It was Gabriella Ruiz and Sebastian Stone. Stone was a three-time Oscar-winning actor, and Gabriella was his pop-star fiancée. She was ten years his senior—he was thirty-five, she was forty-five—but she looked his age, if not younger. And not because of Botox either. Good genes and a healthy lifestyle did that. She was inspiring; he was beyond talented. As a couple, they were constantly hounded by the press.

Again, I wondered how Adair kept the media away from Ardnoch.

Gabriella offered me a gorgeous grin, and I was proud of the friendly but cool smile I returned. I wasn’t the type to fangirl, but I was also extremely aware that the estate members loved Ardnoch because it offered them some normality.

Pulling open the door to my rental, I shot a look over my shoulder as the couple strolled hand in hand down Castle Street. I shook my head in disbelief, smiling to myself. Rock music was my thing, not pop, so seeing Gabriella wasn’t what it might be to some other folks, though I admired her obvious work ethic. And I had to admit, Sebastian Stone was a great actor.

I’d just walked past them both.

So surreal.

It occurred to me as I drove toward the beach that it hadn’t felt surreal to meet Lachlan Adair, even though he’d once been as famous as Stone and wasn’t exactly unknown now.

No, it hadn’t been surreal.

It had just been painful.

The thought of the meeting reminded me of the dinner I’d promised tonight.

Me and Mac. Alone at the Gloaming.

After my embarrassing near breakdown the day before, I hoped I could keep it together tonight.

I was thankful the road to the beach was straightforward because learning to drive on the left was discombobulating; there seemed to be rotaries (though the Scots called them roundabouts) everywhere. Rotaries alone weren’t the problem; rotaries on the left side were the problem!

As the beach came into view, my anxieties melted away.

After parking the car, I grabbed my camera out of the back seat and followed the footpath down onto the beach. A sense of calm washed over me. The sea air held a soothing aroma, heightened by the sound of flying gulls and the gentle waves lapping at the shore. I’d never have believed sands this smooth and golden could be found in Scotland.

The water reflected the color of the sky, a muted dark blue, but I was curious what the sea was like in summer, if the clear sky made its waters as blue as the Mediterranean. Strolling along the beach, I took snapshots of the grass-covered hills that jutted out over the sea or sloped down toward the sand. There was a wild order to the beauty here.

Just like that, my worries about tonight, those irritating butterflies in my belly, disappeared as I hid behind my camera, walking the coastline, trying to capture the essence of this rare tranquility and knowing I wouldn’t completely succeed.

This place had to be experienced to understand its magic.

* * *

The large grandfather clock in the corner of the restaurant at the Gloaming read 7:20.

Mac was twenty minutes late.

I was angry.

Worse, I felt hurt and humiliated.

I’d spent hours getting ready for our dinner, trying on every piece of clothing I’d brought because nothing seemed like the right outfit for my first adult conversation with my father.

I’d even ignored a call from my mom because I knew she’d just repeat what a bad idea she thought this was.

And apparently, she’d have been right.

Heat burned my cheeks as I stared at the empty place settings of our table tucked at the back of the restaurant. I’d asked Gordon for a table that provided some privacy.

Furious tears pricked my eyes as I avoided looking at the other diners.

I cursed the effort I’d gone to for a man who’d forgotten to show up.

For once, my thick hair wasn’t pulled back in a casual ponytail, but I’d blown it out and left it down. And I was wearing heels with my cigarette pants and a green silk shirt that I’d bought for the trip. I repeat: I was in high heels.

Mac was such a bastard.

Watching the clock as it crept toward the half-hour mark, I pushed back from the table and stood to leave, but just then, a concerned, pale-faced blond burst into the restaurant. Something about her contained panic made me freeze as she scanned the room.

Our eyes met.

Recognition lit hers, and I tensed in surprise as she hurried toward me.

As she grew closer, I recognized her from my research.

Arrochar Adair. The only female sibling and the youngest of the Adairs.

What on earth?

“Robyn?” Arrochar asked, sounding out of breath as she stopped at my table.

She’d drawn the attention of the other diners.

Despite the messy ponytail, the oversized sweater, worn-out skinny jeans, and hiking boots, Arrochar had an ethereal quality. Her irises were a paler shade of blue than Lachlan’s, almost icy, and the anxiety and fear within them transferred to me.