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“But you don’t know, do you? Not really. She told you she’s a lassie and you believed her, but what if she’s really . . . I don’t know . . . Big Davie from Glasgow? I can picture him right now. He’s sat there, stroking his nipple, whispering, ‘Call me SassyLassie again.’”

“Maisie . . .” There’s an unmistakable warning note in Jamie’s voice now, a low rumble that tells me I’m inching perilously close to some invisible line he doesn’t want me to cross. “Could you hold your tongue for a minute? I’m trying to concentrate here.”

But do I stop? Of course not.

“Tell me you haven’t sent Big Davie any sexy messages. Please, for the love of all things holy, say you haven’t!”

His reaction is instant—and epic. He tenses all over, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Ha! What must be going on in his head right now? Because he has sent Big Davie—I mean, SassyLassie—racy messages. About how he enjoys a bit of power play.

The rain turns savage, pounding the car with a vengeance. Fat droplets streak across the windscreen in chaotic rivulets, smearing the world into a blurry mess of grey and green. The wipers swipe furiously in what feels like an act of futility. Bloody hell, it’s as if some weather god has flipped the switch from “moderate” to “full-blown apocalypse”. Even for the Highlands, this is next-level. I’m talking biblical flood vibes here—“build-an-ark” territory.

Even so, I can’t resist carrying on with the ribbing—maybe it’s the whisky keeping me loose. Jamie still hasn’t answered me and I’m terrible at letting things go, especially when winding him up is so much fun. So I press him again.

“Come on, Jamie!” I say in a singsong lilt. “Fess up! Did Big Davie get a saucy little message? What did you say to him? You can tell me! Or—oh God—you didn’t send him a naughty photo, did you? Tell me Big Davie doesn’t have a cheeky pic of your, ahem, thingy?”

“Bloody hell, Maisie!” Jamie’s voice cuts loud and sharp through the deafening staccato of rain. Is he . . . breathing harder? Because from where I’m sitting, it sure looks like his chest is rising and falling faster than before. Oh wow, am I really working him up that much?

“Can you please just stop talking?” he says.

I should. I really should. But I don’t.

“What’s the wildest thing you’ve said to her—I mean him—I mean . . . whoever? Don’t tell me you went straight for ‘Sit on my face.’ Classic amateur mistake.”

Tyres screech against wet tarmac, their high-pitched wail slicing through the downpour, then my seatbelt slams into my chest as the car jerks to an abrupt halt.

For a few awful seconds, neither of us speaks. The only sounds are the frantic whirr-thwack-whirr of wiper blades and the rain hammering against metal and glass without mercy.

I turn to Jamie, my pulse thudding in my ears. “Why did you stop? Did you see something?”

But he doesn’t answer. He’s leaning back in his seat, breathing hard through his teeth, sharp tendons flexing in his neck like he’s trying to hold himself together and it’s taking every ounce of effort he can muster.

“Jamie?” My voice wavers slightly, uncertainty creeping in around the edges. He finally looks at me, and I wish he hadn’t. There’s something dark and raw in his eyes, some unspoken storm that rivals the one raging outside.

“Get out,” he says quietly. The words are calm enough on the surface but hum with a force that punches straight through me.

I blink at him, stunned. “What?”

His grip tightens on the steering wheel until his knuckles are bone-white. Rain hammers down on the roof like gunfire, but even that can’t drown out the tension crackling in the cramped space between us.

“I mean it.” His tone is low but deadly serious now—a razor edge I’ve never heard from him before. “Get out.”

I gape at him, struggling to process what’s happening. “Jamie, come on! You can’t be serious.” My laugh comes out high-pitched and hollow—more plea than humour. “I was just having a laugh! Don’t tell me you’re actually mad about⁠—”

“Maisie!” he snaps, cutting me off so sharply I flinch. He lets go of the wheel and rakes a hand through his hair, then he exhales harshly through his nose like a bull preparing to charge. His gaze flicks away from me, fixing straight ahead on the rain-streaked windscreen. “Just . . . go.”

His words land with the force of a blow, hard and unforgiving.

“You’re really kicking me out?” I gesture wildly to the chaos outside. “In this weather?”

His jaw tightens further—something I didn’t think was possible.

“This is ridiculous!” I protest. “It’s absolutely pissing down out there! Jamie⁠—”

“GET OUT!” His voice cuts across mine like a whip crack. Something deep within me fractures, splintering into pieces.

Swallowing hard, I fumble with my seatbelt. It takes me three tries to unclip the bloody thing. The storm is roaring against the car like some primal beast desperate to get at us. Or maybe just me—it sure feels personal when I finally shove open the door and all hell breaks loose.

Rain lashes sideways into the car interior before I’ve even got both feet on solid ground—or on soaking wet tarmac, more accurately. With teeth clenched so hard my jaw aches, I step out fully into the downpour. The rain punches through my dress in seconds, drenching me to the bone with merciless efficiency.