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“He needn’t know,” I say with a coy smile. If anything, the thought of Ally’s disapproval only makes the idea more appealing. After all, the forbidden fruit always looks sweeter . . . especially when it comes with tattoos. “Besides, I’m a grown woman. I can hire whoever I want.”

Robbie studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Would you talk to me as much as you are now? Because if so, I’d need to double my rate.”

“Humph!” I place my hands on my hips, feigning offence. “I actually have a job to go to. I’m an English teacher at the high school, and the new term starts tomorrow. So I’ll be leaving you in peace most of the time.”

He considers, his eyes scanning my face as if searching for some hidden catch. “I can swing round tomorrow evening,” he offers eventually. “See what needs to be done and give you a quote?”

“Oh, I’m actually going to the Pheasant after work tomorrow for the pub quiz. How about Tuesday?”

“That works for me. What’s the address?”

I give it to him. “It’s above the Otter’s Holt gift shop.”

“Right.” He nods then turns back to the fence. Apparently, our conversation is over.

“Great! I’ll see you Tuesday, then. Looking forward to it.”

Robbie just grunts.

I head back to the stables, smiling to myself like an idiot. True, I don’t have a great deal of money in my bank account at the moment, but there’s no harm in getting a quote, right? And if it means having Robbie MacDonald in my flat—with those muscles and tattoos and that delicious grumpiness—well, that’s just a bonus.

Besides, maybe I’ll even find out what really happened at the resort. There’s definitely a story there, and if there’s one thing I love almost as much as a well-built man with a nipple piercing, it’s a good mystery.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ROBBIE

I pack my tools into the saddlebags of my motorcycle then fasten the buckles. I was lucky the stables had the wood I needed for the repair job, but this setup isn’t going to work long-term. If I’m serious about making a go of being a self-employed tradesman, I’ll need something bigger than my bike to haul equipment around. A van, most likely.

Not that I’ve got the cash for one. Especially not now I’ve quit my job at the resort.

I get on my Speedmaster, the evening sun beating down on my shoulders. Still, that was a nice wee bit of work. Janice was pleased with the fence repair, and the payment will definitely come in handy. Small mercies.

The engine rumbles to life beneath me, the familiar vibration humming through my body. Time to head home, crack open a cold beer, then let loose on the punchbag hanging in my garage. I’ve been hitting it a lot these past few days.

The police have already paid me a visit. DS Sinclair even made a joke about it having been a few years since we “hung out”. There was a time when we saw rather a lot of each other, back when I was Bannock’s resident teenage troublemaker.

I haven’t been arrested—yet—but I suspect the cops are building up a case against me. It’s only a matter of time. And the waiting? It’s fucking torture.

Movement catches my eye. It’s Cat, leading that chestnut horse—Bracken, was it?—towards one of the fields. She’s got her riding gear on again, those tight jodhpurs hugging her arse.

I allow myself a moment to look because, well, I’m only human. Cat McIntyre is undeniably beautiful. I especially like the way those delicate features of hers somehow manage to look both innocent and mischievous at the same time. She’s got this energy about her, like she’s constantly buzzing with life.

But . . . she’s way too shiny and sweet for the likes of me. Too untarnished. Too McIntyre.

And yet, Christ is she forward! She didn’t even attempt to be subtle earlier when she compared me to that stallion. What was it she said? “Strong, wild, and impossible to ignore”? Cheeky! Oh, and let’s not forget the way she eyed me up the other day when I was chopping wood. She might as well have licked her lips.

I watch her for a little longer, admiring the way she moves with such easy confidence.

She looks like her mother did.

The thought hits me out of nowhere, and suddenly I’m seeing it again—lashing rain, crumpled metal, blood. Death.

My heart rate spikes. I grip the handlebars tighter, forcing the image away. Not now. Not ever, if I can help it.

I pull my visor down, kick off, and navigate out of the stables’ grounds. As I do, I spot Cat again. She’s mounted now and in a field that runs parallel to the exit road.

When she sees me, a wide grin splits her face. She says something to Bracken, and suddenly they’re picking up speed, galloping alongside the fence line.