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He smirks. “Okay, how about this: you smashed it. Everyone loves the place, and we must be taking in a good bit of money too.”

Whoa, Ally and Lewis complimenting me on the same day? Is there a full moon or something?

Lewis continues, “Even some of the die-hard regulars from the Pheasant have shown up, like old Hamish over there by Kyle’s tasting table. Never thought we’d see him, let alone on day one.”

I glance over at Hamish and, at the sight of him, a pang of guilt sneaks in, unwelcome but insistent. Because if the Pheasant’s regulars are here instead of there . . .

Nope. Not going there. I worked my arse off for this, and I am not going to feel bad about pulling it off. Instead I let myself bask in the moment, taking in the laughter, the clinking glasses, and the first notes of music drifting from the stage. This is what success feels like, I realise. And damn, it feels good.

CHAPTER TWENTY

MAISIE

Sunlight streams through the pub window, highlighting the dust motes drifting lazily in the still air. The Pheasant is eerily quiet. Normally, on a Saturday evening in June, this place would be packed with a lively mix of locals and tourists. But tonight? There are just three people in, sipping their drinks like they’ve got nowhere else to be. And one of them is Da.

Bloody hell.

With a sigh, I give the already spotless bar top another wipe.

Last night I prayed for rain—fat lot of good that did. It’s an absolute stunner of a day, perfect for basking in the sunshine with an ice-cold beer, not for being cooped up in a stuffy pub.

Ugh!

I toss down my cloth. “Back in a second,” I mutter to Da before heading outside. Leaning against the wall of the pub, I suck in a deep breath, hoping the fresh air will settle me. No chance. The laughter and cheerful chatter drifting down the road are impossible to ignore. Of course Jamie’s event is thriving—how could it not, with weather like this?

A huge banner spans the front of the Bannock Hotel, proudly announcing the beer garden’s grand opening. Clusters of balloons jiggle in the breeze like they’re mocking me. And the smoky scent of barbecue wafts through the air, teasing my empty stomach and making me hate Jamie even more.

A beer garden. Big deal! We’ve got real history here at the Pheasant—proper charm that you can’t fake with a bouncy castle and overpriced burgers. But apparently, folk around here are easily swayed by shiny new things. Who knew? And also, doesn’t loyalty count for anything anymore? Da’s been pulling pints for the people of this town for decades. He knows their orders before they do! And now? Now they’ve all buggered off.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting the knot of anger tightening in my chest. If folk knew that Da’s health isn’t what is used to be, maybe they’d rally around him instead of abandoning him when he needs them most.

But no. Da’s as stubborn as an old ram. He’d sooner juggle chainsaws than let people think he’s anything less than fighting fit.

With a sigh, I shove off the wall and head back into the quiet gloom of the pub. Behind the bar I fiddle with a row of glasses, nudging them into an even straighter line, though they’re already lined up like soldiers at attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Da heading over, carrying a half-finished pint.

“Maisie, love,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “Stop fussing. Relax. A slow day won’t kill us.”

“Aye, one day won’t. But what about tomorrow? Or next week? What if it stays this way?”

Da sets his pint down with a clink. “Ach, novelty burns bright but fizzles fast. Folk will be back. Don’t let it get under your skin.” He rests a hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.

His confidence, though, does nothing to calm me. If anything, it grates. I don’t like him brushing away my worries like they don’t matter. And maybe they don’t—to him. Because he’s got a pension waiting for him when he packs this in. Me? I’m twenty-seven years old and have no backup plan. This pub is the plan—it always has been. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I’m determined to make sure it stays not only open but busy.

“Bloody Jamie McIntyre,” I grumble. “He opens his beer garden, and suddenly all our customers are following him like rats to the Pied Piper.”

“Is there something . . . going on between you and Jamie?”

Da’s question catches me off-guard, and I blink at him. “Aside from him poaching our customers? Isn’t that enough?”

He arches an eyebrow. “I mean something more . . . personal. Something that explains why you’re so worked up about him all the time.”

A flush creeps up my neck, hot and unwelcome. “No,” I say quickly.

Because really, where do I even start with that question? Do I tell Da about how Jamie tossed me out of his car in the middle of a downpour? Aye, it is tempting to let that one slip—to Da, to Morag from the bakery, to anyone who’d listen. It’d be such an easy way to get folk turning their backs on him and his beer garden. But if Jamie decided to retaliate by sharing his version of events—a version featuring drunk me getting handsy with his unmentionables—well . . . no, thanks.

So instead I’ve kept my mouth shut and shoved all my feelings down, which may be why right now I feel like I may just burst.

“No, Da,” I reiterate. “There’s nothing is going on between me and Jamie.”