Page 47 of The Highland Game

“Er . . . thanks, but it isn’t really public knowledge yet. I take it your maw told you?”

Even though I’ve asked Elspeth to keep it under her hat, it wouldn’t surprise me if she’s blabbed to her son.

“Nope.” Aidan tosses up another peanut and again catches it in his mouth with ease. “Heard it from Maisie. She’s going round asking folk to sign a petition opposing your plans.”

“What?” The word bursts out of me so sharply that Grace, Callie, and Bruce all glance over at us.

Aidan lifts his hands in mock surrender, his blue eyes dancing with a mix of amusement and apology. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

My pulse drums in my ears as I shove my stool back with a grating screech and march towards the door.

“See you later then!” Aidan calls.

Ignoring him completely, I stride past reception and straight out into the bright afternoon sun. The annoyingly cheerful chirping of birds grates on my taut nerves. It takes me less than two seconds to spot Maisie outside Bannock Stores, clipboard tucked under one arm as she chats away with Tom from the Coffee Bothy. I storm towards her, past brightly painted shop doors that interrupt the monotony of grey stone buildings.

Tom looks up as I approach, his weathered face creasing into a smile. “Afternoon, Ja⁠—”

“One sec,” I cut him off, my focus laser-locked on Maisie. “What the hell are you doing?”

She doesn’t so much as flinch. Instead she lifts a hand in an airy gesture that’s all calm condescension. “I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she says sweetly. “If you could kindly let me finish this conversation, I’d very much appreciate it. Thank you.”

That stops me in my tracks. For about half a second. Then my hands ball into fists at my sides. Is there anything more infuriating than being dismissed like an impatient child? I’d never do something like that—my recent treatment of Tom notwithstanding.

She turns back to Tom as though I’m about as threatening as Bruce rolling over for a belly rub.

“So,” Maisie resumes smoothly, her tone all poised professionalism, as if she isn’t actively trying to sabotage my life right now, “as I was saying, if you’re concerned about excess noise or antisocial behaviour, or just how drastically this beer garden could change the character of Bannock, I’d really appreciate your signature.” She holds out the clipboard to Tom, who—annoyingly—accepts it.

Before Maisie can hand him her pen too, I snatch it from her fingers.

“Actually,” I tell Tom through gritted teeth, fighting to keep some semblance of politeness in my voice, “you might want to hold off on that. Feel free to forget everything you’ve just heard because it’s not remotely true.”

Maisie’s green eyes flash dangerously in the sunlight. “Jamie, this is a private conversation between Tom and me, so if you don’t mind . . .”

“The council haven’t even released the plans yet,” I explain to Tom, ignoring Maisie entirely. “Once they do—and once everyone knows the actual details—there’ll be plenty of time to raise objections if needed. But signing some half-baked petition now isn’t going to help anyone.” I wave vaguely at Maisie like she’s a nuisance fly buzzing around on a summer day. “This is just . . . scaremongering nonsense.”

Maisie’s glare could melt glaciers.

Tom clearly decides he wants nothing more to do with either of us and makes his excuses before beating a quick retreat to his café.

Now it’s just Maisie and me standing toe-to-toe on the main street, surrounded by quaint painted shopfronts and an annoying amount of picturesque charm for what feels like an all-out war zone.

“You and I need to chat,” I say grimly, jerking my chin towards her clipboard like it’s a weapon she hasn’t quite holstered yet. “What the hell is this?”

“A petition.” She crosses her arms over her chest and lifts her chin defiantly, her whole posture daring me to argue further—which is exactly what I plan to do. “And clearly you already know what it’s for.”

“Oh, come on.” A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It feels dangerous having her this close again. The memory of her hand on a rather intimate spot flashes uninvited through my mind before I chase it away gain. Focus on what matters: winning this argument and stopping her from ruining all my hard work with that bloody clipboard.

“You don’t actually care about Bannock’s ‘character,’” I say accusingly. “You’re worried about how the beer garden might affect business at the Pheasant.”

Her lips curve into a slow smile that somehow manages to look both smug and infuriatingly attractive all at once. It sets my teeth on edge.

“How did you even know about my plans anyway?” I demand, taking a step closer.

Maisie shrugs like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “It’s a small town. Word gets around.”

Someone at the council must have blabbed. Either that or one of the contractors I’ve been speaking to let something slip over a pint at the Pheasant. Bugger.

“Anyway,” she continues nonchalantly, brushing nonexistent dust off her jumper as though we’re discussing something far less incendiary than weeks of planning going up in flames, “it was a cute idea, Jamie—even kind of ambitious for someone who usually sits behind his laptop all day—but there’s no chance it’ll happen.” She leans forward and lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Best save yourself some embarrassment and give up now.”