Bettyhill, Scottish Highlands

"I'd just like to state for the record that I had no part in this," Owen tells me, holding his hands up as we eyeball each other across the restaurant table.

"I believe you," I assure him. I know he wouldn't do that; he's been very careful not to overstep his boundaries, and being involved in this set-up is not his style at all. "And if I look at all murderous right now, it's because I'm considering assassinating my friends."

"If you need a sidekick, I can always lend my assistance." He grins, dimples flashing, while I take a deep breath, trying not to panic. His smile fades. "Mirren, we don't have to do this, you know. We can both just walk out of here right now; go our separate ways."

"Is that what you want?" My voice wobbles a little, and he shakes his head vehemently.

"Of course not. But, like I've told you, I want you to be comfortable. So if you're not, then I won't be either." His voice is soft and steady, his gaze intent on mine. And his words soothe me like a cooling balm. My body relaxes.

"Well, I don't have any food apart from a chocolate bar in my room, and I have a feeling you don't either, so I guess we may as well accept our fate," I say jokingly.

"Yeah, I think I might have a packet of Quavers in my bag, but I doubt that would even put a dent in my hunger," he laughs, picking up the menu. "So we're doing this then?"

I nod firmly. "Let's go for it."

The waitress places a bottle of prosecco on the table. "This has been paid for by your friends," she explains. She has a curious look on her face, obviously now realising herself that this "date" was in no way planned by either of us. Popping the bottle open, she pours the contents into two flutes and leaves us to our awkwardness once again.

"Cheers, I guess?" I say, tilting my glass towards him. He smiles again.

"Slàinte mhath," he replies, which I know is the Gaelic version of "Cheers". Seems fitting, somehow. "It's some view, isn't it?" He continues after taking a sip, looking out towards the stunning bay below.

It is indeed some view, I'm thinking . . . But I'm looking at Owen rather than outside. He's now wearing a casual navy blue shirt and his glasses, and he's looking like a delectable snack. I lower my eyes to the menu before he can catch me.

I'm crushing so hard on this guy all over again, and it's making me feel like the awkward teenager I used to be . . . You know, rather than the awkward 28 year old I now am.

"What are you going to have to eat?" I ask now, really just for something to fill the silence. The menu is a bit eclectic here, I've noticed - there are some traditional Scottish dishes but also more random items, such as halloumi fries or lamb curry.

"I was thinking the haggis bonbons followed by the Highland Chicken," he replies. "If you want to do starters, that is?" I realise he's giving me another out here; a way to finish dinner quicker. To end this charade and retire to our rooms. Alone.

But while I'm here, I might as well make the most of it. Hell, I might even throw dessert into the mix, too!

"Are you kidding? Starters are the best part of a meal!" I reply. He laughs.

"Agreed! What's your favourite?"

Wow, that's like asking someone to pick their favourite child, surely? But I appreciate that he's trying to keep the conversation going.

"It probably depends where I am," I reply eventually. "Usually, if there's any burrata on a menu, I have to go for that, though." I mean, you really can't beat a big ball of mozzarella that's been stuffed full of cream! "What about you?"

"Probably that black pudding starter I had in Inverness the other night," he says. "I can't stop thinking about that."

"It did look good," I concur, as the waitress returns to our table. We order - I opt for the creamy garlic mushrooms and the salmon risotto - and then Owen tops up our drinks.

"So, I need to ask - has Scotland gone up in your estimation yet?" He pushes my flute back towards me, eyebrows rising quizzically above the rims of his glasses.

I shrug. "I have to admit I really wasn't sure about the trip at first. But . . . Yeah, Scotland is growing on me. I'm definitely starting to see its appeal."

"Hopefully, you'll fall in love with it as much as I did," he says quietly . . . And suddenly, I'm back in Portpatrick, all those years ago, wishing for an adventure with Owen. Inadvertently, I guess, it's finally happening. I just didn't expect it to happen at the other side of Scotland after nearly ten years of radio silence.

He's serious now, hazel eyes searching my face. I can't help but wonder if he's even talking about Scotland anymore.

"But you still can't beat a holiday abroad!" I exclaim hastily, suddenly desperate to break whatever spell we just fell under.

"There must be things you don't like about those too, though?" There's a gentle challenge in his voice. "No holiday is perfect."

I nod. "That's true."

"So tell me some downsides?" He prompts me.

"Well . . . I really hate flying for a start," I confess. I'm actually terrified of it. I try to act like a seasoned traveller, unflappable about everything, but the slightest bit of turbulence sends me into a panic spiral.

I half expect him to mock me, but his gaze is sympathetic. "I'm not really a fan either. What else?"

"To be totally honest, I hate the entire airport experience." I may as well go all in. "Queues, security, other people. I hate waiting for my baggage at the other end, worrying it's going to be lost. I loathe airport transfer buses. I wish we could just teleport ourselves somehow from here to mainland Europe."

"Once you're there, though, it's all worth it, right?" He takes another sip of his drink.

"Oh, for sure!" I agree. Then, I find myself grimacing. "I mean, apart from the mosquitos, and the folk who bag the best loungers at 6am but don't use them until the afternoon, and . . ." I trail off. "Wait. Did you just make me talk myself out of liking foreign holidays?"

His lips twitch, his eyes sparkle with mischief. Holy crap, he is adorable. Even when he's messing with me. "Maybe?" He smirks.

"You're a dick," I mutter, but I can't help but grin. Our starters appear in front of us and they're delicious. We even offer each other a taste . . . Of the food; get your dirty minds out of the gutter, please!

I'm actually having fun. Despite my initial discomfort, Owen is great company. This is now officially the longest time we've spent together alone, I realise, and it's almost impossible for me to ignore the chemistry building between us once again. It fizzes around us like a forcefield. I'm amazed the waitress is able to penetrate it to remove our starters and replace them with our mains.

You know that feeling when you meet someone and you just hit it off immediately? You have so much to talk about, and it's easy, and you're practically falling over each other's words because you're so eager to share? This isn't exactly a regular occurrence for me, but suddenly it's happening with Owen.

As we dig into the next course, conversation now flows easily. We talk about gigs we've been to and favourite films; he shares funny anecdotes from some of his previous tours; and I tell him about my favourite holiday - a trip to Rhodes with Nessa when we were 22 or 23.

"What about you?" I ask him as we push our plates to one side, hunger satisfied and bellies full. "What was your favourite holiday?"

He sighs. "I've been on a lot of great holidays," he says, staring into space. "But none of them really compare to the two weeks every summer at Galloway Haven when I'd get to see the girl I'd had a crush on for years." A tentative smile tips his mouth upwards. It seems he's decided it's time to push past our comfort zone and open a can of worms.

"Oh?" I ask, heart pounding. This admittedly really isn't a revelation. I knew from things he'd said during our Facebook friendship and from his "paying attention" comment two nights ago that he'd liked me for far longer than I would have ever guessed. But now he's actually spelling it out, and it's pretty bittersweet given everything that went down afterwards.

He nods, flicking a quick glance towards me before looking away again. "Yeah. Even though it seemed so pointless because I never thought she liked me back; never thought I'd get a shot with her. Once, I even managed to manipulate everyone into playing a game of Spin The Bottle, so I could get to kiss her, just in case that was the only chance I ever had." He scrubs a palm along his scruffy jaw, cheeks flushing, and the vulnerability in his expression eats away at my heart.

"She always liked you too," I say softly. Suddenly, my hand is on top of his hand, and I've no idea how it got there. "Deep down, she never really stopped." I swallow hard. "But you decided to not come back, and that really hurt me." The resentment has crept into my voice now, and I snatch my hand back.

"Mirren, if I could change how I handled things then, I would do it in a heartbeat." Owen sounds pained. "I wish I'd just told you the truth at the time."

I hesitate. Take a deep breath. "Okay. So let's change it, then."

"What - what do you mean?" He asks, confused gaze snapping back to meet mine.

"Tell me what happened that summer. Tell me why you really stayed in Lanzarote."

Suddenly, finally, I've found that I want to hear that explanation after all.

Wee note from me here: Most of my hotel locations have been fictional, but I've taken real life inspiration from a hotel I stayed at for an overnight last year called the Bettyhill Hotel. The menu items are genuine - the salmon risotto was a delight - and the view from the front of the hotel is indeed spectacular!

Anyway, hope you're enjoying the story, and aren't actually hating Owen too much after the previous chapter. 💜