She wished she could go home. Not to her flat in the centre of Manchester, but to her parents’ house just outside of it. She wished for a warm bath and to be smothered in towels and blankets, to be told, “It’s okay, chicken. Everything will work out in the end.” She wished to curl up on their sofa, surrounded by memories of childhood, and not have to endure this deep shame and helplessness.
But then her parents would know that she was not, in fact, a strong independent woman, rather just a lost fool who smelled of fox dung.
“I’m really sorry.” She used the fence to pull herself up on shaky legs. He rose with her, arms still outstretched as though ready to catch her. He was even more good-looking when standing, if that was a thing. If it wasn’t, Harper was officially dubbing it a thing. Of course, itmightbe related to the fact that he towered over her, denim jeans ragged and torn over long, stocky legs.
This was just another test, she decided. She’d survived the devastation of her cancelled booking and fought her way through the forest.Now, she just had to deal with the flutters in her stomach as she faced what might have been a literal Scottish god. She might have been pathetic and dirty, but she was still here, and that had to count for something.
If she just kept pretending, maybe she could get out of this semi-unscathed.
“Are you apologising for trespassing, for breaking a branch of one of the forest’s oldest oak trees, or for crushing my saplings?” The man cocked his head and folded his arms over his chest.
“Huh?” Harper looked down. Green sprouts had been flattened beneath her boots. “Oh, gosh. For all of those things. I’m so sorry!”
His jaw remained tensed as he nodded. “Come on. Let’s get out of the rain, shall we?”
She rocked on her heels nervously. “Are you going to murder me if I come with you?” On this side of the fence, she could see the cabin better. It was certainly no Heatherly Lodge, the wooden walls faded with rain and age and paint peeling from the window frames. But if he did turn out to be a psychopath, it was… adequate as a hostage prison. A weathered blue shed leaned to one side behind the cabin, fixed with a solar lantern that made it look teleported from another time.
“I’d have to catch you first. Clearly, you’re skilled at fence-vaulting,” he said.
When she didn’t laugh, he pursed his lips and seemed to shrink just a little, taking a step back to give her space. “You’re fine. Promise.”
Harper supposed she couldn’t do much else other than trust him.
3
Fraser tried to hide his grim annoyance as he urged the strange lass into the cabin. This was about the only place where he wasn’t bothered by humans – deer and foxes and sometimes Bernard, aye, but no humans – and yet it seemed that was no longer true.
He would have to build a much taller fence.
As he shut the door behind both Bernard and the dripping woman, he couldn’t help but try to gauge some impression of her that wasn’t triggered by anger on behalf of his squashed juniper saplings. They’d been endangered before she got here. By the time she left, they might be extinct.
It was hard to read her at all when she was engrossed by her phone, freckled face limned by its silvery glow. She chewed the inside of her cheek, lips coming together in a plump pink rosebud as she danced around the cabin, waving the phone in mid-air.
“You’ll not get signal here,” he informed her, trying to quash his own amusement. Where had this woman come from?
Not these parts, that was for sure. He’d heard a northern – Mancunian? – lilt when she’d apologised to him earlier, vowels soft as melted butter.Unfortunately, that softness was nowhere to be seen now. She huffed, scrubbing a hand over her face, which only served to spread the mud from her palms across her cheeks.
“Where are we, exactly? Is this another Airbnb?” Her forest-brown eyes scanned her surroundings warily, from the workbench covered in wood shavings to the sagging couch he was no longer brave enough to sit on. Cautiously, she added, “… For lumberjacks?”
Clearly, she’d noticed his chopping block outside. Now, her attention caught on the array of saws and other tools hanging by the door in place of the old coat pegs.
“Does itlooklike an Airbnb?” Fraser couldn’t help but snarl at the mention of those godforsaken rentals, popping up everywhere and ruining the Highland landscape – not to mention putting him out of bloody jobs. It was hard to tend to the forest when the trees were being chopped down to make room for guest houses, which was why he’d planted those saplings in the first place. It was his job to keep the forest a forest, keep the trees healthy and the woods populated. Sometimes, he felt like the only person here who gave a shite about any of it.
“It looks like an axe-murderer’s workshop,” she whispered quietly, eyes wide.
“What?” Fraser pinched his chin impatiently. Twice now, she had accused him of being a serial killer. He understood that women felt unsafe and that it was men’s responsibility to do better, but he was trying to help her, for heaven’s sake. She was the one disturbing his peace!
With Bernard trailing happily at his feet, he shifted past her, careful not to brush against her curves. Curves he was trying very, very hard not to notice.
From the box-sized bathroom, he grabbed the only towel he had. He couldn’t remember if he’d used it or not, but it looked and smelled clean enough.
It was cleaner than her, at least.
He threw it to her, but since she was back to frantically wafting her phone in search of signal, it landed on top of her head.
“You were supposed to catch,” he said when she yanked it down to glare at him.
“Thanks,” she bit out. “You didn’t answer my earlier question. Is that because you plan on kidnapping me?”
