Page 65 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

‘I know, but I’m making sure. Humour me, OK? I’ll have my phone with me, so call if you want anything.’

‘You’vealwaysgot your phone with you,’ he grumbled. ‘All you youngsters do.’

Freya bit back a smile. She was hardly a youngster, but he was right, she did keep her phone close, and that was because she was still waiting for the contract to come through for the job in New York. She wasn’t in any hurry, but it would be nice to run her eyes over it.

Vinnie aimed the remote control at the TV. ‘Shouldn’t you be off?’

‘Mack is going to call for me. He’s having tea with his mum.’

‘He’s a good lad, is Mack.’ Her dad found the channel he wanted and settled back in his chair. ‘You look nice.’

‘Thanks.’ She’d made an effort, happy to dress up for once. It seemed a long time since she’d worn anything other than jeans or dungarees, and trainers or her well-worn and much-loved Doc Martens. This evening she was wearing a skirt, her hair was down instead of scooped into a bun, and she was wearing more make-up than her customary swipe of mascara.

Freya was aware of the irony: when she was in London and going out to dinner a couple of times a week, attending exhibitions, meetings and galleries, or giving lectures, she’d resented having to ‘dress up’, wanting nothing more than to don a pair of paint-daubed dungarees and tie her hair up. Yet now she was grateful for a reason to wear a skirt. Go figure!

A knock on the door alerted her that Mack was outside, and she grabbed her phone and keys, stuffing them into the pocket of her denim jacket, then bent to give her father a kiss.

Vinnie waved her away. ‘Be quiet when you come back. I’ll be in bed.’

‘I won’t be late.’

‘Enjoy yourself. I worry about you stuck here with me, day in, day out.’

‘Stop that,’ she replied. ‘I’m not stuck, as you put it, I’m looking after you.’

‘I don’t need—’

‘Looking after,’ she chimed in. ‘I know, you keep telling me.’

‘Stay out as long as you want. I’ll be fine.’

Of course he would. How much mischief could her dad get up to in his own sitting room on a Friday evening? He’d eaten a good tea, he was in his pyjamas, and there were drinks and snacks in the kitchen if he was peckish. So why was she fretting?

When she left the house, she found Mack leaning against her van, his arms folded, his legs crossed at the ankle. He was gazing at the sky.

The sight of him made her pause, and her breath caught, as it often did when she saw him. He was one good-looking guy, with his tanned skin, sun-bleached curly hair and eyes the colour of the sky he was staring at.

‘Anything interesting up there?’ she asked.

‘Does that cloud look like a dog to you?’

Freya looked up. ‘I can’t see it.’

‘There.’ He unfurled himself and stood close to her, pointing. ‘That’s the head, there’s the nose, and that bit is the eye.’

Mack was wearing aftershave. It was woody and citrussy, and smelt divine. Freya tried not to breathe.

‘Och, it’s gone,’ he said. ‘The clouds are moving fast.’

‘Are we expecting rain?’ She hadn’t listened to the news or the subsequent weather forecast, as she’d been too busy getting ready.

‘This is Skye, we’re always expecting rain,’ he joked. ‘Maybe not tonight, though I won’t swear to it.’

She fell into step beside him as they strolled down the road. ‘Aren’t you fisherman types supposed to be able to sense it? Dad always claimed he could tell when the weather was about to turn.’

‘You realise he probably listened to the shipping forecast, right?’

Freya laughed. ‘Now you come to mention it…’ The shipping forecast had been an ever-present background hum in their house when she was growing up. That, andThe Archers.

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