Page 36 of Wild Scottish Rose

“Seriously, Owen. You’re on holiday here. No need to help me, I’ve got it handled,” Shona insisted.

A delivery van pulled into the driveway behind my car, offering a sharp beep.

“Hmm, what’s Sam doing here? I didn’t order anything.” Shona started toward the van. Reaching out, I snagged her arm to stop her.

“That’s for me.”

“For you?” Shona looked up at me, a confused look on her face.

“I had some of my camera equipment overnighted,” I explained. A shadow crossed her face, and again, I had to wonder if she didn’t like my job for some reason. She’d had a similar look in her eyes the night before when I’d asked her about what was going on in Loren Brae. Leaning closer, I squeezed her arm lightly where I still held her.

“What time tomorrow, boss?”

“Seriously, Owen, I don’t need you to help.”

“She likes to pack up by half past seven,” Louise offered helpfully, and I turned to nod my thanks at the teenager.

“Enjoy your concert. I’ll see you in the morning.”

With that, I left Shona glaring after me and whistled my way to where the delivery driver unloaded a pelican-style protective box. It was a risk shipping my equipment, but Isuspected I was going to need something more than my iPhone for documentation of whatever I hoped to uncover here.

It looked like I’d have some afternoons with my tripod and camera down by the “bonnie” banks of Loch Mirren ahead of me. Excitement warmed my blood, and that familiar tingle of anticipation made me want to get started now. But first, I had a date with my laptop and the comfortable lounge chair by the fire.

Step one was research. Always. It was time to learn about the Kelpies.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Shona

Icould have killed Louise.

Okay, that wasn’t fair. Louise was awesome, and I’d miss her terribly when she went off to uni. And she deserved to have fun and go to concerts and live her life and not hide in the garden like the hermit I was slowly becoming.

I blinked blearily at the vase of flowers sitting on my now clean kitchen table.

Yes, that’s correct. I’d cleaned.

I think it was the shock of potentially having company that had driven me into a whirlwind, even though I was dead on my feet after a long day of packing bushels. Yet once I’d come inside and put the stunning bouquet in a cheerful blue glass vase that had been my gran’s, I’d looked around at all my clutter and sighed.Thiswas a bouquet thatdeserved better than to be placed in the middle of a stack of notebooks and old receipts. At first, I’d moved it to the bedroom, which was somewhat less messy, but then I’d caught myself staring at it and wondered if I would be able to sleep what with thoughts of Owen clamoring for attention in my brain.

My God, but that man could kiss.

It shamed me, really, just how much I alreadycravedhis touch. It was like sensible thoughts left the building once his lips were on mine, and all I could do was feel, like I’d been plugged into a wall socket, desire taking the wheel. I had spent a good portion of my evening imagining what it would be like to be with him, and pent-up lust had fueled my cleaning frenzy.

I wouldn’t say that my cottage sparkled today, or was ready for a spread in Architectural Digest, but the surfaces were clean, order had been restored, and the worst of the dust had been tended to. I’d likely destroy all my hard work within a week, but I was proud of myself for tackling the worst of it. Usually, my mind was so fixated on one thing or another with work, that I drifted easily past any piles of clutter while I tried to work through whatever problem was plaguing me. The one great thing about living alone was that I didn’t have to apologize to anyone for it.

If the gnome could claim people as being size-ist, could I call people clean-ist? How come people who managed to keep their homes neat and tidy were held in high regard while I was shamed for a cluttered home? I couldn’t doallthe thingsallthe time, nor was I interested in trying. My gardens were gorgeous and hugely productive, weren’t they? Why wasn’t being a successful gardener and businessowner enough for the world? I had to be a good housekeeper on top of it as well? Why was an untidy home viewed as some sort of moral failing?

When I realized I was standing in the kitchen staring at my coffee pot and arguing with myself, I shook my head to break my ruminations. Pouring myself a cup, I took it with me into the shower and took my time letting the heat of the pounding water ease some of the tension in my shoulders. By the time I’d finished up, I felt marginally more human, and went to get dressed for the day. Reaching for the same jumper I’d worn the day before, I paused.

Owen was going to be with me in my booth today. Shouldn’t I try to look more presentable? The thought made me cross, and I went to grab the same jumper but spied a hole in the sleeve. My thoughts flashed back to Kennedy’s splashy wedding, and annoyed with myself, I poked a finger through the hole. What would Owen care if I had a hole in my jumper? What didIcare if Owen cared if I had a hole in a jumper? It wasn’t like I was a pauper. I just wasn’t as fancy as Owen and his family. I bought serviceable clothes that lasted for a long time, and I’d had this jumper for ages now. Sighing, I went to my closet and dug around until I found a pretty fair isle jumper that I’d bought on a whim at an artists’ market a few years ago in Inveraray. It was robin’s egg blue, with a white and black triangular pattern across the chest and arms. I didn’t wear it much, likely because I was worried about getting it dirty, but now I pulled it over my head. Automatically, I started to plait my hair, but then paused, looking in the small mirror hanging over my chest of drawers.

Growing up I’d always wished for long flowing locksof curly hair, but I’d been given stick straight hair that mostly refused to curl, even if I used an iron. I’d been told that I had nice hair by my friends who constantly used straightening products, but I’d secretly always wanted brilliant red Rapunzel-style hair. I’d never even dyed my hair, and most days I just plaited it back to keep it out of my face. But now, I ran my hands through my hair, fluffing it a bit, and admired how the jumper brought out the blue of my eyes. Surprising even myself, I reached for a tube of mascara and swiped it on before I could lecture myself that I didn’t need to wear makeup for a day at the market. Before I could do something ridiculous, like add blush and swipe on lip gloss, I stomped from the bedroom and grabbed my thermos.

I didnotneed to impress Owen.

He’d interrupted my dreams last night, and I’d popped awake, skin flushed, need pulsing through my body. I’d barely had to reach a hand down to brush across myself before I’d flown over the edge, a gentle river of pleasure rippling through me.

I definitely didn’t need to wear blush today. One sight of the man was likely to make my face flame. Another annoying thing about being fair skinned was that I had a tell-tale blush that often gave my thoughts away.

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