Page 62 of The Highland Game

Before I can question her about this, a notification pops up: SassyLassie has logged off.

A knot twisting in my stomach, I search our in-game chat history for the word “Bruce”. Nothing comes up. Maybe I mentioned him in the app we use to arrange gaming sessions? But no, a search there doesn’t yield any results either. Which begs the question: how the hell does Sass know his name?

All those late-night conversations, the easy banter, the trust . . . hell, my confession about my “secret kink” . . .

On the drive back from the distillery, Maisie had teasingly suggested SassyLassie might really be some creepy balding middle-aged bloke in a stained vest and boxers. At the time I’d paid her no notice, but . . . what if she was right?

Who the fuck have I been talking to all this time? And how the hell do they know things about me I’ve never shared?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

JAMIE

I barely register the morning sun warming my face as I walk down Bannock’s Main Street. The pieces of the puzzle that kept me up all night are finally clicking into place, and no matter how I arrange them, they all point to the same impossible, infuriating conclusion.

Maisie Kerr is SassyLassie.

It’d explain how Sass knew Bruce’s name, but it’d also explain the other clues and coincidences that I only spotted once I really started looking. Like how that time in Bannock Stores, Maisie and I both reached for the last can of Gaelic Fire—the same energy drink I’d got Sass into months previously. Or the fact Maisie brought up gaming on Ben Garve—a conversation that was cut off when Bruce got us tangled together.

There’s also, of course, Maisie’s curiosity about my “online friend” during the drive to the distillery, and then the teasing remark she made on the way back, about SassyLassie possibly actually being some bloke called Big Davie. Maisie was practically waving a big neon sign in my face saying that not everything about SassyLassie was as it seemed, and I was too thick to catch on.

And it doesn’t even stop there! Next there’s the “coincidence” that the night SassyLassie let me get mauled by that wraith was the same night I told Maisie to get out of my car. Oh, and right after I confided in Sass that my big plan to improve things at my work involved “sunshine and good company”, Maisie launched her petition against the beer garden. I’d thought that someone at the council must have let slip details of my plan, or perhaps one of the contractors I’d been speaking to. But no, I was the leak.

The more I think about it, the more glaringly obvious it all seems. Maisie is SassyLassie, and she’s been playing me for months.

I pause outside the Pheasant, my heart thudding against my ribs. I’m not even sure what this feeling is. Anger? Nerves? Betrayal? Probably all three, garnished with a hefty dose of dread, because if Maisie really is Sass . . . well, I don’t know what comes next. Only that there’ll be hell to pay.

Taking a deep breath—and then another—I raise my fist and knock firmly on the door.

Some moments pass before Bryce opens it, and his expression darkens the instant he sees me.

“Well, well,” he says in a low growl. “You best come in.”

How come he’s making me feel like I’m the one who’s done something wrong? I do as he says, though, and step inside, then he closes and locks the door behind me.

“I hear you kicked my daughter out of your car. In the middle of a rainstorm.”

Aw, shite. How did that get out? Ah, that’s right: Maisie blurted it out yesterday in the beer garden. Word must have got back to Bryce.

“What sort of man abandons a woman in the middle of nowhere?” Bryce’s voice grows louder, his face turning a furious shade of crimson. “My Maisie! My daughter! Who do you think you are, treating her like that?”

“I—”

“First you try to poach our customers with that godforsaken beer garden of yours, and now I hear about this? I always had respect for the McIntyre family—your maw and da were good folk, and what happened to them was a tragedy. But abandoning a lass in a torrential downpour? That’s just disgraceful!”

“I . . . well . . .” Talking about the crash is hard enough at the best of times, let alone when someone is yelling at me like they think they’re William Wallace reincarnated.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” Bryce demands. “I don’t know why Maisie didn’t tell me about this sooner because, believe me, if she had, I’d have marched straight round to that wee hotel of yours and⁠—”

His breath catches mid-sentence, his tirade coming to an abrupt halt. He drops a hand onto the nearest table, fingers curling stiffly around its edge. His knuckles gleam white while his other hand trembles faintly at his side before it spasms and curls inwards. A flicker of pain flashes across his face, but he grits his teeth and braces himself like a man determined not to give in.

“Bryce?” I take a hesitant step towards him. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m bloody all right!” he snaps, though there’s less fire in his tone now. He straightens—or tries to—but even that seems to require more energy than he has to spare. “Just lost my temper, that’s all.”

“Aye,” I say, unconvinced. “Maybe you should sit down for a moment?”

He brushes me off with a shaky hand. “Don’t treat me like some frail old codger! I’m perfectly fine on my feet, thank you very much.”