Sometimes my reviews get a bit long and I know a lot of people don’t read long reviews so I’m trying really hard to stop writing such long ones. This book really deserves all of the words I could write but I’m going to encourage you to read the blurb instead.

I was totally captivated by this story right from the start and absolutely hated that I couldn’t read it all in one sitting as I prefer to do. Instead, I had to break it into two sessions and do some people-ing. The break didn’t diminish my love of this wonderful couple, though. Dean and Ewan didn’t get to their HEA without some work and distance.

I loved C F White’s very descriptive writing; it made my mouth water even when I wasn’t sure I’d like the food (I’m a horribly picky eater). The only thing that could make me love this book more would be to hear Ewan’s Scottish brogue while listening to an audiobook. I don’t know if that’s going to happen but a girl can hope. 🥰

Fans of C F White’s District Line series might recognize a few cameo appearances in Highland Fling. 😘

Note: this series is connected only by theme and they can be read in any order.

Reviews for C F White

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“You?” He cleared his throat, ridding it of the strange croak. He needed water. Whisky. Any spirit to dampen his swirling fantasies. “Name and background?”

The man dripped with unfettered nerves, twisting clammy hands in his lap, avoiding solid eye contact. He jiggled his knee, but when he spoke, his Essex accent rippled with a hardiness that stirred inside Ewan’s gut as though starved of acerbic tones all his life.

“Dean Fraser. From Essex. Southend.” Just the way he said Southend, putting in extra a’s and an f had Ewan’s heart thudding. “Used to be a footballer but fucked the ankle, so I worked at my parents’ place. Learned to cook there.”

Ewan flinched at the curse, not expecting it so soon. Kitchens across the country were renowned for throwing around the odd swear word or two, and he a foul-mouthed Scotsman himself, he didn’t bother calling him out on it and instead asked, “Your parents own a restaurant?”

“Um…” Dean furrowed his brow. “It’s more a café? On Southend seafront.”

“A café?” Ewan silenced the whispering sniggers from the rowdier group members with a stern glare. “Artisan?”

“Not quite. I’m developing it but it’s more, like, a greasy spoon? Where you go when you’ve had a skinful the night before and need to line your stomach.”

“You work in a greasy spoon?” Ewan realised he should have vetted the final twenty with his team before he allowed them to board planes, trains, and automobiles to get here. He’d trusted them, though. Implicitly. But this? A man who cooked fry-ups for a living? How was he here among the prestigious backgrounds of the others which he’d just yawned through?

You said you wanted different, aye, Ewan?

There was different and there was ill-equipped.

“Yeah. Well, my parents do.” Dean shifted in his seat. “With my sister. I learned to cook there. Got a knack for it, changed up the menu on certain days to piss off the locals.” He chuckled. Through nerves. “I open it in the evenings for people who want something different.”

“And that’s what you do now?”

“I also have a street food van.”

“Street food?”

“Yeah. Take it down the coast in summer, park up by the beach for the surfers and sun worshippers.”

“What do you serve?”

“Whatever they want.”

Ewan rubbed his forehead. “You must have a menu.”

“Oh, yeah. Whatever I can source locally. Fish tacos. Crayfish wraps. Crab rolls. Stone baked pizzas. But it changes depending on what ingredients are available and whatever I fancy making that day. It’s Sorta like where I test shit out.”

“Right.” At least Ewan knew who was first out of here, which, to be honest, was more of a relief than anything. He didn’t need the man’s distraction. Maybe his team had chosen him for that reason. To make the first round easier. To give the others a bit of light relief.

Cruel, but what other reason could there be for picking this man among the many?

Still, he had to ask the last question. Make it fair. “And why here? Why now?” He braced for the, ‘I want to learn from the best— ‘. Except this one needed to learn more than anyone else.

“Honestly?” Dean inhaled, and it was if a vulnerability seeped out when he said, “I was in a bad place when I sent in the application. Sorta did it to piss off an ex. You know how it is.” He licked his lips, glancing around at the others for affirmation. Then winced. “All right, maybe you don’t. But, yeah, I sent it in after a fuckload of dark rum and thought I’d never hear from you guys again. Then your fella turned up at my café. Since then, I’ve kinda gone along with each round pretty much thinking you’ll call me out as a fraud soon enough.”

Ewan blinked. Rapidly. Then checked the room for a hidden camera believing he could be the subject of some prank.

“Do you know where you are? Who I am?” Ewan hated how he sounded so conceited. Not everyone was into the culinary arts. Regular folk wouldn’t have heard of him. He shouldn’t expect everyone to know who Ewan Grant was, what he’d achieved, and the man he’d become to the detriment of all else.

Some days, he was unsure who Ewan Grant was either.

“Fuck, yeah, course!” Dean’s smile lit up his whole demeanour, like when someone asks a child who their favourite superhero is. “You’re Ewan Grant. Bought a crumbling castle in the Highlands and made it a palace for a king. You’re the fucking boss.”

Ewan arched an eyebrow. “Thank you, Mr Fraser.”

“Dean.”

“Sorry?”

“Call me Dean. Mr Fraser don’t sit right.”

“I suspect he doesn’t.”

Flying into Love Series

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