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Not to be undone, I take a step towards him. “Your confidence astounds me. What makes you so bloody sure of yourself?”

We’re close now—close enough that I catch a whiff of his enticing woodsy scent. His eyes drop briefly to my lips then sweep down over my outfit, lingering on my fishnets. When they meet my gaze again, there’s definite heat there.

And that makes me furious. How dare he look at me like that? Although . . . okay, maybe a tiny part of me is pleased that my outfit is doing its job. But only the teeny tiniest bit.

He tilts his head to the side. “Did it occur to you that maybe, just maybe, I was informed of the decision a day early, before it’s made public?”

My heart stops. “What? No . . .”

Bollocks.

He doesn’t say it, but I’m sure he’s thinking it: checkmate. He just landed the winning move in a game I didn’t even realise I was losing.

“Anyway,” Jamie says, “it’s clear you don’t want me here so I’ll be on my way. I should probably get an early night anyway. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow, what with setting things in motion to get my beer garden up and running.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. With a wink, he turns and strolls away, leaving my mind spinning.

It’s possible he’s just winding me up. But while I’d like to believe that, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s telling the truth, that the beer garden really has been signed off. Which means all my hard work and campaigning over the last month has been for nothing.

Damn it! I suck in a deep breath, then another, trying to steady myself and stifle the rising tide of panic. Then, even though right now I feel like I’m made of glass and could shatter at any moment, I head back into the pub.

Holding my head high and forcing a smile, I grab the microphone. “Sorry about the short delay.”

But despite my attempt to project confidence, my voice wavers. Did they pick up on it? No clue. In any case, the show must go on, as they say.

“Right, where were we?” I tap my keyboard to bring up the next slide, willing my hands to stay steady. “Ah yes, local folklore and legends.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JAMIE

The sun beats down on my neck as I adjust one of the wooden benches for what must be the hundredth time this morning. It’s probably perfect already, but I can’t help myself. Everything has to be just right for the opening. It’s not just an event, it’s my event.

“There,” I mutter, stepping back to survey my handiwork.

The beer garden has transformed the Bannock Hotel’s previously underused outdoor space into something I’m actually, properly proud of. New decking stretches out from the French windows in clean, sharp lines, and solar-powered fairy lights crisscross overhead, ready to create a magical atmosphere when evening falls. The tables and chairs are arranged in clusters, with a mix of regular seating and longer communal benches. Flowers spill in vibrant cascades from hanging baskets hooked onto wrought-iron shepherd’s crooks. There’s colour everywhere: bright blossoms against freshly painted wood, deep green from the potted plants dotted around the space.

In one corner sits a kids’ play area with swings and a slide—small but enough to give parents a moment of peace while they sit for a drink. Next to that are oversized garden games: Jenga, chess, Connect 4. I’d love to say I picked those because they’ll be great for families, but honestly? I can’t wait to have a go at giant Jenga after a pint or two. Meanwhile, a fire pit waits patiently for cooler evenings. I can already picture folk huddling around it, drams in hand and laughter in the air.

Jamie McIntyre: beer garden designer extraordinaire. Who knew?

In the end I did most of the work myself, to keep costs down and because I couldn’t bear to let anyone else take charge. I’ve sweated over this too much to let anyone else interfere. And honestly? That only makes me prouder of how it’s turned out.

For today’s grand opening we’ve gone all out: there’s a barbecue station set up near the decking, a bouncy castle and face painting for kids, an area designated for Kyle to run whisky tastings, and a small stage where a local band will play this evening. I’m sure I’ve thought of everything—even Lewis said so yesterday—and yet . . .

I run a hand through my hair, probably making it stick up at all angles, and let my gaze sweep over the space again. It looks good. Better than good—it looks amazing. A little corner of magic carved out here in Bannock.

But what if no one shows up? What if Maisie’s crusade against my beer garden has ruined everything? Her flyers and posters were bloody everywhere—stop the beer garden! plastered across town like she was rallying troops for battle instead of just opposing someone trying to serve drinks outside.

I shift a table an inch to the left. Then back again. Pointless, but I’m just trying to keep myself busy—standing around getting nervous isn’t going to help. The physical work feels good, though—almost natural these days. Between building this space and hitting the gym with Lewis (which has already become as routine as breakfast), I’m in better shape than I’ve been since . . . well, since before everything went sideways.

It still feels weird sometimes—that sense of energy buzzing through me that used to be second nature when rugby was my life but had been missing ever since . . . the accident. For years after that crash stole my shot at going pro, I gave up on keeping fit altogether, like if rugby wasn’t an option, there was no point even trying anymore. But lately? Lately things have shifted again—for my body and my brain—and working on this beer garden has helped more than I could’ve imagined.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Lewis asking if we need more ice (we do). After firing back a quick yes, my thumb hovers before instinctively tapping open my chat with SassyLassie. Just in case. Maybe I missed a notification somehow? But no, the last message is mine from days ago, checking if she’s okay. It’s been weeks since she last logged in to Highland Legacy. True, it’s not like I’ve had much time to play myself, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying about her.

The trouble with online mates is if they vanish, you’re left with no way of knowing why. What can you actually do if you don’t even know their real name? Maybe it’s nothing—maybe she’s just been caught up in life, the same as me. At least, I hope that’s all it is.

I shove my phone away before the spiral of overthinking can drag me under and turn my attention back to the task at hand. Wandering over to the giant Jenga, I nudge back into place a piece that’s sticking out. For some reason I immediately picture the tower toppling over onto some poor kid’s head later this afternoon. Brilliant. Like I didn’t have enough to stress about already.