Page 57 of The Highland Game

Da squints at me like he can see right through me, but thankfully he decides not to push further. He takes a swig of his beer then casts a glance towards our two customers. “Tell you what. Once they’re done with their drinks, let’s call it a night.”

My shoulders stiffen at his suggestion because it feels like an admission of failure. “But we never close early!”

“And we won’t make a habit of it. But you could do with a night off for once—you’ve been running yourself ragged lately.”

I huff out a resigned breath, knowing there’s no point in arguing. “Fine. But just this once.”

After Da and I close the pub early, a defeat that still stings, I can’t help myself—I have to see what all the fuss is about. Which is how I find myself at the beer garden.

The place is buzzing. Everywhere I turn, people are grinning, chatting, clinking pints and wine glasses. And, to add to my annoyance, the place looks good. Take the tables and benches, for instance. Proper solid wood—not a flimsy bit of plastic in sight—and arranged in a way that makes the most of the space. And then there’s the garden itself—blooming and immaculate, with bursts of colour and greenery.

Resentment prickles uncomfortably under my ribs, tangling messily with something else: reluctant admiration.

On the pristine lawn, a handful of oversized garden games are scattered about, each one surrounded by lively locals. Morag and Elspeth are at the giant Connect Four, wine glasses in hand, dissolving into fits of giggles every time one of them slots a piece into place. Bloody hell . . . this is clever—part hospitality, part entertainment, with something for everyone.

I spot Kyle at a sampling table, surrounded by locals and tourists, all hanging on his every word as he pours whisky into tiny glasses. Dammit. Yet another clever move by Jamie—using the event to deepen ties with local businesses. And it annoys me to see Hamish among the group. I can’t remember the last time he missed a Saturday night at the Pheasant—until tonight.

The Glen Garve distillery isn’t the only local business Jamie’s managed to rope in for the event. On a small stage Thistle and Reel, a band who regularly perform at the Pheasant, are playing a lively reel. A few folk are twirling each other about in impromptu dances on the grass.

The contrast to the ghostly stillness of the Pheasant earlier couldn’t be any more pronounced.

And then I see him. Jamie. He stands deep in animated conversation with a group of guests. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dark jeans that fit him far too well. His usually messy hair is still a bit tousled in that annoyingly effortless way—it suits him, always has—but tonight it seems like he’s made some attempt to tame it. There’s something different about him, though, and it’s not just the clothes. His shoulders seem broader, his stance more self-assured. He’s got a light tan now, no doubt from hours spent working out in the garden, and the changes—subtle as they are—make an undeniable impact.

It’s not fair. He’s not supposed to look this good while he’s destroying my family’s business.

I’m ready, primed to march over there and give him an earful, when someone tugs sharply at the back of my shorts. I whirl around, half-expecting to come face-to-face with some overly friendly tourist who hasn’t learned boundaries (it wouldn’t be the first time). But instead . . .

“Cat!” I exclaim, momentarily forgetting everything else.

The youngest McIntyre grins at me, her tiny nose stud catching the evening sunlight. With her long auburn hair and delicate features, Cat is an absolute knockout, but somehow she pulls it off without even a hint of smugness or arrogance.

“Maisie!” She pulls me in for a hug.

No sooner has she released me than Iona appears at her side, her grin as wide as Cat’s. “Look at this! We just need a few drinks and then we’ve got ourselves a proper Scottish Sirens reunion.”

“Oh, aye.” Cat loops an arm around Iona’s shoulders. “Though maybe we should rethink the name now that one of us is all domesticated, eh?” She wiggles her brows teasingly at Iona.

“Once a siren, always a siren,” I say to Iona. Though my eyes—traitorous things that they are—drift towards Jamie. He hasn’t clocked me yet. He’s too busy holding court, all charm and easy laughter. Right on cue his audience erupts into fits at something he’s said. When did he become this version of himself? I’m the one who effortless chats with locals and tourists alike as they’re drinking. Jamie’s meant to be the one who awkwardly sits at the bar in the snug, staring at his laptop rather than even pretending to be interested in anyone who’s in drinking.

“Sorry,” I blurt out abruptly to Cat and Iona. “We’ll chat more in a few minutes, okay? First there’s . . . er . . . something I need to do.”

Ignoring their puzzled looks, I stride—all right, stomp—towards Jamie before I can talk myself out of it.

His head turns as I approach, his eyes meeting mine and holding them for just a second too long. My stupid heart decides now is the time to somersault like it’s auditioning for the circus. He says something low to his group, shoots them one last grin, then excuses himself.

“Maisie! Welcome.” That maddening smirk is already tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Jamie,” I grit out.

“Let me get you a drink! On the house, of course. After all, success does taste sweeter when you can share it.” He winks.

I just scowl at him. I’m not accepting a free drink from him. But the problem with not replying to him straight away is it gives his eyes a chance to trail over me, slowly and deliberately, igniting a flush that creeps up my neck before I can stop it.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly all too conscious of the way my denim cut-offs sit on my thighs—not scandalously short, but under Jamie’s attention, they feel practically indecent. My off-the-shoulder T-shirt isn’t helping. The warm breeze skims across the sliver of skin between its hem and my shorts, leaving me torn between tugging it lower and folding my arms across my chest.

When Jamie’s gaze meets mine again, some of his playful confidence melts away into something softer . . . something dangerously sincere. “If we weren’t business rivals,” he murmurs, pitching his voice lower so no one but me can hear, “I might say you look bonny tonight.”

Bonny? Is he joking? With my hair scraped up into a messy blue bun that’s more bird nest than intentional style? Aye, right.