"So you'll be finished at seven, right?"

"Yup. They're spending the day on Skye and then we'll be back on the mainland for six o'clock. I'll drop them at their hotel and I'll meet you at the Plockton Inn at seven."

Mildred sat on my small suitcase and eyed me balefully. She knew an owner who was about to disappear for two days when she spotted one. Two weeks after I'd proposed, and Jack and I had spent ten hours together if didn't count sleeping—him zonking out as soon as he got in at night.

To be fair, Jack had warned me from the beginning the tourism season was bonkers. And this year, he'd been busier than ever. So busy, I'd yet to tell him what Katya had said to me on Significant Proposal Night (as I now called it).

"Tonight's the night, Mildred," I said. "And, um, can you shift off my case so I can put my super-sexy underwear in it?"

Ever tried reasoning with cats? It rarely works. I picked her up for a consoling cuddle and she scratched me in return. Mildred hated being left on her own. I'd arranged for Mhari to look after her, even if I risked having her poke her way around the house looking for anything secretive. I'd hidden as much as I could. She wasn't able to stay tonight but she could do tomorrow. Mildred must have realised this—hence the scratch.

When Jack had said last week he'd be away yet again at the weekend, I stamped my foot. He sent me a message with a link to the Plockton Inn. "Fancy a night here, gorgeous?"

I forgave him everything. Set in a sheltered bay overlooking Loch Carron, Plockton outdid even Lochalshie with its village charms. I'd plugged the location into my phone and Google maps was about to take me there now. I had previous for taking too long to anywhere in Scotland—the views distracted me—so I decided to set off in plenty of time.

Just as well. Eilean Donan Castle demanded I stop the car, get out and visit it. Then, a group of Americans caught my attention chattering excitedly about Outlander and if the castle had been used during filming.

I bustled up, keen to show off. "No," I said, "but it was in Highlander—the film with the sexy Frenchman and that woman Beatie thingie who has never been in anything since!"

And then didn't it only turn out 'that woman' was leading the tour, the imaginatively named Scottish Film Locations. She hurried her Americans away and glared at me. I spent the rest of my visit to the castle ducking out of sight every time she and her group appeared.

Still, the road to Plockton was enchanting weaving its twisty way through tiny hamlets and farm land. Highland cows, their horns scarily long and pointed, sat on the road and didn't seem inclined to move. I peeped the horn and waited. And waited, so by the time I got to Plockton it was five past seven. The inn was the first hotel as you drove in. There was no sign of Jack's mini-bus.

I checked in and headed up the stairs. The room looked onto the high street, beyond which you could see the loch. Signs at a jetty for a seal tour promised your money back if said seals didn't appear. I dumped my suitcase on the bed. "Perhaps," I told my reflection, "I should ask Highland Tours for my money back for the non-appearance this summer of my boyfriend!"

Last year, the tourist season was tailing off when Jack realised I was the woman of his dreams. (He'd been slow on the uptake.) As soon as October kicked in six weeks later, he was all mine for months. Goodness it had been fun. In theory I was working, having negotiated a remote working deal with my boss at Bespoke Design. But when your boyfriend dangles keys in front of you and says, "Hey, shall we drive out to Oban and get some fish and chips?"

Or even better, he dispenses with the keys and dangles himself there. "Gaby, I'm bored... shall we go to bed for a while?"

The summer season began gently, but then the bookings stacked up. Throughout May, June, July and August we'd spent so little time together, Mildred sometimes hissed at him when he came in, arching her back her fur all puffed out. Who is this stranger? Don't get me wrong. Those end of the week get togethers were exciting. But for the last two weeks we hadn't talked about the wedding once. Or Katya's revelation. And now I'd only gone and said "yes" to it...

"Room service!"

Ooh! I'd recognise that deep, gruff Scottish voice anywhere. I ripped off all my clothes. This had to be one of those role playing scenarios. Plockton was about to reignite our relationship in a wonderful way. I pulled the bobble off my ponytail and shook my hair out. No time to apply make-up but at least I'd shaved everything in readiness.

"Come in!" I thrust out my arms. "Ta da!"

"Your boyfriend sen—"

Difficult to know who was the more horrified—me or the teenage boy holding an ice bucket and champagne. He flushed the exact colour of his scarlet waistcoat, and I discovered that yes when you blush, it can go head to toe. I crossed both hands over my chest, realising too late that left everything else on show.

"Ahem."

Jack had materialised behind the teenage waiter who appeared to have frozen to the spot. If he'd been half a minute quicker, this would never have happened. I fled to the en suite and bolted the door. My heart hammed in my chest as I prayed that the lad got temporary but total amnesia covering the last five minutes of his life. Or he was struck dumb and illiterate from this moment forth, unable ever to describe what he'd seen.

I heard Jack and the traumatised teen exchange murmured words, and the bedroom door closed as someone hurriedly made their way downstairs.

A knock sounded on the door. "You can come out now."

I sat on the bath, its porcelain doing a grand job of cooling down my still burning hot in embarrassment skin. Yes, bottoms felt shame too. "I think I'll just stay here."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "You can't. I've just seen the best view in Plockton. If you don't open the door right now, I'll hae to batter it down."

An offer I couldn't refuse. Still, Jack might have put more effort into stopping the upward tilt to his mouth. He kept straightening his lips, but the corners moved upwards of their own accord as he watched me edge out, too worried Teenage Room Service boy might have hidden himself under the bed.

Jack pulled the naked me into a bear hug and laughed like a loon for far too long.

"Gaby, the look on your face. That poor fella's in shell shock."

"Shell shock!" I squawked, my face pushed into his shoulder. As I began to recover the indignity, it struck me there were advantages to this naked already lark. Hands, for example could make the most of it, moving up and down leisurely and slowly, making the tiny hairs on my skin stand on end.

"Aye, the family that run this place are awfy religious. Wee Frees. You might be the first in the flesh naked woman he's ever seen. You've done the lad a huge favour," Jack said. His voice had changed, the words becoming laboured. "And now, seeing as you are..."

Later, we sat up in bed sipping the champagne. "Do you want to order room service?" Jack asked, turning on the TV. "I dunno if I can be bothered moving. Though if we do, both of us will be fully dressed when it arrives."

At that, he gave me one of those sideways glances. I knew the story would be dredged up for the rest of my life—the time Gaby mistook an 18-year-old kid for her boyfriend and swung open the door buck naked. Heck, he'd probably even tell it—

"You're NOT to mention this at your stag night," I said. "Or, absolutely not three hundred times no, at the speech you make at our wedding."

Uh-oh. The mood changed, and I cursed myself. If we hadn't talked about it in two weeks, I should have introduced the subject gently. Jack lay back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. I ran my finger down his nose, moving gently over the slight bump where he'd broken it at a Highland Games a few years ago.

"We, um, don't have to get married. Well, I'd like to eventually but we can wait."

He turned onto his side and propped his head on his hand. "I want to get married too Gaby. I just... it came out of the blue, that's all."

Had it? The week before I'd proposed, he'd come in after work and caught me watching a repeat of Don't Tell The Bride, the programme where the groom-to-be has to organise the entire wedding including choosing the dress. (Always the most contentious bit.) I'd whipped the remote control from underneath me and offered to change channels, but he waved the offer aside and sat down.

"Nah, I quite like this programme. For the record, what kind of dress would you want? And what's your favourite cake? Just in case."

I took that as my green light. He likes Don't Tell The Bride! He's asking me marriage-related questions! Ergo—he can't wait for me to walk down the aisle towards him.

Maybe not.

"And now it's a bit like a runaway train. Every time I go into Jamal's shop, someone tells me they're fair looking forward to our wedding, and do we have a wedding list yet so they can buy us something before all the cheaper presents get snapped up and they're left with the thousand pound telly or something."

"We wouldn't do a wedding list." That seemed the easiest thing to say. 'Runaway train' alarmed me.

Suddenly he was on top of me once more, his body heavy, familiar and comforting. I stared up into those brown eyes I loved and watched a lock of auburn hair fall forward onto his forehead.

"And we need to help Ashley make the Lochside Welcome the venue of choice for all brides to be."

He kissed me. "Though I doubt any of them will be as daft—I mean, delightful as you."

More kisses, in part to stifle my protests at that assessment of my character. M'lud, I'm as sensible as the next woman. My best friend testifies to that. When she isn't telling me I'm bonkers.

As he seemed to be in an agreeable mood, I cleared my throat.

"So, I have this thing to tell you." As Jack's expression didn't change, I figured spitting it out as quickly as possible was the best way.

"I spoke to Katya the other week, and Dexter has offered me a job with Blissful Beauty in London. Big promotion, tonnes of money. Isn't that amazing?!"