Page 64 of The Highland Game

“But you kept playing with me after you figured it out,” I point out accusingly, my voice dropping lower but no less tense.

“I meant to tell you.” She takes another step towards me, uncrossing her arms to gesture in frustration. “That day on Ben Garve when Bruce tangled us up in his lead? I went there specifically to tell you what I’d figured out. But before I could, you stormed off in one of your moods!”

“Oh, come on⁠—”

“And then,” she barrels on, talking right over me, “I tried again online! But that was when you casually mentioned your intention to poach customers ‘from the competition down the road’, and I knew that meant me and my da. And, look, you saw him downstairs—he’s not as fit as he once was, though he’d rather crawl over hot coals than admit it. He has enough on his plate right now without you adding to the pile. So, aye, I put my father and myself first. Who wouldn’t have done the same in my place?”

I’d love to tell her I’d have done things differently if I were in her shoes, but let’s be honest, I probably wouldn’t have. Anyway, that fierce determination blazing in her eyes? Her unshakeable loyalty to her father? Her refusal to back down? Damn, it’s surprisingly hot. Not that I’m about to admit that out loud.

Instead I say, “You kissed me!”

That throws her for a moment, but then she says, “We kissed each other! Don’t act like it was all me. And . . . it wasn’t planned! It was a lapse of judgement.”

She’s right, of course. Something just came over us both. It wasn’t her that started it, and anyway, she didn’t lift me up and pin me to the garage wall—I did that to her.

“I trusted SassyLassie!” I blurt. Which is the truth. I did.

“Oh, aye?” She steps closer until there are only inches between us and jabs her finger hard against my chest. “Well, I trusted you to get me to and from the distillery safely. I suppose we both misplaced our trust, didn’t we?”

Her words land like a well-aimed blow. I drag in a slow breath, doing my best to keep my tone even. “About that night . . . I owe you an explanation. I should’ve done this sooner—I did try yesterday—but, well, it’s not exactly the easiest thing for me to talk about.”

“Oh, isn’t it? Why am I not surprised that saying sorry doesn’t come easily to you? Smug one-liners, cheeky banter—no problem there—but actually being the bigger man? Nah. Definitely not your area of expertise.”

I clench my teeth, but the words tumble out before I can stop them. “I get panic attacks when it rains like that, all right?” After a beat I add, “Especially if I’m in a car.”

Maisie’s anger falters. Her face changes—still guarded, but there’s a flicker of something else now, like I’ve managed to throw her off balance. “Panic attacks?”

“Aye. Ever since . . .” I gesture vaguely towards the window, as though she’ll understand what I mean without me having to say it.

And of course she does. Her eyes widen briefly before narrowing again in acknowledgment—because everyone in Bannock knows about the crash. About my parents.

“Oh,” she says quietly.

“Aye. Oh.”

For once neither of us has a snarky comeback. We both find ourselves stranded in a silence that feels too raw to break. Maisie looks like she wants to say something—to challenge me or comfort me or maybe both at once—but instead she presses her lips together in a tight line and just stares at me.

My hand twitches at my side, like it wants to reach for her shoulder, to close the small but unbearable space between us. But I stop short because . . . well, because.

“You think I don’t hate myself for telling you to get out of my car? But . . . I couldn’t breathe, Maisie.” My voice cracks slightly, and I hate that too. “I felt like my chest was collapsing in on itself and all I could see was twisted metal and broken glass and⁠—”

“You could have told me!” she cuts in sharply. Fire flickers back into her eyes alongside something more complicated—something closer to hurt. “Instead of leaving me on the side of the road without a word, you could have explained. Do you know how humiliating it was? Standing there like an idiot while you drove off, leaving me to get utterly soaked, to have to trudge home in the dark?”

“I know,” I say hoarsely.

“No, Jamie. You don’t know.” Again she jabs my chest with her finger, this time with enough force that anyone would think she was trying to pierce through bone instead of just proving a point.

Her words hang in the air, sharp and biting, but underneath them I can hear it—the thread of hurt winding through her anger. And that’s what undoes me. Not the raised voice, not the accusations, but the fact that I hurt her. That I made Maisie Kerr—this fierce, fiery woman who doesn’t take shite from anyone—feel like she wasn’t worth a bloody explanation.

That knowledge hits me so hard, it’s like the earth tilts under my feet, and before I can stop myself, I reach out and grab her arm—not hard, just enough to make her stop jabbing at me with that punishing finger. Her breath hitches at the contact, her lips parting in surprise. For a moment we just stare at each other, the air between us crackling with a charge so intense it’s like brushing against a live wire.

“Maisie,” I murmur roughly, my voice cracking under the weight of everything I can’t quite say.

And that’s when she moves—or maybe I do. Just like in the garage, it’s impossible to tell who starts it, but suddenly our mouths collide in a kiss that’s wild and reckless.

Her lips are soft and warm, faintly sweet but with just enough sharpness to leave me breathless. My hands move instinctively—one sliding into the silky waves of her blue hair, the other finding its place on her waist. I pull her closer, pressing her body flush against mine. Fuck, I’m already getting hard. This woman drives me crazy, and I can’t get enough of it.

The kiss deepens, turning hungrier, fiercer—a heady mix of heat and desperation that sets my senses ablaze. Maisie makes a small sound against my mouth—a soft whimper that shoots straight through me—and the little control I’ve been clinging to frays at the edges. Her fingers trail down the length of my arm before boldly grabbing my hand and guiding it to her breast. The heat of her invitation is electrifying, and even through the fabric of her dress, I can feel the tight peak of her nipple pressing insistently against my palm. Christ.