Flora was supposedly on maternity leave, Isla and Iona running the café perfectly well, somewhat to Flora’s annoyance. But it was Joel, her workaholic boyfriend, who appeared to have taken it most to heart, and she couldn’t help occasionally feeling just a little jealous. Which was, of course, completely ridiculous. Everything was great. Fine. Great. I mean, Douglas cried at her but was totally calm with Joel, but she didn’t mind. Not a bit.

Chapter 1

W ell, which is the best one?”

Isla Donnelly’s mother, Vera, was looking at her over the old teapot with the flowers and the chip in the top.

Isla, staring at it, realized something she had never quite put into words before: she hated that teapot. It was the stupidest thing she could imagine, hating a teapot. It was possibly because her mother treated it like a precious heirloom she needed to be more careful with rather than just a dumb crappy teapot. She sipped her tea.

“I don’t know, Mum,” she said again, trying not to get riled, which wouldn’t help.

“So, the MacKenzies need someone up at the new posh hotel.”

Vera Donnelly sniffed loudly. She didn’t think much of the new hotel. Not the kind of thing Mure needed in her opinion, and Vera had a lot of opinions. Too fancy, too expensive—who wanted that kind of thing?

Regardless, it was set to open this Christmas, and Flora had offered to help Fintan by moving one of her café staff up there.

Isla sighed. She was, in fact, indeed quite terrified, but she would never tell her mother that. Not good to give her the ammunition.

“Well, one of us will stay and take over more of the running of the Seaside Kitchen and one of us will go up to the Rock.”

Isla and her best friend, Iona, had worked in the Summer Seaside Kitchen for years, and neither was looking forward to getting separated. Isla in particular was very much the shyer of the two and absolutely dreading being without her cheeky chum.

“Yes, but which one is the best job ?”

“I don’t know.”

Vera carefully picked up her treasured teapot and daintily poured herself another cup of tea. “You know, I just don’t want them taking advantage of you,” she said. “That Flora treats you like a scullery maid.”

“I’m just learning on the job,” said Isla, who adored Flora and didn’t quite have her mother’s expectations for her. She knew it was difficult being Vera’s only child. She hated constantly adding to her disappointment. “What are you doing today, Mum?”

“It’s Homes Under the Hammer !”

“You know there’s a choir rehearsal tonight . . . You should go to that.”

Isla’s main goal was to stop herself being Vera’s only area of attention.

“Bunch of busybodying old gossips. No thanks!”

Isla put on her coat and pulled her tam-o’-shanter down over her unruly dark chestnut curls, which pinged out every which way—unusual on the island, where people had fair or red hair, depending on whether they were descended from Celts or Vikings. There had once been a rumor of Spanish invaders making it as far north as Mure, which would have made more sense of her dark eyes, although the pale skin, lightly freckled in the summertime, was purest Scotland, to Isla’s eternal chagrin.