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The Inverness publican and I chat for a while longer before he politely excuses himself, likely noticing my attention is elsewhere. But before I can move closer to Jamie, I’m intercepted by Johnny MacDonald, an old school friend who works at the nearby Glen Garve Hotel.

“It’s good to see you, Maisie,” he says cheerfully. Tall with long dark hair tucked behind his ears and piercing blue eyes, Johnny is drop-dead gorgeous. He’s kind too—but alas, he’s not on the market. He’s head over heels with David, a lovely bloke who moved up from London a couple of years back. And honestly? They might just be the cutest couple in Bannock.

“Is your da here?” Johnny asks after we’ve shared a quick hug.

“No, he’s manning the fort today. Are you here by yourself too?”

Johnny shakes his head. “I’ve got Robbie with me. He understands whisky, whereas I happily drink it but haven’t got a clue. I thought Glenfiddich was a character from Lord of the Rings until about two years ago.”

He nods to the far side of the room, where his brother, Robbie, is inspecting a display cabinet of rare whiskies, his tattooed arms folded over his broad chest. While Johnny works in management at the Glen Garve Resort, Robbie is part of the hotel’s maintenance team—the brawn behind its operations. Although the brothers share the same colouring and tall stature, that’s where the similarities end. Where Johnny radiates easy charm and twinkling blue-eyed smiles, Robbie has the kind of brooding presence that could darken a sunny day.

Jamie’s rich, throaty laugh snags my focus. He and the bloke he’s been chatting with are now clapping each other on the back. With a final chuckle and a nod, Jamie wraps up their chat then heads over to us, his lopsided grin as annoyingly attractive as ever. He offers Johnny a handshake and the two of them exchange a few words.

Robbie makes his way over next, nodding briefly in my direction before shaking Jamie’s hand too.

“McIntyre,” Robbie rumbles.

“MacDonald,” Jamie replies.

What is it with men and addressing each other by their surnames? Is it some ancient ritual? A chest-thumping display of male camaraderie? Or just a convenient way to avoid the disaster of forgetting someone’s first name? Honestly, it baffles me, and yet I can’t deny there’s something ridiculously hot about how they do it, all gruff and gravelly.

“You keeping well?” Robbie asks Jamie, who shrugs affably.

“No complaints.”

“Glad to hear that,” Robbie says with sincerity.

I blink. That’s . . . strange. For so many reasons. First, I can’t remember ever hearing Robbie MacDonald ask after, well, anyone. He doesn’t really do small talk or pleasantries. And second, there’s bad blood between Jamie’s family and Robbie, or at least I thought there was. And yet here these two are chatting to each other like civilised human beings.

Kyle, one of the distillery staff, claps his hands loudly. “If everyone could please take their seats.” He gestures to the round tables that have been set for the tasting.

Floorboards creak and chairs scrape. Soon Johnny, Robbie, Jamie, and I are all sitting together at a table, each of us with six small tulip-shaped glasses in front of us.

Kyle kicks things off with an enthusiastic introduction and overview of the plan for the evening, which will basically consist of a guided whisky tasting followed by a bit more mingling.

“If you need them,” Kyle continues, “there is a spittoon in the centre of each table. No judgement if you do—we want everyone to have a safe journey home!”

“Ach, I’ll be making use of that, then.” Jamie leans back in his chair and gives me a sideways smirk. “Lucky you. You get to swallow.”

Johnny coughs as if to mask a laugh, while Robbie raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything—not surprising given he speaks about six words per week.

I blink at Jamie, thrown by the sheer audacity of the double entendre—and by the fact he has absolutely no shame about it. Truth be told, a tiny part of me wants to laugh, but I’d never give him that satisfaction.

“Wow, Jamie. Subtle as ever. Do you use that line on all the ladies, or am I just lucky today?”

Thankfully, before Jamie can come out with anything else, a staff member comes over to pour us all our first whisky, and that seems to shut him up. At least for now.

“All right!” Kyle says. “Let’s kick things off with our first dram—a twelve-year-old aged in sherry casks.” Kyle holds his glass aloft like it’s an ancient relic deserving reverence. “First things first, we need to nose the whisky.” He models how to do so.

I swirl my glass then take a slow inhale of the amber liquid. The scent is rich—sweet, yet earthy.

“Anyone care to share what they’re picking up?” Kyle prompts.

I raise a hand but Jamie is quick to speak. “Apples and . . . maybe a touch of caramel?”

Damn it. I was going to say caramel.

Kyle nods encouragingly, his smile widening. “Excellent! Spot on. The caramel comes through subtly—good palate. And now to taste.”