Page 21 of The Highland Game
I don’t wait for his response before logging off and slamming my laptop shut so fast it nearly takes my fingers with it. Swearing under my breath, I rush downstairs and into the pub.
A battered cardboard case lies on its side near the bar, whisky pooling out from its soggy bottom like liquid gold bleeding onto the scuffed wooden floor. My nose smarts at the heady mix of sweet malt and oak.
On either side of the dropped case stand Da and Kyle from the distillery. Da’s face is redder than the tie he wears every December, while Kyle looks equal parts baffled and exasperated, clutching his delivery clipboard like it’s a shield against Da’s wrath.
“You said you had it!” Kyle insists.
“Och, don’t blame this on me, Kyle. You’re the one who let go too soon!” Da’s hands tremble slightly but his voice is firm.
Kyle blinks at him. “With all due respect, Bryce—”
“Are you really going to pin this on me?” Da interrupts. “I’m clumsy, am I? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No,” Kyle replies carefully, looking like he wishes he were literally anywhere else.
I step forward before this can escalate any further. “Right, what’s going on here?”
Both men turn to me. Kyle’s expression brightens like I’ve just handed him a get-out-of-jail-free card, while Da scowls like I’ve suggested pairing a single malt with Irn-Bru.
“Well . . .” Kyle gestures to the mess on the floor. “The crate, er . . . slipped.”
“Because you let go too soon,” Da says. “My daughter and I will not be signing for a box of broken whisky bottles.”
Bloody hell. Between being called a Smurf, discovering Jamie might be planning to steal customers from us, and now this mess, I think it’s clear the universe is out to get me today.
“Da.” I look him squarely in the eye and soften my voice. “Why don’t you go sit down for five minutes? Let me handle this.”
“There’s nothing to handle,” he huffs. “We’re not signing for whisky we can’t sell, and that’s final.”
I try to summon the same patience I use when handling drunken pub-goers. “Please, Da,” I say, my tone even gentler now.
His jaw tightens as if preparing for battle, but then he looks at me properly, and something in my expression must get through because he finally relents.
“Fine,” he mutters. With one last tortured glance at the whisky puddle on the floor—likely as costly as a whole month of grocery shopping—he stalks off to the office.
“Sorry about that,” I tell Kyle once we’re alone. “I’ll sign for the bottles.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m sure we can work something out, Maisie.”
“It’s fine.” I hold out a hand for the clipboard, attempting a casual smile, though it feels about as secure as a barstool that’s missing a leg. The distillery is an important supplier and we need to maintain good relations with them. Besides, although Da would rather swallow glass than admit it, I reckon the rheumatoid arthritis may have played a role in this. It’s not fair to expect the distillery to cover the breakage.
“Look,” Kyle says, “here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll charge you for the broken crate at cost price, and when you order a replacement, I’ll give you that at cost price too. All right?”
I’m not too proud to turn down this offer. “Thanks, Kyle.” It’s still a costly blunder, but that does take the sting out of it a wee bit.
We sort out the paperwork then Kyle makes to leave. “Oh, by the way, you should have got an email about it, but we’re doing a tasting event for clients at the distillery soon. You or your da should come along.”
“Aye, sounds good. One of us will be there.” In my head I’m already debating whether it’d be riskier to send Da or leave him here unsupervised. Neither option seems great.
Once Kyle’s gone, I haul the dripping, soggy crate to the bin then grab the mop and bucket from the supply cupboard. The scent of wasted whisky clings to everything.
I’m halfway through mopping up when Da reappears, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight.
“I’ll take over,” he says gruffly.
“It’s fine, Da.” I wring out the mop and keep on wiping the floor. “I’ve got it.”
“I’m not over the hill yet, you know.”
