Page 11 of The Highland Game

And that’s when I spot her. A woman cresting one of the dips in the hillside and heading our way—her face familiar, though her hair now a striking shade of navy blue. That’s new.

When we get closer to one another, I groan and say—loudly enough for Maisie to hear—“Typical, you come out here to escape everything, yet you end up bumping into someone you know.”

She rolls her eyes. “I would say it’s nice to see you, Jamie, but, well . . .” She crouches down and fusses over Bruce. “It is, however, wonderful to see you, you gorgeous boy. Lucky me meeting you two days in a row, eh? What a friendly dog you are—so unlike the man walking you.” She scratches behind his ears, and Bruce melts under her touch, the big traitor that he is. “Have Lewis and Iona palmed you off on this grump today? Och, that’s a shame. Elspeth is a better dog walker, isn’t she? Oh, yes she is.”

“If you’re going to take a dig at me, at least do it to my face rather than through Bruce. What’s the matter, anyway—have you not had a Gaelic Fire today? Oh wait”—I gasp and slap a hand over my mouth—“that’s right, you were too slow to grab one yesterday. You poor thing!”

Straightening, Maisie fixes me with a steely green-eyed glare. “Still can’t believe you snatched it out of my hand. Who does that?”

“A dashing rogue with lightning-fast reflexes and impeccable taste in energy drinks?”

“Hmm, if ‘dashing rogue’ is code for ‘insufferable prat’, that sounds about right.”

I smirk. “Touché! Anyway, there’s something different about you today, but what is it?” Stroking my chin like some cartoon villain plotting world domination, I let my gaze travel up and down Maisie’s figure, taking in her oversized open zippy hoodie with sleeves bunched up to the elbows; her cropped stripy T-shirt, which shifts as she moves, offering fleeting glimpses of pale skin that are rather distracting; her black skinny jeans with a tear across one knee; and her scuffed blue trainers.

A faint—and kind of cute—blush rises to her cheeks, and she crosses her arms defensively, though it just makes me notice how the cuffs of her hoodie are frayed, like she’s spent countless hours absent-mindedly tugging at them. Lowering her eyes, she pushes a strand of navy-blue hair behind her left ear, briefly revealing a small Celtic knot tattoo on her neck that I’ve never noticed before.

“Is that . . . a new hoodie?” I say eventually.

Her eyes fly back up to meet mine, and she lets out an exasperated huff. “It’s my hair, you muppet. It’s blue now.”

“Really?” I tap my chin. “No, I could have sworn it was blue yesterday as well.”

“Do you never get tired of constantly being a pain in the arse?”

“I think we both know I’m delightfully charming.”

“Nope, far from it. Anyway . . . I’m a little surprised to see you out in the open air. Word on the street is you spend most of your time in the snug, ignoring the few customers you have and tapping away at a laptop.”

“Aye, well, Lewis gave me two options this morning: either walk Bruce or sort through a bunch of invoices from suppliers. It was a close call but I decided to give the great outdoors a whirl. And I’ve actually really been enjoying the view—so serene, so timeless, so utterly ruined by someone who looks like they lost a fight with a blueberry pie.”

“You . . .” Maisie splutters then shakes her head. “I have no words. I just—no words. Anyway, there’s no point dragging this out longer than necessary so let me cut to it. When you’re on your laptop, you play games, right? Iona mentioned you play Highland Legacy?”

“Er, aye. Why?”

“Well—”

Suddenly Bruce lunges forwards with a force that nearly yanks the lead out of my hand. “Oi, Bruce!” I yell, stumbling after him. “Heel!”

He’s spotted a rabbit—a small brown blur that’s darted out from the undergrowth—and, apparently, bolting after it is a lot more important than listening to me. The daft dog drags me right into Maisie’s personal space, at which point the rabbit abruptly changes direction, looping back towards the undergrowth.

“Wait! Bruce, no—” My words are useless. Single-minded and oblivious, Bruce follows, his lead wrapping around Maisie and me and then pulling taut, yanking us together so that Maisie’s slender frame presses flush against me, our legs caught in a tangle, her fingers digging into my biceps, gripping them for balance.

I gulp. “Er . . . well, this is kind of intimate, eh?”

All right, Jamie, definitely don’t think about how her head fits perfectly under your chin like it’s meant to be there. Just focus on untangling the lead. That’s all that matters right now.

But before I can figure out a way out of this mess, Bruce delivers another powerful tug, and with my legs tied together, I don’t stand a chance of remaining upright.

“Shit!” The world tips, then my back slams into the ground, knocking the wind out of me—then she lands on top of me with a startled yelp, her face barely an inch from mine.

Her wide green eyes stare down at me, and it’s like she can’t decide whether to laugh or kill me. Meanwhile, I can’t help but be acutely aware of every point of contact between our bodies, and of her hair brushing my cheek, and of her lips so close I can feel her breath warming my skin.

For the love of God, Jamie, get a grip! Don’t be some weirdo perv.

Okay, but what do I do? Maybe crack a joke?

No! For once in your life, don’t do that. How about apologising? Asking if she’s okay?