Page 34 of The Highland Game

I’m so deep in this questionable train of thought—definitely not my finest hour—that I don’t notice Jamie glancing my way until it’s too late. When I look up and our eyes meet, his brows rise in amusement and . . . oh hell, is that suspicion?

Oh no. Oh God. Does he know I was ogling his crotch?

I need to deflect. Fast. “Er, you’ve got a bit of something on your trousers,” I blurt out. Good save, right? Totally convincing. Then, for reasons I cannot explain even to myself, I add, “Here, let me get it for you.”

What am I doing? But now I’ve said it, I can’t back out. So I lean over and swipe at his thigh. Repeatedly. In a very determined fashion. You know, just to make sure the imaginary fluff is well and truly gone.

And . . . with dawning horror I realise that my hand is now perilously close to his crotch. Mere centimetres away from a region I’d just been mentally plotting to investigate. My pulse quickens as the tipsy devil on my shoulder whispers, You’re already in the neighbourhood. What’s one little nudge? A quick brush with with your fingertips—accidentally, of course. Go on! You can say, “Oopsie, how clumsy of me!”

The angel on my other shoulder pipes up: Don’t listen to her! You cannot grope a man’s crotch just because the thought popped into your whisky-addled brain. That’s not cheeky—it’s wildly inappropriate. Criminal, even!

Thankfully, even drunk Maisie understands boundaries. It was one thing to amuse myself with the ridiculous idea of copping a feel—and let’s face it, the idea was hilarious—but there’s no way I’m actually going to do this. Nope. Uh-uh. Time to take my hand back.

It’s at this exact moment we go over a bump in the road and—oh God—my hand slides onto Jamie’s crotch. My palm meets warmth and . . . a very distinct shape.

We both freeze.

For what feels like an eternity but is probably two seconds tops, nothing happens except for me developing sudden tunnel vision as all my senses zero in on The Thing Under My Hand. Turns out my earlier suspicions weren’t exaggerated—if anything, they were woefully underestimated. It’s quite the package. We’re talking first-class freight delivery here. And sweet baby Jesus, it isn’t even hard. What kind of monstrous proportions are we talking about when it is?

Jamie lets out an incredulous laugh that sounds half amused and half . . . something else entirely. “Er . . . Maisie?”

I finally come to my senses and snap my hand away so fast you’d think his trousers were made of molten lava. “Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!” My voice comes out in a high-pitched squeak, and I clutch both hands to my chest like I’m auditioning for a Victorian melodrama.

Jamie’s shoulders tremble with suppressed laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Maisie, what the hell was that?”

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing happened! Don’t even know what you’re talking about.” I’m talking way too fast and my cheeks are on fire.

“You just groped me.”

“I did not grope you! It was the car’s fault. The bump in the road—it threw me off balance!”

“Hmm. Is your face always that shade of red?”

“It’s not red! It’s . . . warm in here! My colour is totally unrelated to me accidentally touching your . . . er . . . you know . . .” I don’t even know what to call it. Cock? Absolutely the word I use in my head, but saying it out loud might make it sound like I’ve wandered into the pages of Fifty Shades. Willy? Too playground. Penis? Nope, too clinical. Todger? Good God, no. “. . . thingy.”

He loses it then, laughter spilling out of him until he has to swipe a hand across his eyes as though wiping away tears.

“It’s not funny,” I mutter miserably.

“It’s absolutely funny,” he counters with maddening cheerfulness. “One of the funniest things that’s ever happened to me, in fact.”

God, he is impossible. Still, at least he’s chuckling and not giving me a lecture on appropriate car etiquette or declaring he’ll never let me near him again for fear of further unsolicited crotch encounters. Trust Jamie to find this funny—he turns everything into a joke. God forbid he take anything seriously for once in his life. No, he’d much rather have a giggle at my expense while I quietly try to die of embarrassment over here.

“If you could stop laughing sometime soon,” I grumble, “that’d be great.”

“Aw, come on now.” He wipes at his eyes again before glancing my way with a lopsided grin. “Lighten up! It was an accident . . . wasn’t it?” He lifts an eyebrow suggestively.

My jaw drops. “Of course it was an accident! What are you suggesting, I had some master plan involving rogue bumps and intrusive hands?” (Okay, so maybe I did have a plan like that, but I never actually intended to put it into action!)

Jamie chuckles again, utterly unbothered by my indignation as though winding me up is some kind of sport to him, and one where he receives bonus points for every shade of pink my cheeks turn in rapid succession.

Shifting slightly in his seat, he casts me a sideways glance so sly it ought to come with its own theme music. “Oh, Maisie, you’ve actually got something on your arm.”

I frown down at the aforementioned limb, which is completely clean. Not so much as a speck of lint in sight.

“Let me return the favour from earlier,” Jamie continues with mock chivalry, lifting one hand off the wheel and reaching towards me oh-so-casually. “Though, fair warning, if we hit another bump, I may accidentally graze a boob . . .”

“Jamie McIntyre!” I shriek, crossing both arms firmly over my chest. “Don’t even think about it!”