Page 100 of The Highland Game

Comments flash up at the bottom, like:

It’s raining, but SassyLassie still brings the sunshine

That’s nice. These people really do love her.

Also:

Saw rather a lot? More like saw EVERYTHING!

I blink at this comment then a surprised laugh escapes me. It’s one thing being roasted by the local lads, but having some random on the internet casually announce they’ve seen everything? That hits differently.

Well, at least I made an impression, right?

“Jesus!” Maisie yelps, snapping my attention back to her. The rain has turned torrential, plastering her hair to her face and moulding her hoodie to her like a second skin. “Is this nature’s way of telling me this is a bad idea?” she wonders. “Because, if so, tough luck—I’m not listening! There’s something I need to say and I can’t hold it in anymore!”

Wait, what might be a bad idea? Have I missed something?

More comments come in:

Came for comedy, staying for drama!

Does Maisie secretly fancy him? Place yer bets!

Hold up! What’s this about Maisie secretly fancying me?

Maisie is walking now. “That man you all saw today—the winner of the hill race—is someone I know very well.” She tells her viewers about my beer garden—the bane of her existence, apparently—then adds, “There’s been plenty of rivalry between us these past few months, but also something else.”

I lean closer to my phone, my pulse quickening. Why exactly is she telling all this to her followers? And, more to the point, where is she going with this? My knee bounces beneath the desk.

Next up, Maisie addresses me directly and . . . she apologises to me. For losing her temper with me after the race.

Er, why is she apologising? I’m the one who messed up! She doesn’t have to say sorry for anything.

But apparently she’s not done because next she says, “Jamie, I also want—no, need—to say something else to you. Something . . . bigger.”

Jesus Christ. Is she about to say what I think she’s about to say? No. There’s no way. And yet the comments are going wild, heart and flame emojis lighting up my screen. Clearly, I’m not the only one thinking—or maybe just hoping—that this could be heading in a . . . romantic direction.

The way she’s looking at me through my screen, it’s like there’s no camera, no distance—just her eyes locked on mine, as if I’m the only one who matters.

It’s an intense moment—so intense I barely register Maisie slipping at first. She stumbles, arms windmilling, but mercifully she catches herself. “Holy shit,” she mutters. Then, with a grin that doesn’t quite mask the shake in her hands, she jokes, “Right, quick tip for all you lovely viewers out there: when livestreaming your romantic confessions from an extremely wet hillside, please do watch where you’re going.”

Damn right you should watch where you’re going! You’re precious, Maisie. Don’t you⁠—

Hang on. Did she just say romantic confessions? Did I hear that right?

“Don’t do what I just did and⁠—”

One second she’s there, vivid against the rain-soaked green of the hillside, and the next she’s gone. The feed spins wildly—a sickening blur of grey sky and tumbling motion—and all I hear is her startled cry before there’s a hard thud. The livestream continues, the camera now capturing nothing but clouds and rain. Maisie is nowhere to be seen.

My stomach drops clean out of me. Scarcely breathing, I stare at the screen like if I will it hard enough, she’ll pop into view. Any second now she’ll swoop in to grab her phone, laugh, and say, “What am I like?”

Won’t she?

The rain keeps falling from an empty sky.

Comments flash across the bottom of the screen:

OMG! Is she okay?