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I shake away the thought. Surely not. Anyway, it doesn’t bear thinking about, so I cut into an egg and take my first bite.

Oh . . . wow.

I’ve been critical about this place since I arrived, but it gets one thing right, at least. This food is amazing.

* * *

After breakfast, I head upstairs, but I don’t go to my room. I continue on up to the top floor.

Try as I might, I can’t stop thinking about the dream. There’s one particular aspect of it I’m keen to check out.

I walk along the top-floor hallway to a door marked private. I try the handle, and the door opens. Beyond is a cupboard containing a vacuum cleaner, a mop and bucket, cleaning sprays, cloths, rolls of toilet paper, toiletries, and other supplies. All I care about, though, is a panel I wouldn’t otherwise have noticed, had it not been for the dream.

I crouch, press my hands against the panel, and slide it aside, revealing a hole. I let out a chuckle. No way!

I may be petite, but I have grown since I was thirteen, and it’s not as easy to crawl into the den as I remember—but I manage it. There are no windows, so I take out my phone and turn on the torch, shining it around the small space. The cushions and blankets are gone—the den is empty, unused. But when I check the beam above my head, I see it: a + e, the letters surrounded by a heart. I run my fingers over the carving, scarcely believing it.

That day . . . at the time, it was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to me. A lot of men since haven’t made my heart swell the way that Scottish boy did.

I touch the a. The dream was so vivid—prompted, no doubt, by my return here—but I can’t for the life of me remember the boy’s name.

Andrew? Archie? Alexander?

No, none of those sound right. What was it?

There’s a low cough behind me.

I jump, banging my head. “Jesus!”

“You’re going to have to come out of there,” a gruff voice says.

I rub my head and shine my phone at the face peering at me through the hole. It’s the grumpy Scotsman.

He holds up a hand. “Would you mind not pointing that right at me?”

“Oh, sorry.” I lower my phone.

“Now, out you come.”

With some embarrassment, I crawl back through the hole then climb to my feet, dust myself down, and offer a guilty smile. He crosses his arms. He’s standing in the doorway, blocking my way out, leaving me trapped in the cupboard, trying not to trip over the vacuum cleaner or mop and bucket. He’s close enough I can smell his spicy, woody scent, a mixture of aftershave and . . . well, him, I suppose.

“It says private on the door.”

“I know. I’m sorry about that.”

“How did you even know about that area?”

“The den?”

He raises an eyebrow at the word.

“Well, like I told you when I arrived, I’ve been here before. Now, if you let me pass, I’ll get out of your hair.”

He doesn’t move. Frowning, he says, “And when you were here before, who was it that showed you the den?”

I glance at his badge.

Alasdair.