Alone in a remote Scottish lighthouse, author Dani Maxwell has one thing on her mind: getting her new book finished in blissful isolation. But she hasn't banked on the distracting qualities of her hot landlord...
A short story.
The sky grew prematurely dark. The wind howled around the edifice and the sea churned below, dashing itself over and over again against the rocks surrounding the lighthouse.
Dani Maxwell sat dubiously on the window seat clutching a mug of cocoa and watching the elements do their best to rock her temporary home from its perch. Had this been a good idea? She’d wanted solitude to write her next book certainly, but she hadn’t been able to leave the lighthouse for two days and she very much wanted to explore its environs, to walk, commune with nature while she thought about the tangled plot of her latest novel.
She sighed. If only the rain and the wind would just let up for an hour. If the sun would only peep through the clouds. Was it too much to ask for? She climbed from the window seat and went back to the laptop. She was greedy, she knew that. This was the perfect place. She couldn’t expect the weather too. Not in Scotland in autumn.
A sudden banging startled her from the screen. She cocked her head, listening, trying to work out if the storm was taking the roof off or dislodging the satellite dish.
The sound came again and she realised belatedly what it was. A fist upon wood. A visitor.
She got up, descending the narrow spiral staircase two flights to the front door before she swung open the heavy oak, peering around it nervously. This was the first time in a week someone had knocked on the door.
A tall, well-built man stood there huddled against the rain and wind, the hood of a parka pulled up, a scarf over his nose and mouth so only his eyes showed, pale and almost colourless in the drab light.
“Good afternoon,” he said in a gruff voice, Scots accent virtually impenetrable. “How are you settling in?”