Page 33 of The Highland Game

So we head outside, and it must be the rush of fresh air, but suddenly it’s like someone has cranked up the volume on my drunkenness—everything feels just a touch too wobbly.

“You all right?” Jamie asks, his voice tinged with amusement.

“Of course!” I wave him off with barely concealed indignation. “I told you. I can handle my drink.”

And yet when we reach a short flight of steps leading up to the car park—there are literally just five of them—I manage to lose my balance halfway up as if gravity has suddenly decided to toy with me for its own cruel amusement.

It happens so fast it doesn’t feel real—the backwards tilt, the yelp that catches in my throat—but . . . I don’t hit the ground. No, instead I fall back against a firm and unyielding chest, strong arms looping around my waist with a grip that’s both steadying and alarmingly warm. For a heartbeat all I can process is the heat radiating from Jamie McIntyre’s body.

His breath fans against the side of my neck in quick bursts as if even he’s surprised by how fast he reacted. And then there’s everything else: every point of contact between us suddenly firing off sparks as though someone’s dropped a live wire into my bloodstream.

And don’t even get me started on where my backside has landed.

Oh God.

Because, yes, my arse is snugly pressed against his groin.

A wave of mortification crashes over me. The position is wildly inappropriate, but that doesn’t stop my traitorous body from reacting in ways it absolutely shouldn’t right now.

We’re frozen there for what feels like an eternity but can only be a few seconds. Neither of us moves or speaks. The air hangs thick and charged around us, crackling with something too dangerous to name. I swear I can hear his heartbeat—or maybe it’s mine—pounding wildly in a rhythm far too intimate for a car park encounter.

“I’ve got it from here,” I blurt out abruptly.

“You sure?” Jamie’s words tickle my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

“Yes!”

Jamie’s hands retreat from me slowly, but even after they’re gone, and I’ve managed to make it up the last few steps in one piece, the memory of his touch lingers on me.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MAISIE

The car rumbles along the winding road back to Bannock, and I’m feeling pleasantly warm and fuzzy from all the whisky we sampled at the distillery. My head is swimming a bit, but in that pleasant, slightly floaty way where everything feels soft around the edges.

I sneak a glance at Jamie, who’s focused on the road ahead. The golden light of the setting sun catches his profile—strong jawline, straight nose, thick lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. It’s unfair, really. He was handsome enough when I was sober, but now? Ugh, he looks even better somehow. How does that work?

“So,” I say, aiming for casual but probably missing by a mile, “what were you and Kyle chatting about? Looked very important.”

Jamie doesn’t take his eyes off the road but one corner of his mouth curves up. “Did it now?”

“Aye, it did. Come on, spill.”

“My lips are sealed.” There’s a teasing edge to his tone that makes my curiosity itch even more.

“Seriously?” I huff, crossing my arms. “You’re not going to tell me anything?”

“Nope.” He pops the p, all smug and self-satisfied.

I make a scoffing noise and shoot him my best you’re ridiculous glare, but my eyes have other ideas. They drift south, lingering on the way his shirt stretches across his chest before sliding lower . . . to those chinos. Specifically, that area where they’re doing some very intriguing bunching around the crotch. Damn their perfect tailoring and their suggestive folds that send my tipsy brain cartwheeling straight into Dangerous Thought Territory.

I can’t help but remember how Jamie caught me as we were leaving the distillery, my arse landing squarely against that area. And let me tell you, the sensation was . . . well, let’s just say it wasn’t forgettable. Because ladies and gentlemen (drumroll please), there had absolutely been something substantial beneath those trousers.

This, of course, raises questions—important questions! Like: just how substantial? Sadly, the encounter was too brief to allow me to answer that, so clearly further investigation is required. I never did do well in science at school, but honestly, if this had been in the curriculum, I’d have graduated top of the class. Hmm, how would a proper scientist go about gathering more data for a study?

What if—hypothetically—a sharp turn or pothole sent me toppling conveniently across Jamie’s lap? That could work! I’d pop a hand down to steady myself, and it might land somewhere . . . enlightening. Cue an entirely accidental grope-and-grab as I push myself up, followed by a dramatic gasp as I realise what I’ve got a hold of. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” And . . . voilà! Mystery solved. Give it an apologetic pat then let it go. No harm done.

Is it just me, or is that plan foolproof? Like, what could possibly go wrong?