Page 43 of The Scottish Island Inn

Hanging baskets filled with bright pink flowers swung wildly in the wind by the entrance, and the white-painted door bore a sign that said VACANCIES.

Tam pulled the truck under the cover of some oak trees, got out of the driver’s side and ran around to open Sorrel’s door, holding his jacket over her head like an umbrella.

They hurried to the front of the B&B, then Tam pushed the front door open and stuck his head inside.

‘Hallo?’ he called out. ‘Sorry, the door was open…’

Sorrel followed him inside to a cosy hallway with varnished wooden floors that smelt of beeswax. A cluster of coats and wellies took up space to her right, and a welcome desk with a green glass lamp and a vase of white roses sat to her left.

‘Oh, hello there! Come in, come in!’ A woman who Sorrel estimated to be in her forties, with her black hair in a messy ponytail, wearing paint-spattered jogging bottoms and a similarly painty sweatshirt, appeared. ‘Sorry. I’m just painting the skirting boards in the lounge; I wasnae expecting anyone in this weather!’ Distractedly, she wiped a dash of paint from the back of her hand to her forehead. Sorrel thought of mentioning it, but thought it would be rude.

‘No, not at all.’ Tam gave the woman his easy smile, and Sorrel was amused to see her melt under it. Sometimes Sorrel forgot how disarming Tam could be with his gentle tone, the sonorous purr of his voice and his gentlemanly politeness. ‘We just came to get some shelter from the storm; the weather app says it’s going to be with us for a few hours, and we didn’t want to drive all the way back to Skye in it. We are, of course, happy to buy some food and drink, or contribute somehow.’ He gave the woman a final winning smile.

‘Oh. Well, you’re very welcome to wait out the storm, but it’s a mess in there.’ The woman indicated her paint-spattered clothes. ‘I can let you have one of the rooms, though? We have tea and coffee and biscuits in each room. They’re warm and cosy.’ She looked expectantly at us both. ‘I have just the one left, but that should be fine for you?’

‘Oh… we’re not…’ Sorrel began.

‘We’ll take it,’ Tam said at the same time. They looked at each other, fazed by the moment of awkwardness. ‘Oh. I mean… if that’s okay with you.’

‘Umm… okay.’ The B&B owner gave them both a shrewd look, but went to the desk and reached under it, handing Sorrel a room key.

‘Here y’are. Room eight. It has a bathroom,’ she said, giving them a warm smile. ‘Claw-footed bathtub, in fact! Nice comfy mattress. Now, if you want me, I’ll be just through here. We can do you a dinner, if you like. Just pop down and ask.’

‘Oh, well, we don’t…’ Sorrel began, but the owner had already left them in the hall. Sorrel looked at the key in her hand and then at Tam.

‘Right,’ she said, feeling a blush creep onto her cheeks.

‘Shall we?’ Tam held out a hand towards the stairs.

TWENTY-TWO

‘Well, she said it was cosy, and she wasn’t wrong,’ Tam said as they walked into the bedroom and almost fell over the bed. ‘Not much room. But there is a TV.’

He sat down on the bed and flicked on the television.

Sorrel stood in the doorway, feeling awkward. All there was in front of her was Tam, a huge bed, and the rain pounding at the window. Thunder growled over their heads.

‘You coming in?’ He glanced at her. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Okay.’ She closed the door behind her. Lightning flashed.

Tam stood in the small area at the foot of the bed where there was a narrow table holding a mini kettle, two mugs, a glass jar of biscuits, a milk jug and a bowl of sugar. He dropped a tea bag in each mug and whistled under his breath.

The room was decorated with a modern eye, but still with a nod to traditional Scottish décor. The stone walls were painted white: Sorrel ran her hands appreciatively over the uneven texture of the stone under the paint. A dramatic photo of Ben Nevis at sunrise hung on the wall. The bed was indeed large, probably a super king size. It was dressed with spotless white cotton linen with thick pillows and fluffy cream cushions.

She peeked in the bathroom: as the owner had said, a large, claw-footed white bath stood proudly in the centre of a black-and-white tiled floor. Brass mouldings glowed – the taps, the shower attachment over the bath, a large, heated towel rail. Thick, soft-looking mauve towels hung on the rail, and there was another stack of towels on a stool in the corner.

‘It’s lovely, though I wouldn’t have put a bed this size in this room.’ Sorrel picked up a hand-knitted cream and mauve blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her. The temperature had plummeted and, even though the room was cosy, she couldn’t seem to get warm.

‘Agreed. I like the bath, though.’ Tam handed her a mug of tea, and placed the jar of biscuits on the bed between them. ‘You should persuade your mum and dad to overhaul the bathrooms at the Inn. They could have something like that. People would like it.’

‘Hm. You’re right. It’s romantic.’ Sorrel looked at the bath, and then at Tam, and blushed. ‘I mean… I don’t mean, with you… the bath. The bath is romantic. Aesthetically.’

‘It’s okay. I know what you meant.’ Tam sat on the bed next to her.

There was a silence.

‘Still hailing,’ Sorrel said, to fill the quiet. They sat and listened to the sound of the hail on the window.