Page 80 of The Highland Game
His face breaks into a grin that’s far too charming for his own good. “I had a nice time too, Sass.”
The use of my online nickname sends a strange flutter through my chest. I watch him walk away, torn between wanting to call him back and knowing I probably shouldn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MAISIE
I set the bold red cocktail on the bar, its rim adorned with a cheeky wee chilli pepper. “Here you go! Highlander’s Secret—local whisky, raspberry liqueur, ginger syrup, and just a touch of chilli for kick.”
The tourist’s eyes light up. “Wow! It’s gorgeous.” She immediately takes out her phone for a photo.
“Feel free to share on that on social media, if you like,” I say casually.
“Absolutely! I’ll tag you.” Picture taken, she raises the glass to her lips. “Oh my God, that’s amazing!”
Pleased, I leave her to enjoy her drink and rinse out the cocktail shaker. Now that my crappy period is over, I’m feeling so much better.
Soon my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s the photo that was just taken, along with the caption:
The Highlander’s Secret: Piping hot, fiery, and oh-so-delicious! @ThePheasantPub #ScottishHighlands #CocktailGoals
I shoot the tourist an appreciative smile, and then a second notification pops up, this time from my gaming chat app.
LochNLoad
Why aren’t koalas considered real bears?
They don’t meet the koalafications.
Bloody Jamie. I roll my eyes but grin all the same. Since he came over to the flat three days ago, we’ve exchanged a few messages back and forth, mostly him checking if I’m okay—with a wee bit of banter thrown in, of course. It’s been nice to see the same kindness in Jamie that I always saw in LochNLoad.
SassyLassie
Groan. Actual groan. Why do I even bother reading these?
Not that I’d ever tell him, but getting these silly messages always makes me smile—just a little.
Scott, one of our regulars and the drummer for Thistle and Reel, sidles up to the bar with his usual easygoing grin.
“Afternoon, Scott. Feeling adventurous enough for a cocktail or will it be the usual?”
He chuckles. “Maybe another time, but I’ll stick to my Glen Garve today.”
“Surprising absolutely no one,” I tease, pouring the whisky and sliding it over to him. “I’m counting on big things from you tomorrow, though. I reckon the music round could be yours for the taking.”
But instead of offering some cocky quip about his encyclopaedic knowledge of obscure eighties hair bands, Scott winces.
“Oh . . . you haven’t heard?” he says cautiously, as if bracing to break bad news. “The Bannock Hotel is doing a whisky tasting tomorrow night. Kyle from the distillery is running it.”
My chest tightens, but my smile stays firmly in place—practised and pleasant as ever. “Oh,” I say lightly, handing him the card reader to settle up. “Well, guess I’ll see you at next week’s quiz, then.”
Scott offers an apologetic shrug before wandering off with his drink in hand.
Un-bloody-believable. A whisky tasting? On quiz night? Just when I was starting to warm to Jamie, he pulls a stunt like this? Funny how he’s got all the time in the world for koala jokes. But mentioning that he’s sabotaging a Pheasant—no, a Bannock—institution? Not so much.
Monday night has always been quiz night. End of discussion.
Da pushes through the kitchen door, carrying a tray of clean glasses. In a low voice, I tell him the news, expecting a calm shrug and the same level-headed response he’s had to everything Jamie-related recently. Instead, his face clouds, and for once he looks more upset than I am.
