Page 53

Keep busy, Jamie. Keep busy!

As I adjust a plant pot—this one with spiky green grasses shooting out—the deep blue splash of delphiniums catches my eye among all the other pops of colour. Their colour is striking—bold and unexpected—and it reminds me of something, or rather, someone. Navy-blue hair, stray wisps escape in every direction . . .

And just like that, Maisie has stomped her way back into my brain without so much as a polite knock to ask permission.

Last night when I was walking Bruce, I wandered past the Pheasant and spotted her through the window. She didn’t see me, which is probably a good thing, seeing as I was standing there like some sort of creep in the shadows, watching her work. She poured pints faster than you’d think humanly possible without spilling so much as a drop, all the time chatting away with customers without missing a beat. That smile . . . so genuine, so effortless. But never directed at me, of course.

There’s something about her that ties my brain in knots—and not just because we’re currently at war over this beer garden. It’s inconvenient as hell, if I’m honest. How am I supposed to hate someone when even thinking about her has a way of setting off memories I’ve no business dwelling on?

Like how her body felt pressed against mine on Ben Garve—slim curves leaning into me while Bruce wagged his tail like he’d done us both a favour. Or that moment outside the distillery when she stumbled into me after one too many drams at Kyle’s tasting session, her arse flush up against me in a way that fried every coherent thought in my head.

And don’t even get me started on the car incident. Bloody hell. Her hand slipping and landing squarely on my crotch . . .

That was two months ago now, yet somehow my brain refuses to let it go. Instead I’ve replayed it so many times I’ve started imagining all the ways it could’ve gone differently. Like what if, instead of yanking her hand away, she’d . . . kept it there? Curled those fingers around me? Maybe even . . . unzipped me?

Oh Christ.

I groan out loud and rake my fingers through my hair like that’ll somehow clear my head. Because this is exactly what I need right now: getting hot under the collar over someone who absolutely can’t stand me, right before an event I’ve been breaking my back over for weeks.

I shouldn’t be thinking about Maisie right now. Not like this, not with everything riding on today. But guilt has a funny way of creeping in, even when you’re desperate to shove it aside. Because, of course, it’s not just about the attraction with Maisie—though that’s a beast of its own, clawing at me when I least expect it. No, it’s also about everything else. Like how I can’t forget the way her green eyes shadowed with fear the night before the council announced their decision, right after I admitted that I already knew what they’d say. She tried to hide it, but I saw. She’s worried about the Pheasant—that much was clear. Her and her father’s livelihood is tied up in that pub, and here I am, charging headfirst at it like a battering ram.

But then again . . . she hasn’t exactly made things easy for me, has she? The posters, the petition—the bloody crusade against this beer garden. Glancing around now at what I’ve built here—this space that made me sweat and ache and bleed—I know this is more than just some project to me. Losing rugby left a hole nothing could fill . . . until this. Until now. Don’t get me wrong, I love Highland Legacy, but this . . . this is real.

A sharp pang hits my chest as my mind drifts back to that rainy night in the car. Kicking Maisie out like that was low—arsehole behaviour of the highest order—but what would she have thought if she’d seen me falling apart? If she’d sat there while my hands locked around the wheel in a death grip, shaking so violently I could barely breathe? Flashbacks are bad enough—they don’t need an audience.

And yet, knowing all that doesn’t make me feel any better about what I did.

I close my eyes briefly as vivid memories return: rain hammering against the windscreen . . . my chest tightening until it felt like my ribs might snap under the pressure . . . forcing myself to pull over just minutes after dumping her on the roadside so I could work through my breathing exercises. It had taken nearly twenty minutes for me to feel human again—and by then, Maisie was gone.

She still thinks I kicked her out because of some flippant joke about SassyLassie being an old pervert called Big Davie. Honestly, part of me wishes that were the reason—it’d be easier to explain than admitting I’m too broken to handle heavy rain behind a wheel without spiralling into panic attacks.

I should really tell her the truth. But every time we talk—or rather, argue—it feels like we’re playing a game where neither of us knows the rules, but we’re both sure we’re losing. And naturally, that just makes us bloody furious with each other. Besides, dragging up those memories isn’t exactly high on my list of enjoyable activities. Even now, just thinking about them makes my throat constrict.

Tomorrow, I decide. Tomorrow, after the opening event, I’ll track down Maisie and explain everything. Hell, I’ll try contacting SassyLassie again too, though I don’t know if that’ll do any good.

But today? Today is about the beer garden.

I check the time on my phone. Two hours until we open. The sun blazes above without a single cloud in sight, a stroke of luck in Scotland if ever there was one. Inside the hotel kitchen, Elspeth is busy chopping and prepping for the barbecue.

It’s going to be fine. More than fine.

Closing my eyes for a second, I let out an exhale so deep it nearly doubles as a prayer. Please let folk show up.

The afternoon sun hangs high above the beer garden, drenching it in warm golden light. The place is picture-perfect—no, better than that, it’s alive. Every single seat is taken. Laughter ripples through the air, mingling with the lively buzz of conversation coming from all directions. Folk are gathered around tables dotted with half-empty glasses of beer and wine, while others stand together in loose huddles, their faces lit with animated expressions as they swap stories or catch up on gossip. Kids dart between the bouncy castle and the play area, ice creams melting faster than they can lick them. A few brave souls are locked in a battle over the giant Jenga tower, which sways precariously after each reckless tug at its wooden blocks. No casualties yet—thankfully—and I’ve mostly stopped envisioning it collapsing onto someone’s head. Mostly.

Honestly? The place is bloody packed. Families sprawl across tartan picnic rugs in the grassy areas; couples sip prosecco by the hanging baskets; and tourists stand about like they belong here, clutching pints as they soak up the sun and chatter away. It’s surreal seeing strangers in this space I built with my own hands and knowing they didn’t just wander in by chance. They came for this. For something I created.

It’s more than I could’ve hoped for when I first started putting this plan into motion, and so far everything is going brilliantly. No disasters, no complaints—hell, not even a hint of drama (which might be a first for Bannock). Elspeth and Lewis have the barbecue station running like a well-oiled machine, while the local teens I hired for face painting are crazily talented. And best of all? The tables I’ve been checking in on all afternoon keep saying the same thing: they’re happy.

Not that I’ve exactly had time to kick back and bask in my runaway success. It’s been nonstop since we opened—a blur of ferrying drinks, clearing glasses, and making small talk just long enough to seem welcoming without coming across as rude when I inevitably dash off mid-sentence to tend to something else. Emily’s been helping out where she can, but right now she’s taking a break at one of the tables. Seated next to her is Grace, and across from them are David, Grace’s brother, and his boyfriend, Johnny MacDonald.

All four of them are laughing, albeit to different degrees. Tears stream unchecked down Grace’s cheeks, while David clutches Johnny’s arm like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Johnny sits there grinning like he’s seen it all before, quietly amused by just how ridiculous they’ve got this time. And then there’s Emily, chuckling softly as she strokes slow circles over her baby bump without spilling a single drop from her glass of lemonade.

As I weave past them on my way to the snug, to sort out yet another order, Emily fixes me with a mock-stern glare and tilts her head just so.

“Don’t even think about telling me my break is over,” she warns.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I shoot back, because honestly? Like hell am I going to boss around my very pregnant sister-in-law today. “Take as long as you need.”