way to delay the inevitable grieving, and it would explode in some unpredictable way.
Still, even if she was worried about her prospects, he wasn’t in the least. He didn’t need to know anything about music to recognize her determination. She might have lost both her parents, but he would do everything he could to make sure she didn’t lose her dreams too.
CHAPTER FIVE
AFTER BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING, Serena left the children with Muriel and headed farther down the Sleat Peninsula toward Armadale. When she’d planned the temporary move to Skye, she’d known they wouldn’t be able to stay with Muriel the whole time. Her aunt would have welcomed them, but considering Max’s nightly awakenings and the fact that Muriel was a light sleeper, it was a better option to rent a holiday cottage. Unfortunately most of the options that would allow them to stay through August had already been booked, leaving only this little cottage about five miles away from Armadale Castle at the farthest end of the peninsula.
She drove slowly down the highway, taking care on the road left wet by the steady rain. Green was finally beginning to overtake the grays and browns of the winter-dormant foliage, a sure sign that spring was on its way. While she’d always secretly loved winter on Skye, when its rustic beauty was highlighted by a fine dusting of snow, the slow forward creep of the seasons held a particularly appropriate promise: a new beginning, bright life springing from a long, cold winter.
Serena followed the directions she’d scribbled on the back of an envelope, looking for the tree with the broken branch that would mark the otherwise-unsigned turnoff to the cottage’s long drive. Her car’s suspension thudded over the ruts in the road, jolting her all the way to her teeth. Water pooled in the little worn channels on the side of the road and filled the potholes left behind by winter ice, their glassy surface broken by a fine fall of rain.
She followed the winding drive up a gentle slope and parked in front of a tiny cottage. The structure’s exterior was encouraging: neatly whitewashed stone, a fenced garden, a picnic bench on a gravel pad along one side. Clearly the owner had gone to some trouble to make it an inviting accommodation for holidaymakers.
She stepped out of the car and zipped her waxed jacket against a sudden frigid gust. For all her romantic thoughts about spring, the wind still held winter’s bite.
The cottage door opened and delivered an older man in a heavy corduroy jacket and a dark watch cap onto the stoop. “Mrs. Stewart?”
“Mr. Brown.”
He nodded and gestured for her to follow. “Come inside and have a look, then.”
Not one for small talk apparently. Serena squeezed past him into the tiny cottage and looked around. It was bare but neat, with rag rugs and pine furniture, just enough room for two or three people. More than adequate for their temporary needs.
“One bedroom down the hall and a loft,” he said.
She nodded and examined the perimeter of the room. “Where are the rads?”
“No radiators, dear.”
“Excuse me?”
He jerked his head in what she assumed was an invitation to follow and led her to a wood-burning stove in the small kitchen. No radiators or proper appliances, just this old-fashioned stove for both heat and cooking? She wasn’t even sure she knew how to use one.
“There’s a woodpile out back. More than enough to last you the summer.”
Her hopes deflated as quickly as they had risen. She could bring in an electric hot plate and mini oven for cooking, but Skye’s summer nights remained cool. Even if she were willing to keep the stove constantly burning, the idea of hot iron around curious three-year-old fingers seemed like a bad idea.
“I’m going to have to give some thought to this,” she said slowly. “I’d not known this was the only source of heat.”
He shrugged and ushered her outside, where the rain had shifted from a fine mist to a steady patter. She pulled up her hood, shook Mr. Brown’s hand, and hightailed it back into the warmth of her sedan.
So that was a bust. She might not have many requirements, but reliable heat that didn’t involve an open fire was certainly one of them. What was she going to do now?
Find another place, clearly. Yet she’d had enough difficulty finding this cottage within the school’s catchment area. Even if she could find an available rental, it wouldn’t necessarily be within the prescribed boundaries—which meant her plans of having Em ride the bus home each day were for naught.
Serena had planned on going straight to the hotel, but instead she drove all the way back up the Sleat Peninsula and then an extra fifty minutes to her favorite coffee shop in Portree. Not only did the shop make an excellent latte, but it had free Wi-Fi and a community noticeboard on which locals often posted room and cottage rentals. Her avoidance had nothing at all to do with the fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach when she thought of Malcolm Blake. Finding a place to stay was her first priority.
And yet after a fruitless scan of the board and an hour on the Internet, Serena had to admit it might be a futile hope. She even navigated the guesthouse’s reservations system to check availability of the self-catering cottages, which were of course booked solid through September. Just as well, she supposed. Staying on-site would make her plans of keeping clear of the hotel manager that much more difficult. In fact, if she weren’t loath to let him think he had scared her off, she would implement that plan today.
She tossed her paper cup in the bin and ventured back outside to her parked car. Time to put on her big-girl pants and make it clear she had as much right to be there as he did. As part owner, it was her responsibility to review the books and see how the hotel’s money was being spent. She couldn’t force him to be pleasant, but she could refuse to rise to his bait. This wasn’t personal, after all.
The rain shifted to a steady downpour on the drive back to Isleornsay. At the rate it was going, the hotel grounds would be ankle-deep in mud by morning. She parked in front of the structure, zipped up her coat again, and took a deep breath to prepare herself for battle.
Some days the hotel clicked along like a well-oiled machine. The guests were happy, the facilities operated as they should, and everyone showed up for work.
Today was not one of those days.
By two o’clock, Malcolm had already cleaned four rooms—after the housekeeper called in sick for the second day in a row—unclogged two toilets, retrieved a wedding ring from the P trap of a guest room sink, and spent twenty minutes on the phone with technical support to determine why the website had crashed. That in turn led to an hour restoring the site from backup and then making arrangements to switch it to a dedicated server, something he’d been considering since he came on board last year but hadn’t gotten around to doing. He settled into the desk chair in his office and massaged the back of his neck. Done. Surely that meant he’d covered all possible disasters and annoyances he was due for the day.
Almost as if the thought had summoned her, the door opened and delivered Serena Stewart.
“Can I get the last two quarters’ P and Ls?”
“Good afternoon to you too, Mrs. Stewart.” He sat back in his chair, enjoying the view of her in those snug jeans and a zip-front Scandinavian sweater that opened a little too low to be considered work appropriate. He’d have thought it was on purpose if not for the fact she wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup and she’d plaited her hair back tightly against the falling rain. Not exactly the kind of thing a woman did when she was trying to be sedu
ctive.
He definitely shouldn’t be thinking along those lines about his boss anyway.
“Sorry. Good afternoon. How are things going today?”
“Two steps short of Armageddon,” Malcolm said, exaggerating just a touch for effect. “Now that it’s pouring down rain, I expect to have guests blame me for my lack of control over the Scottish weather as well.”
To his surprise a faint smile passed over her lips. “Do people do that?”
“Frequently.”
She shook her head, and the smile faded. “The P and Ls? Please?”
Well, she had said please, but he needed more information than that. “Why do you need them?”
The walls went back up, and she stiffened. “Because I asked you for them.”
“I meant, what do you need them for, so I know what files to give you?” He studied her defensive expression and decided to take a different approach. “I know we didn’t get off on the right foot yesterday. But it would be a lot easier if you would stop instantly assuming I’m trying to make your life difficult. I’m just trying to do my job.”
The only change in her expression was a lifted eyebrow. “That goes both ways, you know.”
She wasn’t going to budge an inch. And he didn’t have any choice but to comply. He rose and circled the desk. “Listen, love—”
“No, just stop right there.” She held up a hand. “I’m not sure if your problem with me comes from the fact that I’m a woman or that you don’t want someone encroaching on your territory, but I don’t appreciate the implication that I’m not capable of running a business. I can and I have. So I suggest that you shove down whatever argumentative tendencies seem to spring up in my presence and give me what I want.”
He couldn’t help it. A grin broke over his face, his anger evaporating. And even though he knew it would make matters worse, he let his gaze travel down to the expanse of cleavage exposed by her sweater’s wandering zip.
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