Page 2 of The Highland Bad Boy

ROBBIE

Now

Scotland isn’t built for weather like this, and neither am I. This far north we’re more about drizzle, wellies, and complaining about how cold it is. Today, though? It’s an absolute scorcher. The mid-August heat shimmers over the manicured lawns of the Glen Garve Resort.

It’s a perfect afternoon for lying in the shade with an ice-cold beer, but instead I’m crouched over a wooden bench that’s in need of some serious TLC. Hammer in hand, sweat dripping down my back, I drive in another nail with a loud crack. It’s kind of satisfying, although given the long list of shit I’ve got to get through today, one measly nail is a bit like pissing in the sea.

Around me, the resort stretches out, a picture-postcard blend of fairytale charm and corporate polish. There’s the castle-like main building, the golf course rolling off into the distance, the flower gardens bright enough to give you a headache—all set against the jaw-dropping backdrop of Highland hills. It’s the kind of beauty that feels almost too perfect, like it was designed to be ogled at rather than lived in.

I’m on one of the resort’s garden paths, tucked between rows of ornamental cherry trees and borders overflowing with roses and lilies. It’s meant to be peaceful—a spot for guests to take lazy strolls and pretend a walk is enough to burn off their hearty Scottish breakfast. But if peace is what you’re after, a bloke with a hammer is guaranteed to ruin it. That probably explains why the couple approaching me look as thrilled to see me as they would an overflowing bin.

Even from thirty paces, I can tell they’re the type who booked into a five-star resort expecting the world to rearrange itself around their every whim. Him in golf-ready chinos and a yellow jumper far too heavy for this heat. Her in floaty linen trousers and sunglasses so oversized they’re practically a visor. Their matching expressions of mild disdain suggest that neither has ever had to do anything more taxing than lift a wine glass.

Trailing behind them is their daughter—a definite upgrade on her parents. She must be in her late twenties, a few years younger than my own thirty-one. Her blonde hair falls in those artfully effortless waves rich girls seem to be born with, and she’s wearing a flowy dress that screams “expensive” even though there’s barely enough fabric to call it an outfit. Her gaze lingers on me as I crouch by the bench, her eyes sweeping over my broad shoulders and the navy polo shirt clinging to my skin in this relentless heat. A bead of sweat rolls down my temple, catching her attention before she zeroes in on the tattoo running up my right arm: a tangle of Celtic knots inked in black. She tilts her head like she’s trying to unravel their meaning. Good luck with that, sweetheart.

Her parents are completely oblivious to her interest in me. They’re too busy radiating irritation. They haven’t said a word yet, but I can see it coming a mile off: they’ve got a complaint lined up, and I’m to be on the receiving end of it. With a sharp crack of the hammer, I drive another nail into the bench, a wee bit harder than necessary.

Before either of them addresses me, the wife leans towards her husband and mutters in a stage whisper about as subtle as a bagpipe, “Why on earth can’t they schedule this sort of thing for when guests aren’t around?” She flicks a pointed glance at my tools, as if their mere presence is a personal insult.

When exactly would you suggest? I want to ask her. Because I doubt she’d appreciate me hammering away at three in the morning. Things need to be maintained. If they weren’t, can you guess who’d be the first to moan about it? That’s right, these two.

“Excuse me,” the man says, his sharp tone carrying the entitled edge of someone who’s used to getting his way without delay or argument.

I straighten up, all six foot five of me towering over him, hammer still clutched in my hand. “Aye? Can I help you?” The fake politeness in my voice has been hammered into shape over time. When you work in hospitality—even just in maintenance—it’s a survival skill.

“Is it really necessary to make such a racket? We’re trying to enjoy a peaceful walk.”

I bite back what I want to say and plaster on a smile. “Sorry for disturbing you. I’ll hold fire till you’re well out of earshot.” Because of course I’ve got time to add Standing around doing bugger all for five minutes to my schedule. It’s not like I’ve got half a dozen other jobs to finish before the sun melts me into a puddle.

But if it wasn’t this, they’d find something else to whinge about. The roses aren’t red enough. The hills are too hilly. The air smells too much like nature and not enough like whatever overpriced candles they burn at home. But hey, the customer’s always right. Even when they’re absolutely not.

With all the facilities on offer, you’d think these folk would be happy. Swimming pool, sauna, steam room, bubble pool. Eighteen-hole golf course. Massages in the spa. A cocktail bar and fine-dining restaurant to keep anyone’s taste buds thoroughly spoiled. A fully equipped gym and yoga classes. And the sun is even out—they literally couldn’t have picked a better time to come. How could you not be happy on a day like this?

But no. Despite all the indulgent possibilities they could be losing themselves in, they’re here, moaning at me. Because, apparently, nothing beats finding something trivial to get angry about.

The couple move past me, and I offer them a tight-lipped nod as they go, though they don’t acknowledge it. They do, however, mutter away to each other that tattoos are hardly the image they’d expect of an employee of the Glen Garve Resort.

“And an eyebrow piercing!” The woman tuts and shakes her head. “Honestly!”

All I can do is grit my teeth and bear it. I can’t even get on with my hammering to drown them out.

“Maybe you could have a word with management about standards, darling,” she adds.

Good luck with that, I think. The general manager of the Glen Garve Resort just so happens to be Craig MacDonald, my father. And trust me, he’s heard it all before, and I’ve heard it all from him. But still I’ve got this job because, one, I’m good at it—very good, in fact—and two, despite all his fatherly failings, I don’t think he’s got the heart to let me go.

Even so, the couple’s snide muttering gets under my skin, and one hand curls into a fist at my side, tension coiling in my muscles. I used to have a very effective outlet for my frustrations—one that also brought in a nice wee bit of money, even if it came with a guarantee of regular cuts and bruises. But I’ve not fought anyone for seven years. Not since . . .

I shake the thought away. Besides, right now there’s something—or rather, someone—demanding my attention.

The daughter, still trailing behind her parents by several paces, pauses as she passes me. Her eyes sweep over me in lazy appraisal, lingering shamelessly on my arms. Then she looks up at me through thick lashes, her lush lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile that holds just enough cheekiness to make my pulse kick up a notch.

There’s mischief in her expression. And heat. An unspoken invitation written plain across her pretty face.

Well, well. I may not fight anymore, but there are other ways to burn off some energy. Judging by the way this rich lassie is looking at me, she’s thinking the same thing.

* * *

I tug my polo shirt back on over my head, the cotton sticking to my sweat-slicked skin. The air conditioning in the room hums quietly, fighting a losing battle against the heat seeping through the half-open balcony door. Behind me, the daughter—Melissa? Melanie? I didn’t catch her name and it doesn’t really matter—lounges on Egyptian cotton sheets so crisp and smooth they practically whisper “indulgence”.