Page 27 of The Highland Game

“Thanks for that stunning vote of confidence, Elspeth.” I wink at her then fix Lewis and Emily with an expectant stare. “So . . . does that mean you’re actually signing off on this? Like, I can get started?”

“Just so we’re clear,” Lewis says, levelling me with a look, “before you start tearing up the garden, there are things you’ll need to do, like speak to the council about adjusting the alcohol licence. You’ll also need to work out the costs for everything you’ve just suggested. Keep Emily and me updated at every stage, and bear in mind that some of your grand plans might not make the cut if the budget doesn’t stretch. That being said . . . aye, I think this is worth exploring, so go ahead and take it to the next stage.”

“Yes!” I punch the air then wipe an imaginary tear from my eye. “I’d like to thank the academy, my family, and of course, my undeniable brilliance.”

“Any more shite jokes and I might change my mind,” Lewis warns.

“Understood!” I clap my hands together then rub them gleefully like an old-timey villain plotting dastardly deeds. “We’re really going to cause the Pheasant some problems, aren’t we?”

“Oi!” Lewis says. “We’re not setting out to deliberately stir trouble for any other businesses—that’s not how we do things in this town. We’re just trying to sort out an aspect of our own operation that isn’t performing as well as it should be.”

I scoff. “If that’s how you want to think of it, fine. Me, though? I like a bit of competition. I can’t wait to see Bryce and Maisie’s faces once they discover what we’ve got planned. But let’s keep it on the down-low for now, eh?” I tap my nose and wink.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MAISIE

My fingers drum a restless rhythm against the bar as I watch Da attack his glass-polishing like each tumbler has personally insulted him. The clink of glass on glass echoes through the space, punctuating the prickly silence between us.

“I still don’t see why you need to go to the distillery event,” Da grumbles, setting down a freshly polished glass with more force than necessary. “I’ve always handled these things. This isn’t about that dropped crate of whisky the other week, is it? You’re not still holding on to that?”

“No, Da. It’s not about that.”

He huffs out a breath and studies me, his eyes narrowing. “Then what is it? You think I’ll mess something up? Cause problems?”

“Of course not!”

His face softens slightly but not enough to hide the hurt creeping into his expression. I can already see where this is going—all wounded pride and stubborn male determination.

“Feels like you’re trying to push me into the background,” he says gruffly. “A secondary role in my own business. A business I’ve built up with these two hands for decades.”

The accusation stings. Heat rushes to my cheeks like I’m twelve years old and have been caught nicking biscuits from the tin.

“That’s not it at all! I just . . .” I bite my lip, trying to keep my emotions in check.

“You just what?” Da presses, his tone sharper now.

“I just . . . care about you, you daft old man!” I’ve no wish to spell it out any further than that, but honestly, I think the long event may be a bit much for him at the moment.

Da’s shoulders sag and he sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair. “All right, all right. I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I know you mean well. Anyway, enjoy yourself at the event. I heard Jamie McIntyre is going along to it too.”

I’ve heard the same and I reckon this could be an opportunity to suss out what Jamie is up to with the snug. And this time, I can just be myself rather than SassyLassie, which is a whole lot simpler. Besides, my attempts at coaxing useful info out of LochNLoad haven’t exactly borne fruit. Plus, that time he chatted with me about the body-painting scene . . . well, things got a little uncomfortable. I mean, he did crack a joke about grabbing a jar of paint and decorating my boobs.

Aye, I’ve previously teased him about his sword fixation, suggesting—not too subtly!—it’s actually about the size of his dick, so I can’t be too miffed at a bit of boob banter. But . . . let’s just say the whole keeping-my-identity-a-secret thing is starting to weigh on me.

“Aye, I might see if Jamie wants to share a ride,” I say nonchalantly. “Save on petrol and all that.”

Of course, if I’m stuck in a car with Jamie—just the two of us and no distractions—I might just find an opportunity to tease out some details about Jamie’s plans. I’ve not told Da that the Bannock Hotel is up to something. He’s got enough on his plate without me adding to it.

Before heading out to ask Jamie if he fancies playing chauffeur, I fuss over my reflection in the mirror until I catch myself. What am I doing? I could try and claim I’m just making sure I look polished for the distillery event, but that’s nonsense. This is about looking good for Jamie, which is ridiculous because it’s not like I care what he thinks. Besides, he’s made it abundantly clear he has zero interest in me. He called me a bloody Smurf, for goodness’ sake.

Still, I inspect the offending hair, which is now up in a simple twist at the back, and tug at the hem of my navy corduroy pinafore dress—short enough to show a bit of leg but not so short as to cause gossip. I’ve paired my outfit with my black-and-white checked Converse trainers—the only ones in my collection that aren’t completely knackered—and a white T-shirt. Smart casual, but cute.

With one last glance in the mirror, I grab my bag, call goodbye to Da, silently pray he’ll be all right behind the bar by himself this evening, then head out to Main Street and along the road to the Bannock Hotel, a spark of determination in my stride. Today I’m less small-town bartender and more covert operative on a mission. Move over, James Bond. There’s a new secret agent in town, and she’s armed with sass, wit, and a sixth sense for sniffing out secrets.

I enter the hotel then step into the snug, which—unlike the Pheasant—is already open. Or at least, it’s supposed to be open, but there’s no buzz of conversation or clink of glasses. In fact, there’s not a soul in sight except Jamie. Whatever his grand scheme is, it clearly hasn’t kicked off yet. This place is dead.

Jamie is wiping down a table, a tea towel slung over one shoulder. Gone are the usual jeans plus casual shirt or polo—he’s wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of navy chinos that hug him in all the right places. His outfit highlights his lean frame in a way that’s maddeningly appealing.