Page 69 of The Great British Bachelor Chase

“I miss it, aye.” Fraser toys with a thread from the cuff of his shirt. “But my work is in London,” he says matter-of-factly. “That’s just the way things worked out.”

“Things can change,” I point out. “People change them all the time. I mean, look at Hugo,” I add, with a wry laugh. “He was partying on the red carpet, and running lines on set, and now look where he is.” I gesture at the wild landscape of the approaching island, with only a few red tiled rooftops to be seen.

“So I should just quit my job, move back up to Inverness, and spend my days painting?” Fraser asks, sounding a little defensive.

“If that’s what you want,” I reply calmly. “If that will make you happy, because… The Suit Guy I met Monday, back in Sussex, running around trying to cut budgets and keep his asshole boss in check? That man wasn’t happy. I mean, how could he be,” I add lightly, “with that know-it-all stick lodged so far up his tight ass.”

Fraser cracks a smile. “I thought you liked my tight arse,” he teases, pulling me closer.

“I am a fan of those jeans,” I agree, leaning up to kiss him. I can tell he’s changing the subject, so I don’t press him, but still, I wonder about the contradictions. The freshly painted canvases in Fraser’s cottage tell me that an artist’s heart still beats in that broad chest of his, but he’s keeping that part of his life locked away. If we hadn’t taken this road trip up to Scotland, would I even know about it, or would he still be grumbling about production budgets, keeping professional and detached like a whole different person?

The tannoy announcement interrupts my thoughts. We’re approaching the harbor, so we head back to the car—for what will hopefully be the final leg of our epic journey.

We dock on the island and make our way up towards the nearest—slash only—major town. The island is craggy and windswept, with dramatic hills and gorgeous views over the crashing shoreline, and I would happily explore all day—if it wasn’t for the ticking clock haunting our every move. Luckily, we don’t have to drive far. The address Hugo sent leads us down a bumpy country lane, to modern renovated cottage perched on the hill: old red brick and new massive glass windows, with a sweeping view of the bay.

“Ready?” I ask, as we approach the front door.

“For what?” Fraser teases. “Are you planning on tying him up and throwing him in the trunk if he turns you down again?”

“You think I can’t take him?” I joke. “Hopefully, that won’t be necessary.”

I brace myself to knock, but before I can, the door swings open, and the man himself is standing there in designer jeans, a long-sleeved T, and… A tartan apron tied around his waist?

“JJ! And Suit Guy!” Hugo greets us happily. His jaw is flecked with what looks like flour, and there’s a matching white streak of powder in his hair. “Come on in, don’t mind the mess. We have three hundred meat pasties to prep for the festival, so you have perfect timing: We could use the extra hands.”

“Uh, hi,” I manage, exchanging a baffled look with Fraser. Whatever I was expecting from his top-secret love quest, it definitely wasn’t this.

“Was your trip alright?” Hugo continues, chatting merrily as he leads us down a flag-stone-floored hallway. “That was a nasty storm last night. We thought they might call off the whole festival, hence the delayed pie-making, but as soon as the weather cleared up, we got stuck in. Max has been baking since dawn!”

I look around, a little stunned. The house is gorgeous, with the original brick cottage frame extended and renovated in every direction, making it airy and bright. Hugo takes us through to a huge modern addition, with a commercial-sized kitchen, all gleaming appliances and quartz countertops, views stretching out across the bay. And in the middle of it all, up to his elbows in dough, is a tall, burly man with rumpled dark hair and a friendly smile.

“This is Max,” Hugo announces, with a note of pride and affection in his voice. “Max, this is JJ, and Suit Guy. They’re here to handcuff me and take me off to studio jail,” he adds with a smirk.

“Busted,” I joke, nervous. “It’s nice to meet you, Max,” I add.

“JJ…” Max smiles, wiping his hands before shaking mine. He’s English, too, but with a more Northern accent than Hugo’s crisp, plummy vowels. “So you’re the woman who inspired Hugo to get off his arse and come find me, then?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I hedge. Hugo and Fraser both look at me. “OK, OK, but tequila was just as much to blame.” I protest. “You definitely left an impression on him, that’s for sure. It must have been some weekend in Vegas.”

“Yes, it was.” Max give Hugo a fond look, and Hugo gazes back, equally as smitten. “He knows how to make an entrance, that’s for sure. Six months, and not a peep, and then one night I’m closing up the restaurant late, and he turns up in the middle of the dining room, asking for a table for two.”

“Max is a chef,” Hugo explains proudly. “He has the best restaurant on the island. Farm to table, all local ingredients and recipes. He’ll be getting a Michelin star, before long.”

“Give over,” Max says, bashful.

“You will,” Hugo insists, giving him an affectionate nudge.

I’m happy for them, I really am. I just need for their lovefest to turn mobile… All the way back to the movie set.

“Enough reminiscing,” Hugo mock-scolds. “I thought we were a meat pastie-making machine.”

“You’re right. Back at it,” Max replies. “And why don’t you two make yourself useful, too? We’re due at the festival in a couple of hours, and there’ll be a few hundred hungry mouths to feed.”

“Uh, sure,” I agree quickly, and draw Fraser over to the sink to whisper while we wash our hands. “What do you think?” I ask in hushed tones.

Fraser looks over to where Hugo and Max are chatting softly over the pie dough, in the intimate tones of lovers. “I think we’re shit out of luck. The man’s in love.”

“Well, obviously. They’re freaking adorable. But that doesn’t mean we can’t get him back to the movie for his dream role, too.”

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