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His head lifts just as I’m taking in the way those chinos fit a little too snugly across his thighs. Our eyes meet for a split second, and my stomach does an awkward little lurch. Oh God, did he just catch me gawking? His hazel eyes lock on mine and one brow raises ever so slightly, as if to say, Gotcha! I quickly avert my gaze, pretending to suddenly find the floorboards fascinating.

Luckily, Bruce ambles over to say hello before my face can reach tomato-level redness, and I turn my attention to him.

“Hiya, pal.” I crouch and give him a thorough scratch behind his ears. “See? This is what a proper welcome looks like. Take notes, Jamie.”

Bruce chooses this moment to give my hand a big slobbery kiss.

“Oh?” Jamie comments. “That’s a proper welcome, is it? Noted. Next time you come by, I’ll drop to all fours and give you a good lick.”

I snap my head up and gape at him. “Jamie!” My brain scrambles for a clever retort but it’s gone completely blank. I wasn’t expecting him to say that.

“What?” His eyes gleam with mock innocence but he can’t hide the laughter bubbling beneath. “Just following your lead.”

“You—” I splutter, pointing a finger at him like it might help me find words. “That’s not what I meant and you know it!”

He shoots me a cheeky grin. “Anyway, what can I do for you, Maisie?”

“I”—I clear my throat—“heard you’re going to this event at the distillery too?”

“Aye, I am.”

“Well,” I say in what I hope is a breezy manner, “I was thinking, why don’t we go together? Seems daft taking two cars when we live so close.”

Jamie’s grin stretches into a devilish smirk. “Ah, so that’s how it is, eh? First you’re throwing yourself at me on Ben Garve, and now you’re angling for a cosy wee car date?”

“I threw myself at you?” I splutter. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep this dog under control!” Glancing down at Bruce, I murmur to him that he’s a perfect wee angel.

Jamie lets out a mock sigh. “That’s not how I remember it. Pretty sure you just couldn’t keep your hands off me. If we go to the distillery together, what’s to stop you ‘accidentally’ spilling your drink on me so you can help me out of my shirt?”

I roll my eyes. “Is there an off switch for your crappy banter? Asking on behalf of everyone who’s ever met you. And seriously, Jamie, don’t flatter yourself. If I wanted to ogle a topless man, I’d just google Chris Hemsworth. Anyway, thanks for reminding me how utterly insufferable you are. I thought I’d give you a second chance after your Smurf comment, but this was obviously a mistake. I’ll make my own way to the distillery.”

Spinning on my heel dramatically (because a good exit deserves a bit of pizzazz), I stride off. But just as I’m about to step outside—and leave Jamie McIntyre’s maddeningly punchable grin behind—brisk footsteps catch up with me.

“Maisie!” His hand lightly brushes my shoulder, the touch warm but unassuming. It’s enough to stop me in my tracks. When I glance back, his eyes have lost their usual mischief, replaced by something gentler and almost . . . regretful?

“Hang on a minute.” He drops his hand and shoves it into his pocket, while the other rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck—the universal sign for This Idiot Knows He Messed Up. “Look, I was only pulling your leg. Sorry if it went a bit far. Of course I’ll drive you to the distillery, and, er . . .” He hesitates, clears his throat, then looks me squarely in the eye. “That Smurf joke? It was out of order—not funny at all.” A pause stretches between us, thick and awkward, before he adds quietly, “Your hair is brilliant. And . . . you look good. Really good.”

Jamie’s words hang in the air between us, and I feel my resolve weakening. It’s infuriating how he can go from irritating to endearing in the blink of an eye.

“Thanks,” I manage. “And I’ll accept the lift. Although if you bring up Smurfs again, just know that my revenge will be swift and creative.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Jamie’s mouth. “Deal. Now, shall we get going before they drink all the whisky without us?”

He lets his brother, Lewis, know that he’s off, then we make our way to his car, which is parked around the back of the hotel. Settling into the passenger seat, I’m acutely aware of Jamie’s presence beside me. It’s like the car shrinks around us—the space is far more intimate than I expected. Jamie’s arm brushes mine as he clicks in his seatbelt, and a surprising flicker of heat dances across my skin.

I take a deep breath, willing myself to focus on the task at hand. I’m here to gather information, not get distracted by Jamie’s proximity or the way his aftershave seems to fill the vehicle (it’s woodsy and warm, like cedar and sandalwood, with the faintest trace of smoky peat).

The late afternoon sun glints off Jamie’s windscreen as we leave Bannock then take the winding country road through Glen Garve. It snakes through a patchwork of emerald fields dotted with woolly white sheep grazing lazily as if they’ve got all the time in the world. Towering hills frame the glen on both sides, while a meandering river cuts through the valley floor, its gentle flow flashing into view now and then like a shy guest at a party.

I steal a glance at Jamie, only to catch his eyes flicking away from me, as if I’ve caught him doing something he shouldn’t. Was he just checking me out? Is it because I made more effort than usual today? Did he actually mean it when he said I looked good?

I can’t resist testing the waters so I shift slightly in my seat, staring resolutely out the window before daring to sneak another peek. This time, his eyes collide with mine, holding steady rather than darting away. And then it happens—a smile blooms on his face, slow and unguarded, soft enough to make my stomach flip like an acrobat on a trampoline. And then . . . the moment is over and his gaze shifts back to the road.

God help me. Why did he smile at me like that? And why do I feel like I might melt into this seat if he does it again?

Sitting up straighter, I force myself to focus on what I’m here for: information about the snug. Not Jamie’s smile . . . or how annoyingly good those chinos look on him . . . or how they seem to fit extra snugly around his—oh, for crying out loud, Maisie. You’re not a hormonal teenager. Get a grip!

“So,” I say, trying to sound casual, “how are things going at the Bannock Hotel?”