Page 90 of The Highland Game
“So please, Da, don’t talk to me about showing a bit of maturity—or about being stubborn. Maybe take a look in the mirror first.”
There’s a fleeting moment when Da’s face is an open book—surprise, a flicker of hurt, and the shadow of irritation all rippling through his expression. But then, just like that, he pulls himself together again, his features settling into that familiar, unyielding mask.
And then comes the silent treatment. Because that’s how my da deals with conflict—or at least, conflict with me. It’s different if it’s a young man in the pub who’s had too much to drink and is making a fool of himself. Oh, Da doesn’t hold back then—I’ve seen him really let rip. But with me? No, he never argues back or shouts. He just shuts down entirely.
The tense silence goes on for quite a number of minutes, not that you’d have any idea if you came over to buy a drink from us. Oh no. Da and I both still happily chat away to customers as we pour them their pints. It’s all very professional. We just don’t talk to each other.
Eventually I can’t take it anymore and I cave. “Okay! You were right. This is supposed to be a fun community day, and . . . well . . . maybe this situation between Jamie and me isn’t exactly in the spirit of things.”
No response from Da.
“So,” I say reluctantly, “I’ll go over there and try to bury the hatchet.”
And maybe then Da and I can get past this awful silence.
I head across the field towards Jamie’s stall, genuinely intent on reconciliation. But as I draw nearer, I overhear him chatting with some tourists about the Bannock Hotel’s beer garden and how bloody perfect it is on sunny days like this. The best place in Bannock to go for a drink, apparently.
Well, all thoughts of reconciliation immediately vanish from my mind. So much for burying the hatchet—unless we’re talking about into Jamie’s skull, of course.
He’s grinning like an idiot—looking far too pleased with himself as usual—and that stupid kilt sways enticingly in the light breeze as he gestures animatedly during his sales pitch. The tourists lap up his every word, nodding along eagerly as if they’ve just discovered Scotland’s best-kept secret.
By the time they walk away clutching their whiskies and chatting excitedly about visiting Jamie’s precious beer garden later, I am ready for war.
“Maisie,” he says smoothly, “here to admire my kilt?”
“Fat bloody chance!” I snap.
Even though, yes, I’ve been shooting admiring glances at it all day.
“Oh! I’m sensing a bit of tension from you, Maisie.” He tilts his head, pretending to ponder this, then he snaps his fingers like he’s cracked the case. “Ah! I know what you’re after, but I can’t help you out today, I’m afraid. I’m swamped. Sadly, I’m too damn busy for one of those arguments that ends with us tangled up together and doing all sorts of naughty things to each other.”
“Jamie!” I gasp, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“But,” he goes on, “I’d love to catch up with you later. Maybe at some of the events? Yours truly will be competing in a few.”
“Oh joy,” I say, the words dripping with sarcasm.
He either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to because he presses on with far too much enthusiasm for someone who knows exactly how mad he drives me. “I know you liked to hang out with LochNLoad online because of his rippling muscles and how hot he looked swinging a sword about. Maybe I’ll look just as good throwing a hammer or tossing a caber, eh?”
The man is insufferable. Absolutely bloody insufferable.
“I . . .” No other words come because I honestly don’t even know where to begin.
Will I be hurrying to watch him compete in his events like some tragic, hormonal teenager off to her first boy band concert?
Of course I will. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
A few customers show up, saving Jamie from the clever, biting retort that I’m sure would have come to me any moment.
“Excuse me,” Jamie says, flashing me that charming grin of his before turning his attention to them.
I spin on my heel and storm back to the Pheasant’s stall. There I don’t meet Da’s eye but I do yank my phone from my pocket. I’ve never done a livestream before—normally I carefully edit and check each video before uploading it. Desperate times call for desperate measures, though. I tap to go live.
“Hi, everyone!” I wave to my phone’s camera. “I know some of you were desperate to see what the Highland Games is all about, so I thought I’d do my first ever livestream. I’ll show you around the field in a moment, but first I do have an important message for any of you who may be visiting in person today. Please come see me and stop by for a drink! The tent to come to is this one.” I angle the camera to get me, Da, and our sign in the shot. Then, switching to the rear camera, I add, “Under no circumstances go to that tent. No matter how good that man looks in a kilt!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
JAMIE
