Page 10 of The Highland Game

Night, Sass. Hope you feel better soon.

I turn off my phone, cutting off any chance of another message from Lochie—or anyone else, for that matter. But even as I set the device aside, I can’t stop thinking about the enigma that is Jamie McIntyre.

How is it possible that the same guy who’s nothing but a pain in the arse in person can be so supportive online? I mean, look at what happened today. We’d barely locked eyes in the shop before we were at each other’s throats. Although . . . okay, maybe that wasn’t entirely his fault. Maybe I’d been quick to snap too.

But there’s history between us. Okay, “history” might be a bit of an exaggeration. We’re not talking about stolen kisses in darkened corners or breathless encounters against a wall. No heated whispers; no hands slipping under clothing; no tangled sheets; no wild, desperate moments that leave you wondering how you’ll ever look someone in the eye again. Not even close. No, my big drama with Jamie McIntyre? I asked him to dance with me at a ceilidh, and he said no.

I know how it sounds. Maisie, you daftie, it was just a dance. Get over it already!

But here’s the thing. I’m good at chatting with folk—it goes hand in hand with my job in the pub, after all. But when it comes to relationships? Let’s just say I’m not exactly fighting off suitors with a stick. Maybe it’s because I still live with my da, which isn’t really a selling point. Or maybe it’s because while I can banter with the best of them, actual flirting? That’s a whole other kettle of fish.

So, asking Jamie for a dance at a ceilidh—specifically, the engagement ceilidh of his eldest brother, Ally? That was me putting myself out there. And he said no.

Which is . . . fine. That’s his right. But then he came back later and asked me for a pity dance because Emily, Ally’s then fiancée and now wife, guilt-tripped him into it. Talk about adding insult to injury.

Still, I could’ve got over that if it weren’t for the fact that Jamie is just so . . . Jamie. Always joking, always teasing, never knowing when to quit. It’s not just me: everyone in his family—no, everyone in the town—moans about him. He lives to wind people up, to make them squirm.

So now, whenever I interact with him, it feels like he’s laughing at me. Like he’s thinking, Remember when you asked me to dance and I said no? Wasn’t that hilarious?

Anyway, how hard would it have been for him to have just said yes? One dance—I mean, we’re talking about a few minutes of his time, not some lifelong vow.

But do you know what the worst part is? Two years later, and I still find him attractive. It’s maddening. You’d think by now I’d have developed an aversion to his stupid handsome face. And maybe if I lived somewhere with more than three eligible bachelors, I would have. But no, I’m stuck in Bannock, where the dating pool is about as deep as a puddle. And for some inexplicable reason, my traitorous eyes keep drifting back to Jamie McIntyre.

So there you have it. I’m attracted to a relentless tease who winds me up something chronic, and I can’t seem to get over it.

God, I could really do with killing some monsters right now.

Seeing as logging in to Highland Legacy is off the table, I decide to resort to my other tried-and-true coping mechanism—dyeing my hair. For me, nothing screams “I’m in charge of my life” like a dramatic change in hair colour. It’s previously been purple, teal, cherry red. I’ve even gone green before—although that one didn’t work out quite so well. Most recently I went fuchsia, but it’s now a rather faded pink.

Usually, I change my hair to mark some kind of big moment. Well, finding out that the charming, witty LochNLoad is actually the most annoying person in Bannock? That qualifies as a big moment in my book. What I’m feeling now? It’s grief, pure and simple. LochNLoad was my friend—until I found out who he really is.

I’ve had my heart set on navy blue for ages and even bought the kit a while ago. I was just waiting for the right time, and this is it. Let’s do this.

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, tilting my head left, then right. My hair is now a deep inky shade of blue that seems to shimmer under the light like magpie feathers.

Bold. Dramatic. Perfect for a woman having a bit of a crisis in the wee hours of a Wednesday morning.

The crime scene around me tells its own story: navy splatters across the sink, streaks on the floor tiles, and . . . oh no. My poor, poor white towel. R.I.P., little guy. You were too pure for this world (and for navy dye).

I’ll have to clean this all up before bed, but still, it was worth it. This change isn’t just cosmetic—it’s symbolic. Like shedding an old skin.

Tomorrow I’ll deal with Jamie McIntyre. I’ll seek him out and tell him what’s what, face to face. It’s going to be shit but it has to be done.

At least I’ll get to wind him up about his power play kink, though. In this life you have to look out for the silver linings. Sometimes they’re the only things that get you through.

CHAPTER FIVE

JAMIE

I pause at the summit of Ben Garve and, panting lightly, take in the view, Bruce wagging his tail beside me like he’s just conquered Everest. The morning sun filters through patchy clouds, lighting up the endless green below in bursts of gold. In the distance a cluster of Highland cows graze lazily in a field, a scattering of ginger dots against the lush grass.

Okay, the scenery in Highland Legacy looks amazing, but I’ve got to admit, it’s nothing compared to the real deal. There are no dodgy frame rates here, nor wonky textures—just raw beauty. And the air has that perfect, crisp quality that makes you feel like you’re doing something healthy simply by breathing it in. Plus, unlike in the game, there are no goblins lurking behind boulders ready to ambush me. Although, to be fair, that does add a certain thrill.

I take a few moments to catch my breath, then Bruce and I head back down, Bruce occasionally heading off to sniff furiously at some mystery scent that has caught his attention. Rabbit tracks, maybe? On the horizon, a few darker, more ominous clouds gather. With any luck, I’ll be back at the hotel before they crash the party.

Near the bottom, the hill is dotted with free-roaming sheep, so I clip Bruce’s lead on—just in case he fancies himself a sheepdog and decides to do a bit of herding. Barely a minute later, his body goes rigid, like he’s caught wind of something very important. His ears perk up, his nose twitches madly, then his tail kicks into overdrive—wagging so fast it practically blurs.

“What have you seen?” I mutter, following his line of sight.