Page 49 of The Highland Game

“I did?” It rings a vague bell, and to be fair, it does kind of sound like me.

“You tore my ideas to shreds in front of him before I could present them properly! Maybe this mess with Maisie is karma coming back to bite you.”

“Nah, if I really did that⁠—”

“You did.”

“—I’m sure it was all in good, cheeky fun, like anyone would expect a wee brother to act. Maisie, on the other hand? She’s out for blood.”

“You know, Jamie,” Emily says with a measured tone, “just because you’re having fun doesn’t mean everyone else is. I recall Lewis being pretty ticked off about that at the time.”

“Wow, will you two please focus on the real issue? This isn’t the bash-Jamie show. It’s the bash-Maisie show!”

“Why don’t we arrange a meeting with Maisie and Bryce?” Emily suggests diplomatically. “Sit down with them, listen to their concerns . . . it doesn’t have to be a fight.”

“Nope,” I say. “Maisie’s made it clear she wants to play dirty, so this is war. The beer garden will open, it will be successful, and she is going down.”

It’s been ages since I’ve felt this fired up about anything in the real world. It’s like the buzz I used to get before a rugby match, only these days it usually takes a brutal boss battle to get my blood pumping. The beer garden is the first thing I’ve properly cared about in forever, and now Maisie is trying to sabotage it? It’s no wonder I’m fuming.

“You’re really fired up about this,” Emily observes.

“Of course I am!” I go back to pacing, then an idea hits me and I whirl on Lewis so fast he actually leans back in his chair. “Your girlfriend is good friends with Maisie! Ask Iona to have a word with her and tell her not to derail our business ideas.”

Lewis folds his arms across his chest. “I’m not going to ask Iona to take sides. That’s not fair.”

“Fine.” I whip my phone out. “Cat is friends with Maisie too. I’ll message her and tell her to⁠—”

Lewis stands and plucks the phone from my hands. “You’re not messaging Cat either. Emily’s right: you’re getting yourself worked up. Why don’t you go play your video game and kill some monsters or something? Clear your head because, if you try to deal with this as you are now, you’ll just make a mess of things.”

“I don’t think killing virtual monsters is going to cut it today.”

“Well, I’m off to the gym soon. You’re welcome to tag along, but I know it’s not really your thing.”

I mull over this offer for a moment. “Aye, I’ll come.”

“Really?” He looks so surprised it’s kind of insulting.

“Aye. I think I need to do something physical. Punching something—or someone—would be ideal, but I’m willing to give lifting heavy stuff a shot. A bit of exercise, then I’ll set to work undoing the damage that Maisie’s done.”

“All right.” Lewis gives me a brotherly clap on the back. “Let’s go work off some of this anger before you do something daft.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MAISIE

I drag the 1950s photograph of Bannock’s Main Street into my PowerPoint slide. The image is pure vintage perfection: Morris Minors lined up neatly by the pavement, several women in headscarves chatting away to each other. It joins the other images I’ve found of Main Street from times gone by, each one a wee time capsule of a different era.

Satisfied, I lean back in my chair, cracking my knuckles. My desk is chaos—two empty mugs, a forlorn biscuit packet, and an abandoned can of Gaelic Fire. Evidence of a morning (and most of an afternoon) spent hunched over my laptop, working hard.

Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I put this much effort into a pub quiz. Some weeks I don’t even bother with a presentation.

The plans for the beer garden have been public for about a month now, and tomorrow the council will deliver their decision.

Even with all the work I’ve put in these past weeks, there are still plenty who like the idea of pints in the sun, so tonight’s quiz isn’t just a jaunt through Bannock’s history—it’s my chance to highlight how vital the Pheasant is to the community.

I kept my promise to Jamie—no more signatures until his plans were made public. That’s not to say I didn’t plant seeds of doubt whenever possible. As I chatted with patrons in the pub, I’d casually bring up the topic, weaving persuasive arguments in between pulling pints. But once his grand vision for a beer garden was revealed, I came out swinging, petition in one hand, freshly printed anti-beer garden posters in the other—many of which are now proudly displayed around town, brightening up shop windows and peeking out from behind lace curtains in houses.

Jamie, of course, is livid, which only makes it more satisfying. This past month we’ve bumped into each other a number of times, and those encounters have been . . . charged. A simmering tension has hung between us, electric and sharp. I can practically see Jamie’s jaw clench every time he spots another one of my protect bannock flyers or say no to the beer garden posters, or when he catches me extolling the virtues of community preservation to another local.