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Oh God. Have my tastes matured over the years? Have I got used to the finer things in life? Does a quaint rural place like this simply no longer pass muster?

No, that’s not it. This hotel probably was nice seventeen years ago. I’m just not sure it’s been updated or maintained since then.

If I were here for my job, to consider this as a potential wedding venue, I’d go no further. I’d turn around and walk straight back out. But that’s not an option. It’s late at night, I’m tired, and I have nowhere else to go. I’m stuck here.

Leaving my cases by the door, I head over to the reception desk, hunting for a bell, but there isn’t one. I sigh. Of course there isn’t.

Before I can figure out how to announce my arrival, my phone goes. “Hi, Grace,” I say, answering it.

“Hey, honey! Are you there yet?”

“Just arrived.”

“Great! How is it?”

I turn around, leaning back against the desk. “Er . . . well, I’m not in my room yet—I’m still at reception—but I don’t have high hopes. It’s sad, Grace, like the people who run this place don’t care about it at all. And the joke is I’m booked in for a month. A month! What was I thinking?”

Behind me, someone coughs.

“Crap, I’ll call you back.”

I hang up and spin around. A tall and broad-shouldered man now stands behind the desk. With shortish wavy chestnut hair and several days’ worth of ginger-flecked scruff, he has a certain ruggedness to his features, like he pays as much attention to his appearance as he does to the hotel. But whereas the hotel looks sad, this man . . . well, let’s just say he suits the look. He’s in a blue tartan shirt and jeans—no kilt, sadly. Handsome though he admittedly is, from his expression, you’d think he was sucking on a lime.

Ah. He must have overheard that call.

I force a smile. “Hi, my name is Emily Thomas. I’m here to check in.”

He nods then clacks away at a keyboard with more force than is necessary.

“I’ve been here before, but it’s not quite how I remember it. Is it under new management?”

“Aye.” He meets my eyes with his hazel ones. “Me.”

Two words, two syllables: that’s all he says. And yet from it, I get a sense of his Scottish accent, of his low, gravelly voice. And as much as it pains me to admit it, I like what I hear.

I shake myself. What’s wrong with me? Is this some symptom of being jilted, feeling a strange attraction to a rude and unwelcoming man who is most definitely not my type? Before Harry there was a software developer and an accountant, as well as a few short-term relationships. All those men were well-educated, career-orientated, ambitious, immaculately presented. This man, though? No, thank you. Besides, I’m not here to look for a man: that’s the last thing I want.

“You’re in room six.” He thrusts a key in my direction. “It’s on the top floor.”

I wait, but that was the end of his speech. He doesn’t inform me of breakfast times. He doesn’t wish me a happy stay. Hell, he doesn’t even offer to help me with my things. The customer service in this place is even worse than the decoration.

Very deliberately, I glance over my shoulder at my luggage by the door. “My suitcases?”

“Och, I’ll take them.” He comes out from behind the desk and hoists them up. “Jesus, woman, what have you put in these?”

“I’m here for a month! And ‘Emily’ will do, or ‘Miss Thomas’. There’s no need for ‘woman’!”

“Aye, Miss Thomas,” he says with mock deference.

Honestly, this man. It’s a miracle this hotel is still in business with him running it. If I had anywhere else to go, I’d walk out right now, I swear I would. And I wish I hadn’t said he could call me Miss Thomas. It’s a painful reminder of how close I came to being Mrs Cooper.

“This way!” He sets off up the stairs, promptly banging one of my cases off the wall.

“Could you be careful with those? You may not care about your walls, but I care about my things, and those are designer suitcases.”

“My apologies, Miss Thomas.”

“Just Emily is fine!”