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A—lasdair.
Oh God. There’s no denying it anymore.
“Er, it was you. Anyway, I’ll be on my way.”
Surprise registers in his features, but I don’t give him a chance to respond. I walk straight at him, forcing him to step aside, then I march towards the staircase, resisting the urge to break into a full-on run, not glancing back once.
CHAPTER SIX
EMILY
I brush my teeth, check my appearance in the mirror, and then escape outside without bumping into the grumpy Scotsman—no, Alasdair—again.
I still can’t believe it. He told me the hotel was under new management! I just assumed . . .
No, I’m not going to think about him. I’m here to relax, to recharge my batteries—not to worry about some man, especially since I came here to escape Harry and all the shame and hurt he caused me.
Sure, Alasdair and I kissed when we were kids, but so what? I’ve got a town to explore, and I’m hoping to reconnect with memories of my dad. After Harry, I’m done with men, at least for the foreseeable future.
Outside, it’s a bright, beautiful day, and Bannock is picturesque in the sun. The stone buildings are well cared for—doors, window frames, and shop signs are all in good nick, no peeling paint or faded lettering in sight. Daffodils grow in flower boxes along the pavement, and further along the road, three locals chatter, smiles on their cheerful faces, in no rush to be anywhere. This is the town’s main street (aptly called “Main Street”), and yet only an occasional car drives along it. The difference in traffic levels between London and Bannock couldn’t be any more pronounced.
I take deep breaths in and out, enjoying the fresh air. Wandering along the narrow pavement, I peer in the windows of the businesses I pass, observing that—considering this is the town’s main street—there’s not a lot on offer. There’s Bannock Stores, which sells a bit of everything: groceries, hardware, plants. There’s a pub called the Pheasant and a café called the Coffee Bothy. There’s a butcher’s too, and a chemist that doubles as the post office. Post a parcel as you wait for your pills—unconventional, but convenient.
I pass a few other shops: a hair salon, a small art gallery, a gift shop, a charity shop. There’s also Bonnie’s Boutique, which specialises in woollen goods, specifically tweeds.
Come to think of it, it’s not a bad selection. Enough to survive on, and maybe there’s something to be said about having all the bare essentials in walking distance, and not having to take a bus or be crushed in the Tube. And when you need to do a bigger shop, there’s Inverness. Besides, it’s so pretty, with all the shops set in the same stone buildings, and with cobblestone side streets.
I come to Morag’s Bakery, and that’s when I stop in my tracks. I was planning to start off with a walk to get a feel for the place, but my plans change when I see the cakes on offer. Just . . . wow.
Tarts, scones, empire biscuits, meringues, sponges, pastries, muffins, cupcakes, doughnuts, cookies. And the largest cream buns I’ve ever seen. My mouth waters.
I’ve been to many an excellent bakery in London. Hell, I’ve taken day trips to Paris through the Channel Tunnel and eaten at the most exquisite French patisseries. I shouldn’t be impressed by the display at some provincial Highland bakery. And yet I can’t imagine a more fantastic sight than this.
That breakfast must have unlocked my appetite. I cut out sweet treats in the run-up to the wedding, wanting to look my best, but now? Now I couldn’t care less about calories. Yes, I’ve just had a fried breakfast, but why the hell shouldn’t I eat cake too?
I walk into the bakery.
Behind the display counter is a plump woman in her sixties. She beams at me. “Good morning! Welcome to Bannock. I’m Morag. How can I help you?”
“I couldn’t walk past the window without coming in. Your cakes look delicious.”
She chuckles. “They are delicious, if I do say so myself. If you have questions about any of them, fire away. I could talk about them all day.”
I inspect the cabinet. “How am I supposed to choose? They’re all just begging to be eaten. What’s that one?”
“A fern cake. It’s not unlike a Bakewell tart, but there’s icing, and it’s topped with a chocolate fern design.”
“I do like Bakewell tarts, but I think one of the other cakes is calling to me today. What’s this one?”
“A snowball. It’s two small cakes, not quite hard, not quite soft—similar to a scone in consistency—and they’re sandwiched together with jam, then the whole thing is covered in a glaze and rolled in coconut.”
“Well, that sounds heavenly. It’d be hard to say no to that, and yet the first thing my eyes were drawn to were those cream buns.”
“Oh, they’re a firm favourite with my customers. Why not take a snowball and a cream bun? One for your morning snack, one for your afternoon snack.”
I laugh. “That would be too decadent! But . . . you know what, why not? Yes, I’ll take them both.”
“Quite right! If you can’t treat yourself when you’re on holiday, when can you treat yourself, eh?” She pops each of the cakes into a paper bag. “And will you be wanting something savoury to go with your sweet treats?”
