Page 73 of The Highland Game

I force myself to meet their gazes one by one, then I take a deep breath and lay it bare. “Maisie said nothing can happen between us unless I shut down the beer garden.”

As my words sink in, their grins slowly fade away.

“Oh,” Iona says quietly. “Maisie didn’t mention that bit.”

“Well, she really should have because it’s a pretty important part. Maisie and I don’t have a future—not unless I’m willing to torch everything I’ve built.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

JAMIE

The rain hammers against the windows of the snug, each drop a mocking reminder that my beer garden—my pride and joy, my brilliant idea—is sitting empty. Not just empty: abandoned. Chairs tucked neatly under tables, parasols furled, looking about as inviting as a dentist’s waiting room.

Earlier, Lewis and I discussed using the hotel’s restaurant as a spillover space for the snug. Back then, I’d been anticipating the same kind of crowds we’ve had these past few sunny days. But no. The snug is as dead as it ever was.

I mean, what did I expect? You can hardly sit outside drinking pints in weather like this.

My phone sits on the bar in front of me, taunting me. I’ve lost count of how many messages I’ve drafted to Maisie in that messaging app we used to use when we gamed together. Each one deleted before sending. What would I even say? Sorry for building a beer garden that threatens your and your da’s business, but fancy giving us a shot? Aye, that’ll work.

Christ, I need to pull myself together. The whole thing has done my head in, if I’m honest. First finding out that SassyLassie—my gaming buddy, the person I trusted most—was actually Maisie. Then falling into bed with her—literally and metaphorically—only to be dismissed by her immediately afterwards. And now the whole bloody town knows about it. Word spread fast after Lewis, Emily, Iona, and Elspeth found out. Now Ally keeps giving me these knowing looks, and even Aidan and Grace have been teasing me about it.

Right. Enough. Time to focus on something productive. Maisie’s made her position clear: we’re opponents, not anything else. So be it. She’s got her fancy social media presence and her cocktail menu, and me . . . well, I’ve got other ideas, not just the beer garden. Ideas that’ll keep the snug buzzing, rain or shine. Further collaborations with the distillery, for one. Kyle seemed keen when we spoke at the opening event.

I pull up my laptop and start drafting an email to Kyle. I’m halfway through when my phone pings with a notification: SassyLassie has posted a new video.

Don’t watch it. Focus on the email.

My finger hovers over the notification.

Don’t.

I tap it.

Maisie appears on screen, looking particularly stunning today. Her flame-coloured hair is loose around her shoulders, and she’s wearing this wee smile that makes my stomach flip.

“Hello, my lovely followers!” She holds up a cocktail glass filled with something blue, garnished with a tiny paper umbrella. “Today I want to introduce you to my newest creation: the Rainy Day Rescue. Perfect for those days when you were hoping to relax outside in a beer garden . . .” She pauses dramatically then winks at the camera. “. . . but it’s really not the day for it.”

The cheeky wee⁠—

I bash out the rest of the email to Kyle, clacking the keys hard, then fire it off, probably with a few typos in it. But sod it. Some things are more important than perfect spelling—like putting Maisie in her place.

I march out to reception, where Lewis is behind the desk. “I’m heading out,” I say. “You’ll need to keep an eye on the snug.”

“Er, you do realise I’m the manager, don’t you? I’m supposed to be the one giving the orders.”

“The snug is back to being dead anyway. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“Jamie—” he starts, but I’m already tugging my jacket on and pulling up the hood.

Time to pay Maisie a visit. And if I’m honest with myself—which I try not to be these days—I’ve been looking for an excuse to see her again.

The rain batters against my hood as I make my way along Main Street. The Pheasant’s windows are lit up like a beacon, and through them I can see it’s packed. Folk are huddled around tables, laughing and chatting, sheltering from the weather. I spot a few faces I recognise from the beer garden these past few days—faces that have clearly decided to return to their usual watering hole now that the sun has gone away.

I push open the door, and the warmth hits me along with the familiar scent of beer and whisky. My gaze sweeps the room, searching for Maisie, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Bryce is, however, behind the bar, pulling a pint.

My steps falter. Last time I was here, Bryce had a go at me. Mind you, that was when there was no one else around. Now the place is heaving. He wouldn’t try anything with all these witnesses, would he?

I approach the bar, keeping my movements slow and casual, like I’m trying not to spook a wild animal. “Er, is Maisie around?”