“Excuse me?”

“Nonmembers are not allowed onto the estate with recording devices. This ensures the privacy of our guests.”

“Right.” At least that meant Daddy Dearest didn’t intend to turn me away.

Shit.

A little part of me almost wished he had.

I grabbed my phone out of my car, glad I’d had the sense to leave my camera in my room. I trusted no one with my baby.

“Is that everything?”

“Yup.”

“Please return to your vehicle. The gates will open momentarily, and you will follow me onto the estate.”

I nodded and got back into my rented SUV. A four-by-four had seemed like the right choice for spending time in the Highlands, and this one was affordable. Deciding to fly to Scotland without booking a return ticket gave my savings account serious palpitations. I had to be careful with my money while I was here.

As soon as the security guy couldn’t see my face anymore, I let out a shaky exhale and waited for the gates to open. While I did this, the guy turned the Range Rover around and drove up the gravel drive to give the gates room. They swung inward seconds later, and I drove forward.

The driveway led through woodlands for what felt like forever before the trees disappeared to reveal grass for miles around a mammoth building in the distance. Flags were situated throughout the rolling plains of the estate—a golf course. Tiny distant figures could be seen playing.

Eyes back on Ardnoch Castle, I sucked in another breath.

I’d never felt more out of place.

It was a feeling I was used to when it came to Mac.

I never felt a part of his world.

He’d never let me.

The castle was a rambling, castellated mansion, six stories tall and about two hundred years old. I knew from my research that while it was the club’s main building, there were several buildings throughout the twelve-thousand acre estate, including permanent residences members paid exorbitant amounts to own. According to Google, the estate sat on the coast of Ardnoch and was home to pine forests (which I could attest to), rolling plains (again, saw that), heather moors (really wanted to see those), and golden beaches (really, really wanted to see those). While I wasn’t sure how this visit with my father would go, I kind of hoped it went well enough for a tour of the estate.

Even if I did feel like a fish out of water.

As I followed the Range Rover up to the castle, I mused over the security here in general. While there was a great big gate and walls at the main entrance, how did they ensure members privacy when there were twelve thousand acres to manage?

Something to ask Dear Old Dad if we ever got past the awkward, “Why didn’t you love me enough to stay in my life, leaving me with rampant abandonment issues that have impacted me to almost fatal levels?”

There went my stomach again, roiling like a ship caught in a storm.

“Jesus Christ,” I whispered as I pushed open the driver’s door. The castle was like Downton Abbey on steroids. There were turrets, and a flag of the St. Andrew’s Cross flew from one of the parapets. Columns supported a mini-crenellated roof over an elaborate portico that housed double iron doors.

As I got out, the wind blew my ponytail in my face and battered through my sweater. It was much windier here without the protection of the trees. And it had an icy nip that surprised me, considering it was almost April. The smell of saltwater hung in the air despite the fact the castle sat two miles inland.

I loved the air here. Crisp and fresh. It filled me with energy.

Neck craned, I stared up at the flag and heard the creak of the iron doors opening. A man wearing a traditional butler’s uniform, including white gloves, stepped out as if to greet me.

But then he was halted by the appearance of another man.

Drawing a breath, I stepped out from behind the driver’s door and closed it, forcing myself to look at the very tall, broad-shouldered figure heading my way.

A mixture of overwhelming emotions flooded me as I recognized the man. He wore a tailored gray suit that didn’t quite civilize him. His thick, salt-and-pepper hair needed a trim and curled at his nape. His cheeks were unshaven.

He appeared to be in his late thirties but I knew him to be forty-four years old.

Expression neutral, he strode toward me with determination. As he drew closer, I realized how much I looked like my father. His hair was darker. But I had his face shape and his eyes.

Those were definitely my eyes. The same light brown around the pupil, striations of gray and green bleeding into the brown from the edges of the iris.

Mom always said at least my father had given me something good.