Fort William, Scottish Highlands

Well, that bloody smarts.

"You don't want me to move up here?" I can tell my face will be showing my betrayal. I've put myself out there, laid my heart on the line, offered to move to the Highlands, for fuck's sake . . . And he doesn't want me here?

Owen looks confused for a moment, as if he can't understand why I'm so hurt. Then his face clears. "Oh shit, Mirren - I didn't mean it like that. I'm saying you don't need to move up here because I'm already moving to Glasgow." He grins, leaning across the table to take my hand. "So it would make no sense you being up here if I'm not. Unless you really like Fort William, of course."

"You're moving to Glasgow?" I breathe, the dread finally draining out of my body. "When . . . When did you decide this?"

"A few months ago," he tells me. "I realised I just couldn't maintain this lifestyle much longer. Like I said earlier, it gets lonely. I've made friends up here, don't get me wrong, but it's not the same as the group of friends I have around the Glasgow area, and doing these tours all the time can be a bit draining. So I'm leaving the North of Scotland to my second-in-command at Scots-2-Go and heading south."

"What are you going to do there?" I ask curiously.

"I'm looking to expand the business further, but with shorter trips and daytrips based out of Glasgow," he explains, his face animated by enthusiasm. "Remember all those places I mentioned yesterday? Argyll, Ayrshire, Dumfries & Galloway? I'm going to run tours to those places instead. The longest trips will only involve one or two nights away maximum, so I can actually start living my life properly instead of just travelling in an endless loop around the North Coast 500. This tour was always intended to be my last one up here; I'm moving at the end of next week. I've rented a flat in Partick."

"That's not far from me," I whisper shakily. "Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

"Honestly? I was worried that by telling you I was relocating to Glasgow, it might feel like I was putting pressure on you, and I didn't want to scare you off. Especially as I initially wasn't sure if you might just see us as a fling."

"I definitely want it to be more than that." I tell him truthfully. "I was willing to do pretty much anything to make this work."

"Well, now you don't have to," he smiles. "We'll be in the same city, and we can work all of this out as we go along."

Thank goodness!

"I wonder if we'd have found each other again in Glasgow, had this trip not happened," I ponder aloud.

"Who knows, really? I'm just glad I don't have to wait any longer to find out." He squeezes my hand, and my heart flutters frantically at the soft expression on his face.

There's so much to love about this man. His kindness. His sense of humour. His cheeky side. The golden eyes, the sexy professor glasses, those dimples. The way he looks after me. I can't imagine ever feeling this way about someone else. I didn't even realise I was capable of this depth of feeling until now.

And now it's the following day and I'm on the train home, already missing him. Wondering how I can possibly survive even a week without him.

We had a really understated goodbye earlier, where he dropped me off at the station, and I insisted he left immediately. I couldn't deal with an emotional goodbye, but now I regret that decision. I wish I could just have brought him home with me, rather than having to wait seven days for delivery.

"You really are smitten, aren't you?" Nessa drapes an arm around me, clearly sensing how down I am. "What's happened to my hard-hearted Mirren?"

"Her heart melted," Michelle laughs, and I shoot her a glare. But . . . she's not wrong. Owen Sullivan took a blow torch to that particular organ and completely did a number on it.

My flat feels emptier than usual when I walk inside a few hours later. Normally, it's a haven for me, a place I can retreat to. Now, it feels more like a barren cave.

"This is ridiculous," I whisper to myself as I fling clothes from my suitcase into the washing machine. "You're going to see him again so soon; stop being such a drama queen!" Yet, as I pick up each item of clothing, I find myself associating it with an Owen-related memory. The checked shirt I wore the day that we nearly matched. The t-shirt dress I so eagerly stripped out of when he ran us that bath. The bra that ended up wrapped around my head. Each recollection makes me smile, but once I close the machine, it feels somehow as if I'm finishing a chapter that I'm not quite ready to end.

I know what Nessa would say if I voiced that last thought out loud in front of her. Something wholesome and Hallmark-esque like "so now it's time to turn the page and read the next chapter". And I'd mock her endlessly for it, of course.

I drop Owen a text to let him know I'm home. I miss you already xxx I find myself adding, like the supersized cheesebucket he's turned me into.

I'm sure you'll be glad to know that we made sure we had one another's contact details before I left, and I finally remembered to unblock him on all relevant social media. He doesn't reply to my message immediately, but when I have a quick socials check, I can see he's changed his profile photo on both Instagram and Facebook to a couplie of us. He must have done that shortly after I left. My heart lightens at that thought.

But after I've had a long (and lonely) bath to pass the time, I'm feeling sad once again as I realise he still hasn't replied to my message. It seems he hasn't even read it yet. I sigh. This is exactly why I don't catch feels - I've always found the emotional lows tend to be way more intense than the highs. So I order a pizza. Food is significantly better than feelings.

I miss you too. xxx

The words warm me like a whisky when they appear on the screen twenty minutes or so later. The notification that my food is en route follows directly after it.

Okay. Feelings might edge it over food.

I'm deliberating over what to reply, feeling briefly like my teenage self, when there's a knock at the door. And I'm confused when I open it . . . because, as far as I'm aware, Owen Sullivan doesn't work for Dominos. But it's definitely him leaning against my doorframe: all adorable dimples, and tousled hair, and delicious stubble.

What the actual fuck?

"Cute glasses," he grins and one hand self-consciously flies to my face as I remember I took my contacts out after my bath. I also removed my make-up and scraped my hair back into a messy ponytail, and I'm wearing the first pair of pyjamas I pulled out of my drawer earlier - a shorts set covered in Christmas puddings, of all things. But somehow, he's still looking at me like I'm Claudia Schiffer's long-lost younger sister, his hazel eyes sparkling happily.

"What are you doing here?" I gasp. I'm still thinking he might be some sort of mirage. Maybe I fell asleep in the bath? Nah, if this was a dream, I'd be looking far better than this!

He shrugs and laughs. "Like I just said in my text, I missed you too. And I hated the fact I didn't get to say a proper goodbye to you. I lasted about an hour and a half before I needed to see you again. So I jumped in the bus and drove here. Like some sort of mad stalker. Or Kieran." He grimaces now. "Maybe this isn't quite the romantic gesture I'd hoped it would be. You're probably already regretting giving me your address."

"Definitely not," I say, grabbing his hand and pulling him inside my flat. "I'm so fucking happy to see you, Owen."

His gorgeous face lights up with another grin at my words, and everything around us suddenly seems to reflect the sheer brightness of that smile. He presses me up against the wall and kisses the life out of me, and I'm 100 per cent certain now that this isn't my imagination. He's definitely here, in the flesh, and he was yearning for me just as much as I'd been yearning for him.

"I'm so happy to see you too," he tells me now, pulling back for the briefest of moments. His eyes are glowing with intensity as he studies my face, and my whole body starts to effervesce like sparkling water. Or, more likely, prosecco. "I love you, Mirren Shepherd," he whispers. Then he pulls me close again, soft lips fastening tenderly onto mine.

So maybe I don't hate surprises quite as much as I thought. If they come in an Owen-shaped package like this, then I could definitely get used to them. Perhaps I'll even move them off my list of pet peeves for now.

On the downside though, it looks like I'm going to have to share my pizza . . .