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He shoots me a grin that’s all devilry and returns both hands to the wheel. “Relax. I just wanted to say the phrase graze a boob. I wasn’t actually going to do it. Unlike some people, I know how to keep my hands to myself.”

The joke breaks the tension—until one of his hands goes down and tugs at his chinos, all nonchalant-like. He’s clearly trying to act casual, but given my unhealthy level of crotch-awareness this entire journey, I catch it right away. He’s shifting things around down there. Is he . . . getting hard? From just the idea of grazing my boob? Or maybe it’s a delayed reaction to my earlier wandering hand?

“Are you . . . okay there?” I ask, aiming for breezy but landing somewhere between breathy and barely-functional instead. Damn whisky—why does it have to turn me into such a liability?

A moment passes, then, “Aye,” he says with just enough rasp to make my pulse trip over itself. “All good.”

Uh-huh. Sure you are. And I’m totally not imagining how good you’d look without your trousers right now. Except I absolutely am because apparently this is who I am as a person—a whisky-addled pervert who, having already placed my hand on his crotch, now wants to see it out and standing to attention. Possibly even pet it like a prize-winning Highland cow, murmuring “Good lad” with tears of pride glistening in my eyes.

Okay, no, that’s just ridiculous, Maisie.

But then, through the fog of idiotic drunken thoughts, a cold, hard truth smacks me in the face: Jamie has no idea I’m SassyLassie. Abort mission! I cannot—absolutely cannot—let this veer into spicy territory when I’m harbouring a secret like that. It wouldn’t be fair. I need to shut this down—immediately. Stop whatever is stirring in his chinos before it’s up and saluting. Toss a metaphorical bucket of icy water over his lap. Deploy every unsexy word in the dictionary.

Quick, what’s the least erotic thing I could say? Flaccid! Can I drop that in without sounding suspicious, though? Oh, look, what a flaccid sunset! Does that work?

No, Maisie, you eejit, of course that doesn’t work.

God! Right, tomorrow I’ll come clean, but right now I need to steer this ship back into safe, unsexy waters. Somehow. I just need some better ideas.

At this point it starts to rain, droplets peppering the windscreen like tiny liquid bullets. Jamie makes a noise low in his throat then reaches for the wipers and flicks them on. “This wasn’t forecast.”

“It’ll probably pass,” I say optimistically, delighted that Mother Nature has provided me with this opportunity to segue into a completely non-sexy topic: weather. “So, tell me, Jamie . . . what’s your favourite weather? Like, if you had to choose. Not that you’d have to choose—obviously there’s no weather competition or anything. But . . .”

“My favourite weather?” Jamie stares at me for a beat, one eyebrow hitching up like I’ve just asked if he prefers his eggs scrambled or on fire.

“Aye,” I say brightly, plunging forwards because retreat isn’t an option now. “You know, sunshine? Rain? Maybe you’re a big fan of fog?”

Jamie turns his attention back to the road and shakes his head slowly, lips twitching like he can barely hold back another laugh. “Jesus Christ, Maisie.”

“What?” I snap a little defensively. “Okay, fine. If you don’t want to talk about the weather—clearly too controversial a topic—let’s talk about . . . oh, I know, your gamer friend. You know, the one you were telling me about on the way out?”

Quick Jamie crotch check and, yep, definitely bulgier than normal down there. C’mon, Maisie, you need to get that thing back to its usual (far from insignificant) size!

“What about her?” Jamie asks.

I shrug as casually as I can manage. “Hmm, how about . . . what’s her name? Where does she live? What does she look like?” Okay, I know the answers to all those questions—Jamie doesn’t—but I’d quite like to hear what sort of opinion he’s formed of my online identity.

He frowns. “I don’t know. Well, she’s Scottish, but I don’t whereabouts in the country she lives. Otherwise, I only know her username: SassyLassie.”

That’s me, pal! But I don’t say that, of course. Instead I say, “You don’t even know her real name?”

“Nope.” Jamie’s jaw tightens ever so slightly. He adjusts the windscreen wipers again. The rain is coming down harder now, lashing against the glass.

“But you’ve spoken to her, right? Like, with a microphone or something? You’d recognise her voice if she walked into a room?”

Jamie shakes his head. “We’ve only ever used text chat.”

“Really?” I lay on the pretend incredulity pretty thick. “So how do you know she is who she says she is? Or even a she at all? For all you know, SassyLassie could be some balding guy with a beer belly, parked in front of his computer in a stained vest and manky boxers. Right?”

Jamie mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like bloody hell. His grip on the wheel tightens, tension rippling up his forearms as he peers through the rain obscuring the road ahead.

Another glance at Jamie’s lap, and hallelujah! Things are settling down. The disturbing mental image of Beer-Belly SassyLassie—the ultimate anti-aphrodisiac—must have sent Jamie’s trouser department an urgent memo: Stand down, lad. This mission is a no go.

Well, go me! If penis pacification were a sport, I’d be an Olympic champion. Gold medal and everything. Don’t know if that’s something to be proud about, though.

Eventually Jamie says, “She’s not some guy. I trust her.”

He trusts SassyLassie? That’s kind of adorable, and maybe it ought to stir up some guilt about the whole hiding-my-identity thing, but I can’t resist teasing him a wee bit more. I blame the whisky.