Page 79 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

How could he be this miserable over a woman he hardly knew and hadn’t even kissed – although those two things weren’t mutually exclusive, as he’d kissed quite a few women whom he’d hardly known and had thoroughly enjoyed it.

He should eat something before he drank any more whisky. He wasn’t hungry, but he could feel the effects of the single malt on an empty stomach, and knew he’d be three sheets to the wind if he wasn’t careful.

Oh, who cared? If he wanted to get drunk, he would. The upside of being single and living alone was having no one to answer to. No one would give him the look he’d seen Angus’s missus give to Angus when he’d had one too many. No one would tell him he’d had enough. He could get absolutely bladdered if he wanted, and no one would say a word. The downside of not having anyone to ply him with painkillers, tea and sympathy in the morning was a small price to pay.

There was no point in being miserable, since he didn’t want to be tied down anyway. He’d hate it. He liked his life fine, just the way it was, so why was he busy drowning sorrows he didn’t want? Married life wasn’t for him, so there was no need to cry over spilt milk when he had no intention of drinking the stuff anyway.

He needed food. And he needed to pour the rest of this glass of whisky down the sink and not down his throat. He wasn’t drunk yet but he soon would be, and although he didn’t mind getting plastered once in a while, he preferred to do it in good company and for a good reason. Getting pissed over a woman wasn’t reason enough.

Maybe he wouldn’t dispose of the whisky just yet, though. It would be a shame to waste it. He’d eat first, give himself time to sober up, then finish it later.

Irritated by the music, he switched it off and the sudden silence was deafening: not even a bird tweeted. Perhaps his feathery friends didn’t like The Stones?

Going inside, he put the tumbler on the counter in the kitchen and made his way a tad unsteadily towards the bathroom.

As he did so, a flash of red outside the front of the house stopped him in his tracks.

Freya’s little red van was parked beside his truck, and Mack’s heart lurched.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite as tipsy, and questions danced through his mind. Why was she here? Had she brought Dickwad with her? Was she currently packing up her stuff?

There was only one way to find out… And if Hadrian Loud-Mouth was with her, Mack might be tempted to order the bastard off his property.

However, Freya was alone.

She was seated on the stool at the workbench with a ball of clay in her hands. She was working it, turning and pinching the material, absorbed in her task.

He didn’t think she was aware of his presence until she said, ‘Do you always play music that loud?’

Mack stepped inside. She didn’t look up when he replied, ‘No.’

‘“Angie”, eh?’

‘It suited my mood.’ He moved closer. ‘You’re not normally here in the evenings.’

‘No, I’m not.’ There was a hitch in her voice. Could she be upset? Might she have had a row with her boyfriend? Probably not; from where Mack had been standing, they’d looked pretty cosy.

He said, ‘You’re busy. I’ll get out of your hair.’

She didn’t say anything, but when her shoulders began to shake, he realised she was crying.

In three strides, he was at her side. Crouching, he peered up at her. She had her face in her hands.

‘Has he hurt you?’ Mack demanded.

‘Who?’

‘Your boyfriend. Freya, look at me – has he hurt you?’

Head bowed, she let her hands drop. Her cheeks were damp and her eyes brimmed with tears.

Mack had never felt such rage. The sight of her distress made him want to tear the bastard limb from limb and feed the wee gobshite to the fishes.

‘I’ll kill him,’ he muttered.

‘He hasn’t hurt me.’

‘So what’s wrong? Is it your dad? Please don’t tell me he’s had another fall.’

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