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“Shit! Fiona?!” Evie’s voice trembled. “I-is someone there?”

Bugger. Nick’s cheeks began to burn. He had to get out of there. NOW.

Abandoning the necklace, he swerved the pregnant shopper and hunched behind a tall display jampacked with puffin souvenirs—t-shirts, pillows, tote bags—and plotted his escape. A few more large steps and he’d—

CREAK! The temperamental floor near the jewelry voiced its displeasure again, followed by an abrupt door slam. Like a starter pistol firing, the loud bang launched Nick’s already elevated pulse on a reckless sprint. They’re headed this way! A dash across the shop wouldn’t go unnoticed now.

Nick wasn’t going anywhere.

He quickly grabbed the first item within sight, a cellophane bag of beige stones, and acted his heart out, playing a shopper engrossed in his prospective purchase. What is this? His eyes bore into the cheery cartoon puffins on the label…Tammie Norrie Poo?…then jogged to his watch. Half-four already? Unease flooded his chest. Bollocks. Dad is gonna freak.

“H-hello?” Evie’s salutation quivered on the opposite side of the display. “May I help you?”

She works in this place? Nick peeked between the two headless mannequins. He could see Evie’s retro Swatch and the customer’s pregnant belly, but everything else was compromised by the mannequins’ billowing puffin partywear.

“Sorry, love,” said the mother, picking up her chubby tot. “Can you speak up? I’m a bit hard of hearin’.”

“Oh! So sorry,” Evie’s voice was giddy with relief. “I mumble sometimes. My mum’s always on me about it. What can I help you with?”

Nick let out a quiet exhale. “Safe as houses.” He straightened up and stole a quick look around the mannequins.

His jaw dropped.

Eight months had a lot to answer for.

Evie had always been cute, but this Evie seemed so much more. Taller, prettier—delightfully desirable. Smiling confidently as she shared the merits of the shop’s whiskey tumblers, she bestowed the customer with her full attention, listening closely and answering questions with patience and professionalism. Then the woman’s toddler babbled something and playful Evie emerged again, her brown eyes sparkling as she laughed and smoothed her hair, untethered from her usual ponytail.

Following her hand, Nick’s rapt gaze skated down her shiny tresses, their soft sweep against her décolletage coaxing his curiosity along the straps of her daisy print dress to where the cotton hugged the curve of her breasts. His eyes widened as a curse caught in his throat. Sam’s little sister ain’t so little anymore.

The instrumental strum of Green Day wrenched him away from Evie’s allure. Jamming his hand into his trouser pocket, he wrestled his phone free, zeroing in on the caller ID.

Dad

Shit! Nick’s pulse skyrocketed as he struggled to concoct an excuse that might thwart World War III.

“I’d know that ringtone anywhere! Nice tan, by the way.”

Nick looked up, his dread of the bollocking he’d receive once he hit accept tempered by Evie’s welcome presence. “Oh! Hey!”

Head tilted, she smiled, all friendly and familiar. “Need to get that?”

Need? Yes. Want? No. He squeezed the phone. Pissed off was Richard Balfour’s default setting, and while his father’s blistering character assassinations were nothing new to Nick, the last thing he wanted was an audience. Notoriously loud and habitually cruel, his father’s phone rants could easily be overheard. Talk about a mortifying overshare, one to be avoided at all costs, even if it meant he’d pay significantly later for dodging his dad’s call.

“It can wait.” Turning his phone off, Nick slipped it in his pocket, silently apologizing for the explosion of expletives that in three…two…one—would be tormenting the innocent ears of his grandma’s sheep and cows, and probably those of the flown-in celebrity chef, too. “So! You’re working here this summer?”

“This summer and every summer after. It’s my mum’s shop and café, so…” Evie’s voice rose with unabashed glee. “I heard you were back. It’s great to see you!” Her eyes traveled, sweeping across his chest and shoulders before springing back to his face. “Love your shirt. The color suits you. Guys never wear pink here.”

Nick matched her grin. “Ah cheers! It’s a favorite.” He gestured toward her, eager to reciprocate. “You look great, too! Your dress is beautiful. Really lovely.” And kinda hot.

“Thanks!” She clasped a fistful of skirt and playfully swished it back and forth. “It’s from London. I ordered it online.” Raising a hand, she shielded the side of her mouth. “Don’t tell Mum. Or Sam.”

Nick laughed. “So how are things? How’s your summer been?”

“Not bad. Working loads, seeing friends—the usual, you know?”

Yep, he knew. Too much, actually. A sickening drop churned his stomach. This bloke—I hope he isn’t forcing her into stuff before she’s ready.

“Oh! And you’ll appreciate this!” She bounced. “Guess who played Cordelia in King Lear during the St. Magnus Festival?”