Page 98 of The Highland Game

No more nudity? Unfollowing immediately. (joke!)

Girl, you could have charged £5 per view for that video and retired tomorrow.

I can’t stop my lips from twitching at some of them—God help me, the internet is relentless—but I push on. “There’s something else I want to say . . . something important. And, believe it or not, it involves the man you all saw today . . . saw rather a lot of, in fact.”

My heart thuds against my ribs as I glance again at his username in the viewer list. He’s watching. He’s actually watching this. And, oh God, the comments keep rolling in—playful, cheeky, some downright naughty.

Suddenly it occurs to me that choosing this moment to declare my feelings—when strangers on social media are making jokes about his very public private parts parade—might not be my finest idea. Maybe this was a mistake. And, anyway, what if he doesn’t feel the same way about me?

Maybe I should just stop this right now. Laugh it off like I was only joking—pivot into something safer before this spirals out of control. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time I bottled up what I really wanted to say because it felt easier than taking a risk.

But no. After everything that’s happened today—Jamie’s boldness, his utter determination—I can’t chicken out. This is about taking my own leap.

It’s at this point that the rain goes from drizzle to torrential downpour in about two seconds flat. It drips off my nose and speckles the phone screen even as I shield it with one hand.

“Jesus!” I yelp with a laugh. “Is this nature’s way of telling me this is a bad idea? Because, if so, tough luck—I’m not listening! There’s something I need to say and I can’t hold it in anymore!”

The viewers are eating this up:

Spill already!

Go on, SassyLassie. Don’t leave us hanging!

I pull my hood up as much as possible and start walking—for no reason other than nerves making me unable to keep still. The hillside stretches out around me in misty greens and purples as the rain somehow turns even heavier.

“That man you all saw today—the winner of the hill race—is someone I know very well,” I say carefully. “He runs a small bar just down the road from where I work at the Pheasant. He recently opened a beer garden there, and that has been the bane of my existence recently.” My steps quicken as adrenaline surges through me.

“There’s been plenty of rivalry between us these past few months, but also something else.” My voice catches.

Comments come in, people excitedly guessing where this might be going.

“Anyway, I have a confession to make. After the race, I wasn’t happy with him—with Jamie. That’s his name, by the way. Jamie. I’m not proud of myself for this, but I lost my temper with him. And now, well, I feel bloody terrible about that. So, Jamie, if you’re watching this”—my eyes flick to the viewer list, confirming LochNLoad is indeed still there—“I want to say I’m sorry. From the very bottom of my heart.”

My fingers tighten on my phone, nervous energy propelling me further along the hillside, my trainers squelching against the sodden grass. “Jamie, I also want—no, need—to say something else to you. Something . . . bigger.”

But before I can get the words out, my foot betrays me. It slides on a patch of slick, traitorous grass like a cartoon banana peel and sends me pitching forward with a yelp. I catch myself before I faceplant—and at the same time the ground ahead catches my attention. And not in a good way.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. Because just a few inches beyond my toes is a very steep drop.

That was close. Too close.

“Right,” I say to the camera, aiming for calm and perhaps overshooting into manic cheerfulness. “Quick tip for all you lovely viewers out there: when livestreaming your romantic confessions from an extremely wet hillside, please do watch where you’re going. Don’t do what I just did and⁠—”

Something snaps beneath me with a loud crack. The next thing I know I’m lurching forward, my arms flailing wildly, my phone flying out of my hand⁠—

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

JAMIE

I’ve finally figured out how to pack the snug wall-to-wall. It’s simple, really. All I have to do is strip off and win a race with my bollocks bouncing around for all to see. Crowd-pleaser, that one. Now every guy in Bannock seems to think it’s his personal duty to pop in, order a pint, and crack the best joke he can muster.

Some recent attempts at humour include:

“Next year you should take part in the 100-metre flash. Oh! I mean dash!”

“Did someone tell you to give it your all? Because, mate, that wasn’t what they meant.”

“Well done! You didn’t just come first in the race—you also came first in giving zero fucks.”