Page 32 of The Highland Game

“Dark chocolate!” Jamie and I declare at the same time.

Our eyes meet over our glasses. I lower mine. “I would say great minds think alike, but I feel that’s giving you far too much credit.”

Jamie grins, unbothered by the jab. “Ah, but fools seldom differ,” he quips, raising his glass in a mock toast. “To our shared foolishness, then?”

Damn it. Despite myself, a smile tugs at my lips. I try to fight it—I really do—but I can’t help it. I tear my gaze away, focusing instead on swirling the whisky in my glass like it might hold all the answers.

The room hums with idle chatter as we move on to the next round of nosing and tasting. But it’s during the sixth and final sampling that something unsettling happens. As I lift my glass to my lips, I catch Jamie tipping his head forward to spit into the spittoon. It’s something I’ve been avoiding watching all evening—it feels oddly intimate, almost too personal for public scrutiny—but now that I’ve accidentally caught sight of it, I can’t help but notice the curve of his jaw, the flex of his throat . . .

It shouldn’t be hot. And yet, somehow, it absolutely is.

For some strange reason I can’t fathom, my gaze stays glued to him. He’s saying something to Robbie now—something about blended malts—while he idly twirls his glass between his long fingers in a slow, deliberate roll. It’s an absent-minded motion, casual and effortless, yet there’s something about the way his fingers move—strong, controlled, assured—that has my imagination spiralling into very dangerous territory.

A flicker of heat blooms low in my belly, and before I can stop it, the faintest noise slips past my lips.

Jamie pauses his conversation and glances my way. “Did you say something?”

My cheeks burn. “Just clearing my throat,” I manage, reaching for the jug of water.

Despite my earlier bravado about being able to hold my drink, it’s becoming increasingly clear that the whisky might be going to my head . . . just a wee bit. Sure, the tasting samples are smaller than your typical pub measure, but . . . there have been a fair few of them. And it doesn’t help that I’ve not eaten in a while. Total rookie mistake, and especially embarrassing considering I work in a pub.

Kyle soon wraps up the tasting session, inviting guests to come over to him or the distillery team with any questions. These events, of course, are often more about the networking than they are about the booze itself.

People push to their feet and low murmurs of conversation fill the air. Jamie is already up and moving across the room.

I make to stand myself, but the moment I’m upright, a sudden wave of light-headedness washes over me. The ground doesn’t exactly shift beneath me, but for a split second everything feels slightly off. I grip the back of my chair for balance, blinking a couple of times as I take a steadying breath. Aye, I’m really regretting not having an early dinner now.

Once I feel stable again, I slip my bag over my shoulder and straighten up.

Kyle’s voice carries faintly over the hum of chatter—he’s talking to some guests by the far wall—but it’s Jamie I focus on. He’s now chatting with a couple of staff members. Right, this is why I’m here. Business. Networking. And, more importantly, information gathering. Might Jamie’s plans for the snug have something to do with the distillery?

I make my way across the room at an unhurried pace. Staying close to him feels like my smartest move for now. Close enough to eavesdrop, but not so close as to arouse suspicion. This is where my secret agent skills come into play—if I have any. And if they work when I’m drunk.

As it turns out, I do a pretty damn good job, if I do say so myself. I manage to have a chat with Claire, who works here and is a Bannock girl, while at the same time keeping half an ear tuned to Jamie’s conversation. I pick up bits and pieces, but nothing that sounds particularly important—at least, not yet.

The problem is that, between the whisky drinking and the water guzzling, my bladder has reached critical capacity—the kind of fullness that simply cannot be ignored. Do real-life spies have to contend with this? What happens when you’re in the middle of a mission and the need to go hits you? Because, knowing my luck, the second I go to the bathroom will be exactly when Jamie spills all his secrets.

I hold out as long as I can—a valiant effort, really—but eventually I just can’t put it off any longer without compromising basic human dignity. And so I have to ask Claire where the toilets are.

Right, I’ll be quick. I probably won’t miss a thing.

Except . . . there’s a bloody queue! Of course there is. Because life as a woman involves queuing for loos like we’re waiting to enter some exclusive nightclub instead of just desperately needing to pee. And there weren’t even that many women at the event! Did our bladder alarms all go off simultaneously?

Oh, to be a male secret agent! Twenty seconds at a urinal, shake shake, job done, then straight back in the game. It’s so unfair.

When I return (ah, the relief of an emptied bladder—truly one of life’s uncelebrated joys), Jamie is deep in conversation with Kyle. His gestures are purposeful, his hand slicing through the air as Kyle nods along intently. There’s something about their body language—a gravity in Jamie’s movements, a focus in Kyle’s posture—that screams this isn’t just casual chitchat. This is important. Big, even.

Damn it!

I edge closer, hoping to pick up at least a snippet of what they’re saying, but before I can get within earshot, Kyle shakes Jamie’s hand and claps him on the back.

Conversation over. And . . . I missed it entirely.

To really rub it in, when Jamie spots me approaching, he flashes that insufferably charming smile of his and says, “Oh, there you are! Good timing. You ready to go?”

No, Jamie. Not good timing. Very bad timing, in fact. I just missed the one thing I was really hoping to get out of this event.

But biting back my frustration, I plaster on a smile and say, “Sure.”