Highland Getaway

Chapter 1

I’m not quite sure how it happened, but at some point in the last twenty-four hours, I seem to have been granted the gift of invisibility.

At least, I think that’s what it is. It’s the only explanation for the way everyone I’ve encountered since I left London this morning has seemed to look through me rather than at me; and it’s definitely the only explanation for the fact that I’m currently trapped in a train toilet somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, on my way to change my life.

Or I will be if I can just get out of this damn toilet.

Right now, though, that’s looking pretty unlikely; mostly because of the whole ‘gift of invisibility’ thing, which is the reason no one noticed me come in here a few minutes ago – and also the reason no one’s going to notice when I don’t come back out again.

It’s more of a curse than a gift, actually, now I come to think of it.

‘Um, hello?’ I call out, as the train lurches to a halt at what I’m assuming is my stop. ‘Can anyone hear me?’

I press my ear against the jammed toilet door, desperate for a response.

Silence.

Which isn’t all that surprising, I suppose, even without the invisibility cloak I appear to be wearing; unlike the packed train that brought me from London to Edinburgh, the two carriages that have trundled the rest of the way to the little village of Glenmuir were empty except for me, an extremely disgruntled ticket collector and a woman with long purple hair, who may or may not have been a witch.

If I didn’t know better, I’d be starting to think I’d somehow died on the way to King’s Cross this morning, and this new-found invisibility of mine is my punishment for what I did in order to come here.

Like, because I cheated my way into an exclusive getaway to a Scottish castle, I’m now doomed to walk the earth as a ghost for evermore. Just my luck, really.

‘Hello?’ I yell, starting to panic at the thought of eternity in a public toilet. ‘Could someone help me?’

Still nothing.

‘Please?’ I add, for good measure.

The silence is making me sweat. The toilet door is still wedged shut, no matter how hard I try to push against it.

What’s more, I’m pretty sure Glenmuir is the last stop on this line.

If I can’t get the toilet door open within the next few minutes, I’m going to be carried all the way back to Edinburgh .

. . and then, presumably, brought back here again if I still can’t get out.

It could be days before anyone finds me.

It could be weeks. I could easily spend the rest of my life being shuttled around the Highlands in a toilet, surviving only on water from the handbasin, and that half-bag of Haribo I bought at Edinburgh Waverley.

The thought of becoming some strange kind of toilet-dwelling ghost is all the motivation I need to get out of here before the train leaves again.

With a low, guttural kind of roar that I didn’t know I had in me, I take a step back, then throw myself at the toilet door as hard as I can.

Then I do it again, the resulting pain a timely reminder that joining a gym was going to be one of my New Year’s resolutions this year, but here we are in June already, and I can’t even break down a door without wanting to cry.

(Although, to be fair, who can?)

There’s a loud cracking noise as if something’s breaking, but there’s no time to figure out whether it’s me or the train, because the next thing I know, the door’s swinging open and I’m flying forward, still doing the weird roaring sound as I’m carried by my own momentum back out into the carriage, and then through the open door, and into the arms of an extremely surprised-looking man who’s standing on the platform.

‘Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,’ I gasp, trying to extricate myself from his grip, but failing miserably on account of all of the bags I have slung over my arms, which keep getting in my way.

‘Whoa, there,’ the stranger says, grinning down at me in amusement as he helps me get back to my feet. ‘I know it’s probably every man’s dream to have beautiful women throwing themselves at him, but maybe we could at least introduce ourselves first?’

My cheeks instantly start burning, and I drop one of my bags through sheer embarrassment.

I know he’s probably just trying to be polite and smooth over an awkward situation, but I’ve instantly lost the power of speech.

I’m not used to getting compliments; especially not ones that come from men with cheekbones so sharp you could grate cheese on them.

Well, it figures that if I’m going to make a fool of myself, I’m going to do it in front of someone who looks a bit like he’s been carved out of marble, doesn’t it?

‘Er, Rosie, is it?’ he says, realising I’m in no fit state to answer him. ‘Rosie Summers? Headed to the Chrysalis?’

‘Yes! Yes, that’s me. I’m Rosie Summers,’ I say, grasping gratefully at the conversational straw, while trying to pretend I haven’t just had to peel myself off his chest. ‘And yes, I’m supposed to be going to the Chrysalis hotel. For the launch event? Do you know it?’

The stranger smiles again, skin crinkling around eyes that are such an unusual shade of brown they almost look golden in the late-afternoon light.

The gold-brown eyes are paired with reddish-blond hair and a light sprinkling of stubble on a very square jaw, and the overall effect is enough to make my cheeks burn even more than they were already.

Leave it to me to basically throw myself at the most handsome man in the Highlands; which is what this guy surely must be?

‘Aye, I know it,’ he says, in a soft Scottish accent which carries more than a hint of amusement.

‘I work there actually. Hunter Stuart,’ he adds, holding out a hand.

‘Gardener, chauffeur and man of all work, at your service. Literally, I mean; I’ve been sent to pick you up and bring you back to the hotel. ’

‘Er, hi,’ I squeak, shaking his hand, and hoping to God mine isn’t quite as sweaty as it feels. Behind me, the train chuffs its way back to life and prepares to pull away again in the direction it came; leaving me alone on the tiny platform with this Hunter Stuart, and . . .

‘Is that a wolf?’ I gasp as a huge black shape comes bounding towards me, wagging a tail that looks roughly the size of a small tree. ‘Do they still have wolves in the Highlands?’

‘Stevie? No, Stevie’s no wolf.’ Hunter chuckles, grabbing the beast by its collar. ‘He’s just a pup. He gets a bit too excited when he meets someone new. Don’t you, Stevie?’

He ruffles the creature’s neck, and I look at them both doubtfully. Stevie looks way too big to be a ‘pup’, while Hunter is tall and muscular, with the kind of rugged good looks that makes him seem like exactly the kind of man who might keep a wolf as a pet.

I grip my phone tightly in my pocket, very aware that I’m about to get into a car on my own with this stranger – and his wolf – in the middle of what appears to be the exact middle of nowhere.

‘Your . . . your dog’s name’s Stevie?’ I ask, feeling like this is probably a safer question than, Are you planning to abduct me and have your wicked way with me? which is what I really want to ask him.

‘Aye. Well, it’s actually Stephen, but that’s his Sunday name,’ he replies with a grin. ‘So I just call him Stevie. Anyway, we best get going; they’ll be expecting you back at the hotel by now. I was starting to think you must have missed the train or something.’

‘Yeah, I, er, got locked in the toilet,’ I admit. ‘With half a bag of Haribo.’

‘Right. I see,’ says Hunter, looking about as impressed by this nugget of information as you might expect. ‘Well, let me take your bag then, and I’ll get it into the car. Oh.’

He pauses, looking down at the collection of luggage I’ve brought with me, which includes one suitcase, and all of the other bags I could possibly find.

‘Well, you definitely don’t travel light, do you?’ he says, throwing the suitcase effortlessly over his shoulder and swooping the rest of the bags up in one arm. ‘Or were you planning to stay all summer?’

He turns and strides off down the platform to where I can see a beat-up old Land Rover waiting for us.

‘No, just the four days,’ I reply, having to jog to keep up with him. My stomach gives a painful little lurch at the reminder that four days is exactly how long I have to change my life. ‘I’m just here for the press stay. Four days, then the launch party at the end, the invitation said?’

‘That’s what they tell me,’ Hunter confirms, reaching the car and putting my bags inside.

‘Right. Well, jump in then,’ he adds, opening the passenger-side door for me.

‘It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. I’m more used to transporting plants than people, but I was the only person available to meet this train, so you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid. ’

He grins again, and my mouth goes dry.

‘Oh, that’s . . . that’s fine,’ I reply, clambering inelegantly into the car, and wishing I’d worn something a little more practical than the dress and sandals that seemed like the perfect travel outfit at home, but which are hopelessly out of place next to Hunter’s jeans and work boots.

‘I’m happy to be stuck to you. With you. Um, I mean, thanks for picking me up.’

Hunter’s lips quirk slightly. ‘No bother,’ he says, starting the engine.

I sit there silently as we pull away from the little station and out into a narrow road, which is lined on each side with gorse bushes covered with beautiful little bright yellow flowers.

I’d expected Scotland to be cold and dark – especially this far north – but the sky above us is bright blue, and the sun seems nowhere near setting, even though it must be close to dinnertime by now.

‘So, you’re a gardener?’ I say, the vivid yellow of the gorse reminding me of Hunter’s earlier comment.