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She gives me a sly smile before turning back to whatever over-the-top anecdote from David has Grace dissolving into giggles. I continue on to the snug but manage only six steps before someone else stops me.

“Oh, Jamie!” Cat calls out sweetly—the kind of sweet that sets alarm bells ringing if you know my sister even a little. She’s down from Wick to support me for the beer garden’s opening weekend . . . or, more likely, to catch up with her pals and soak up as much free booze as she can. One or the other.

Right now she’s perched on the edge of a table, chatting away with Iona, who has Bruce with her. Cat looks like she hasn’t got a care in the world, except clearly she wants something from me, and whatever it is, I can’t imagine it’ll make my life any easier. Not knowing my sister.

“Aye?” I reply warily, already bracing myself. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing major,” she says casually, waving one hand like she’s swatting away a midge. “It’s just, you see that table over there? They asked for five pints of Golden Stag, two glasses of house white, and one house red, while that table asked for . . .” She pauses then turns to Iona. “Hmm, what was it again? Can you remember?”

“Hang on!” There’s an ache building behind my eyes, the kind that promises a headache later, but that’s future Jamie’s problem, isn’t it? “Let me write down that first order before you try to remember the other one.”

I take out my battered notepad, trying not to wince at the sight of three orders I haven’t even started on yet. And now there’s two more? Brilliant. With Emily on her break, it’s just me holding down the fort, and while everyone is all smiles and easy-going vibes for now, their patience might not last. If I don’t speed up, this chilled-out beer garden could turn into a riot of empty glasses and grumbling punters.

When people talk about being a victim of your own success, is this what they mean? Because I am proud of how buzzing this place is, but it’s got to be said, hanging about in an empty bar playing video games was a shitload easier than this.

“So,” I mutter, “what was it again? Five pints of⁠—”

“Six,” Cat interrupts breezily.

I look up and narrow my eyes at her. “Didn’t you just say five?”

“Oh, did I? Maybe that’s because . . . I made those orders up.” She flashes me a cheeky grin. “I just wanted to watch you panic for a minute.”

I bite back a groan. “Cat!” I say, my tone full of warning.

She winks. “Seriously, though, give me a few pages from that notepad and let me help. You’re looking pretty swamped.”

I cock my head to the side and raise an eyebrow. “Did I hear that right? Did you seriously just volunteer to help? Like, without coercion? Without being bribed? What’s going on?”

She rolls her eyes. “Consider this me earning the complimentary drinks I’ve been enjoying all afternoon. But the offer won’t last, Jamie. Take it or leave it.”

I quickly tear three pages from the notepad and hand them to her. “Taking it!”

Cat turns back to Iona. “Right, drinks to prep, but we’ll catch up more later, okay? Oh, and you, me, and Maisie need to sort a Scottish Sirens meet-up while I’m down. A proper in-person gathering!”

At Maisie’s name my brain threatens rebellion again—but no time for that right now.

As Cat strides off towards the snug—armed with my notepad pages and a level of confidence I can only hope isn’t misplaced—I crouch down by Bruce for what feels like my first real breather since we opened. Petting dogs is supposed to reduce stress, isn’t it? God knows I could use some of that right now.

“All right, big man?” I say, scratching behind one of his floppy ears. But Bruce’s soulful brown eyes are locked firmly on Lewis over at the barbecue station. Or, more specifically, on the sausages and burgers sizzling away under Lewis’s watchful eye.

Can’t say I blame him.

I follow Bruce’s gaze in time to catch Lewis blowing an absurdly dramatic kiss across the beer garden. Without missing a beat, I straighten up and snag it out of the air like this is a routine we’ve perfected over years.

“Love you too, bro!” I call out loudly enough to turn a few heads.

Lewis doesn’t so much as blink, his focus laser-sharp as he flips another burger. Not even blatant public embarrassment can rattle him when he’s fully immersed in the sacred art of barbecue.

Beside me, Iona snorts into her glass of wine. “That was meant for me, you daftie.”

“Was it?” I grin at her innocently as Bruce noses at my pocket in what appears to be an increasingly desperate plea for snacks. “Could’ve been meant for you . . . or Bruce . . . or me. We may never know.”

She shakes her head slowly in mock despair. “You might’ve pulled off something amazing here today, but you’ve not lost your bloody sense of humour.”

“And thank God for that!”

I give Bruce one last ear scratch. He lets out a mournful whine and casts another glance at the barbecue, a string of drool hanging from his jowls.