Page 32 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

Mack considered her response, then said, ‘So a boat trip right nowisa good idea, then?’

‘I suppose. I wish I’d brought my camera, though. My phone doesn’t take good enough shots.’

‘You can borrow mine.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’ She didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic or grateful.

Mack smiled to himself, guessing she might be assuming it would be a cheapie supermarket special. Was she in for a surprise!

After a quick glance at the boat to make sure his crew was on board and preparing to cast off again, he turned to the lock-up’s door and yanked it open. As he stepped inside, he realised Freya was right behind him. Stopping, he turned around to tell her to go wait by the boat, and Freya walked straight into him.

Her arms came up reflexively and her palms landed on his chest.

Mack sucked in a sharp breath at the electrifying feel of her hands on his bare skin. Her touch jolted through him, sending sparks travelling along his nerves to centre in his stomach.

Her face flushed pink and she hurriedly stepped back. ‘Um, sorry. I didn’t expect you to stop suddenly.’

‘I didn’t expect you to follow me inside.’ Covering his confusion with banter, he quipped, ‘But you’re more than welcome to watch me change into some dry shorts.’

The pink deepened to scarlet. She looked incredibly sweet when she blushed, and he wondered whether her kiss would be equally sweet. He also wondered whether he would ever get to find out.

Freya was backing away, her expression one of profound embarrassment. ‘Sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I’ll, um, wait by the boat, shall I?’

Mack realised he was being a bit of a dick. Softening his voice, he said, ‘I’ll only be a minute. You’ll enjoy the trip. I promise.’

He didn’t blame her for looking sceptical after his less-than-stellar performance during the past few minutes.

Quickly changing into dry clothes, he grabbed his camera. He used it mainly to take marketing shots for his website, and he often took it out on the boat. The Nikon hadn’t been cheap, but he’d spent an absolute fortune on a telescopic lens, because he’d discovered that trying to photograph a black blob of a dolphin with a normal lens was nigh on impossible.

It seemed it was going to come in handy again, and he was curious to see what kind of things would get Freya’s creative juices flowing. Hell, he was curious about her, full stop.

When he got to the boat, Freya was chatting with Angus and appeared to have recovered from her embarrassment.

‘I brought you this,’ Mack said. ‘It can get chilly on the water.’ ‘This’ was the fleece he rarely wore but kept in the lock-up, just in case. He hoped it was clean.

‘Thanks,’ she said, slipping it over her head and pulling it on.

He passed her the Nikon. ‘Will this do?’

She took it from him and studied it. ‘Mine’s a Nikon, too. The exact same one.’ She looked through the viewfinder, then down at the LCD screen.

So much for his theory that she’d be impressed by his camera.

‘They take some decent shots, don’t they?’ she said.

‘Aye. Let’s get you on board.’ Mack jumped onto the boat first and offered her his hand, which she took after the briefest of hesitations. Once she was safely on the boat, he nodded to Angus. Mack trusted his first mate to know what he was doing, and he wanted to concentrate on Freya’s creative process and what she wanted or expected to get out of this trip.

But what Mack really wanted was to get to know her better.

Much better.

Wild and windswept, her hair a tangled mess from the stiff breeze scudding across the open water, and with her face glowing from that same breeze and the evening sun on her skin, Freya felt more alive than she’d done in ages.

She zoomed in on the almost-black colour of the still water on the leeward side of a rock, the rock itself glistening with a thousand droplets. Then her eye was caught by the iridescent shells of the mussels, shimmering pale blue to the deepest navy, pearlescent in the early evening sun, and she leant over the side of the boat to get the best angle, her finger clicking the shutter time and time again.

Mack pointed out a piece of driftwood, mostly submerged, with barnacles clinging to it and strands of seaweed so fine and green they could be a mermaid’s hair. Tiny fish darted around it.

Surrounded by the sights she’d forgotten, Freya took photo after photo: redshanks wading at the loch’s edge, so called because of their distinctive red legs; a little egret on the wing, its snowy-white plumage gleaming and its bright yellow feet making it look like it was wearing a pair of little rubber boots; the streaks of cirrus cloud high in the pale blue sky above, reminding her of horses’ tails in the wind. She must have taken a thousand photos and her brain was buzzing with ideas. The only sour grape in her overflowing fruit bowl of excitement was the knowledge that she wouldn’t see them come to life until she returned to London.

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