Welcome to my #MidWeekTease. This is a fun way of sharing a few paragraphs of a book or WIP.
Except this week I seem to have cotton wool in my brain, and I couldn't decide what to share.
So eventually, I decided to go back to an oldie and revisti a very special island on Loch Lomond.
Ballingal
Why?
this is why...
They were a
tight-knit group. Justine at seventy something was the oldest, and
Kristin still in her mid-twenties, the youngest. Six women drawn
together by something indefinable. No one questioned why any one of
them had the need to live on Ballingal. Friendship was extended and
help given. But all through it there was an unspoken commandment.
Woman ruled Ballingal.
Justine, Nicole, Leo, Susan, Eva and Kristin. Each had their own strengths and talents and each complimented the other. They were Ballingal.
Kristin grabbed her cloak and flung it around her shoulders. She wrapped it tightly around her body and held it close to stop the ever- present wind tugging it out of her hands and letting it flap around her. Living on an island in the middle of the Loch, you got used to every season in a day.
Why the cloak? Was it symbolic? There were plenty of other coats and jackets of hers in the cloakroom, so why choose this? It was an
Woman ruled Ballingal.
Justine, Nicole, Leo, Susan, Eva and Kristin. Each had their own strengths and talents and each complimented the other. They were Ballingal.
Kristin grabbed her cloak and flung it around her shoulders. She wrapped it tightly around her body and held it close to stop the ever- present wind tugging it out of her hands and letting it flap around her. Living on an island in the middle of the Loch, you got used to every season in a day.
Why the cloak? Was it symbolic? There were plenty of other coats and jackets of hers in the cloakroom, so why choose this? It was an
impractical choice if she had to carry a big sack of post, or help day
visitors across the gap from boat to shore.
She made her way across the short grass toward the pebble path that led visitors from the ferry landing in the direction of the group of buildings that housed Nicole’s guest house, the craft shops, workshops, and refreshment facilities. The rest of the island, apart from well-marked flora and fauna trails was kept as hard to access as possible. In Kristin’s case, her house was furthest away, almost inaccessible except by boat, and to do that, you’d need pretty good sea—or loch—man-ship. The only other way was along an unmarked and complicated trail. As much as she loved the others, after all, they were like sisters and a mum to her, she relished her own company. Her little house with its attic was perfect for her.
Why then, when everything was going well was she so unsettled? Okay there wasn’t a man in her life, but Felix the Finger, as she called her vibrating bullet, did a more than adequate job when needed. It was a pity he only worked in one area at once, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He was better than the assholes who turned up on Ballingal and expected the women to be so sex starved that they’d jump at the chance of inferior, wham, bam, thank you ma’am, no-strings sex. They soon learned.
Kristin reached the wooden jetty and walked toward the spot where the post boat, which doubled as a ferry, tied up. It called on its way down the loch, and then again several hours later, on its return journey. Just long enough for people to get off, wander round, and see what birds and animals they could catch a glimpse of, then hopefully spend some money in the cafe and shops before they left and Ballingal returned to its allegedly sleepy self.
The boat, not much more than a small cabin cruiser, gave its customary double blast of its horn as it approached. Whether it was as warning it was about to arrive or a welcome toot, no one was ever sure. A warning wasn’t needed. As it only called three times a week, someone was always ready to collect whatever parcels and post arrived.
She made her way across the short grass toward the pebble path that led visitors from the ferry landing in the direction of the group of buildings that housed Nicole’s guest house, the craft shops, workshops, and refreshment facilities. The rest of the island, apart from well-marked flora and fauna trails was kept as hard to access as possible. In Kristin’s case, her house was furthest away, almost inaccessible except by boat, and to do that, you’d need pretty good sea—or loch—man-ship. The only other way was along an unmarked and complicated trail. As much as she loved the others, after all, they were like sisters and a mum to her, she relished her own company. Her little house with its attic was perfect for her.
Why then, when everything was going well was she so unsettled? Okay there wasn’t a man in her life, but Felix the Finger, as she called her vibrating bullet, did a more than adequate job when needed. It was a pity he only worked in one area at once, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He was better than the assholes who turned up on Ballingal and expected the women to be so sex starved that they’d jump at the chance of inferior, wham, bam, thank you ma’am, no-strings sex. They soon learned.
Kristin reached the wooden jetty and walked toward the spot where the post boat, which doubled as a ferry, tied up. It called on its way down the loch, and then again several hours later, on its return journey. Just long enough for people to get off, wander round, and see what birds and animals they could catch a glimpse of, then hopefully spend some money in the cafe and shops before they left and Ballingal returned to its allegedly sleepy self.
The boat, not much more than a small cabin cruiser, gave its customary double blast of its horn as it approached. Whether it was as warning it was about to arrive or a welcome toot, no one was ever sure. A warning wasn’t needed. As it only called three times a week, someone was always ready to collect whatever parcels and post arrived.
As any of them would, Kristin let go of her cloak to catch the rope
that swung toward her, and tied it around the bollard. Even though it
would berth no longer than the few minutes it took to unload, safety
was paramount. No one wanted it to swing out and leave some poor
unsuspecting disembarking passenger between the boat and the shore.
The cloak, freed from its confines, flapped in the wind like a demented hen. Kristin’s long red hair joined suit, and hairpins scattered over the jetty like pebbles on a beach. Strands of hair filled her mouth and covered her eyes as she checked the mooring rope was secure. Once satisfied, she blew her hair off her face, straightened up, and moved forward to help any passengers onto dry land. Then she would point them in the direction they needed to go, before she collected the post sack.
She was so busy trying to plait her hair and hope the strands stayed twisted together long enough for her to greet people politely, that she almost missed the prickle that snaked up her spine.
The “something is amiss and it’s not going to be good” prickle. “Well, hello, Mrs. McCrory. We meet again.”
Surely after all this time, she should know better than to ignore
that early warning signal. She jerked her head up and squinted into the late spring sunshine. The plait disintegrated into flying strands once more.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she demanded.
Flynn McCrory stood in front of her. Tall dark, and oh so dangerous. And he looked like death warmed up.
What the hell has happened to him?
Kristin’s muscles contracted and a dart of lust shot through her from her nipples to her pussy. She clenched her teeth to stop a long low moan escaping.
Damn him, why do I react like a sex-starved teenager when I see him?
The cloak, freed from its confines, flapped in the wind like a demented hen. Kristin’s long red hair joined suit, and hairpins scattered over the jetty like pebbles on a beach. Strands of hair filled her mouth and covered her eyes as she checked the mooring rope was secure. Once satisfied, she blew her hair off her face, straightened up, and moved forward to help any passengers onto dry land. Then she would point them in the direction they needed to go, before she collected the post sack.
She was so busy trying to plait her hair and hope the strands stayed twisted together long enough for her to greet people politely, that she almost missed the prickle that snaked up her spine.
The “something is amiss and it’s not going to be good” prickle. “Well, hello, Mrs. McCrory. We meet again.”
Surely after all this time, she should know better than to ignore
that early warning signal. She jerked her head up and squinted into the late spring sunshine. The plait disintegrated into flying strands once more.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she demanded.
Flynn McCrory stood in front of her. Tall dark, and oh so dangerous. And he looked like death warmed up.
What the hell has happened to him?
Kristin’s muscles contracted and a dart of lust shot through her from her nipples to her pussy. She clenched her teeth to stop a long low moan escaping.
Damn him, why do I react like a sex-starved teenager when I see him?
He removed the ever-present sunglasses, squinted at her, and
flicked the messy curls of his hair back from his face. Then he smiled.
It didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m ready to sub.”
“I’m ready to sub.”
~~~~~~~
Catch the other #MidWeekTease excerpts
happy reading,
love Raven x
