Chapter 8
eight
OWEN
Thursday nights at the Tipsy Otter were loud in a way the distillery never was.
Voices rose and fell from the tables all around, and on top, glasses clinked.
The quizmaster, Kenny, had his microphone added to the din as he tried to keep control of the room.
The minute he spoke, everyone burst into a new flurry of heated whispers.
Fairy lights looped the wooden ceiling beams, having been installed years ago for a wedding party and never taken down.
We’d claimed our usual table under the crooked portrait of the moustached man long forgotten. He was a regular fifth in our quiz team, seeing as mum preferred to stay at home and enjoy her soaps in peace. Dad, Isla, Jeff, and I made a formidable enough team anyway.
The answer sheet sat on the table in front of me, the dedicated answer writer, our team name scrawled in marker.
Cask Force.
Jeff’s idea. He was unbearably proud of the pun. Not that any of the rest of us had anything better to offer.
We were halfway through the weekly quiz and clinging to second place. Dad had pulled the Battle of Bannockburn out of his backside during a history round, and Isla had stormed a picture round about early 00s pop stars. Jeff had kept us in drinks and crisps for the most part.
‘If they ask anything on logos, I am your man,’ Jeff said, licking salt off his thumb. ‘Also obscure chocolate bars from the last century.’
‘That’s pretty specific, babe,’ Isla said without looking up. ‘General knowledge is next. Brace yourselves.’
Morag’s team was busy riling up MacKay’s lot across the room with the fact that they were the current reigning champions on the chalk scoreboard behind the bar. Gretchen, the barmaid, Kenny’s daughter, looked every bit bored out of her mind, stacking clean glasses and waiting for closing time.
‘Round four. General knowledge. Keep the arguing to a dull roar, Isla.’ Kenny said, winking at our table.
‘He says that every week,’ Dad muttered.
‘That’s because Isla has a gob like a foghorn,’ I added.
Kenny read off the first question, the capital of New Zealand, and the room dissolved into the usual hiss of debate. I was halfway through writing Wellington when the pub door swung open.
Every head in the place turned to look. All of the usual characters were accounted for.
That meant someone new. Fresh air tumbled into the warm room, along with the prettiest damn sight I’d seen in the Tipsy Otter, possibly ever.
Claire hesitated on the threshold, looking mildly terrified of the gang of villagers hunkering inside.
After visibly swallowing, she stepped in and shrugged off her coat before gathering it up in her arms.
My heart skipped as I took in her deliciously short black dress and the sort of high heels that made you dream about them being pressed into your back.
Long red curls tumbled around her shoulders, windswept but beautiful.
In a London wine bar, I had no doubt she would have fit right in, but in our pub, she gleamed like some exotic artefact. The whole room sat enraptured.
She went momentarily still under the weight of all the stares.
Then her eyes found mine through the haze, and a small, unsure smile hit her face.
She lifted a hand, and I swore the room whispered far more than they did over even the most hotly contested quiz question.
My chest tightened, and I fought to find anything to say.
‘Oh,’ Isla said, following my line of sight. ‘That’s your stray?’
Jeff grinned. ‘Here comes the sister-in-law.’
‘Don’t start,’ I muttered, and stood as Claire navigated between tables, ignoring the open stares her thighs commanded as she shimmied by. She stopped in front of our table and painted on a veneer of confidence. The layer she’d had ripped away before tumbling into my barrel store was back.
‘Hi.’ Claire sounded wonderfully breathless, and I clenched my pen harder at the thought of making her whisper my name just like that.
‘Hello, Claire.’ I shamelessly used that R in her name to my full advantage, and she rewarded me with a sweet inhale.
‘Sorry. I wasn’t going to come over, but it gets a bit boring sitting in the cottage on my own. Do you mind if I sit with you?’
‘We don’t mind at all,’ Isla said, shifting to the next seat over and pushing Jeff down too. ‘You must be Claire. I’m Isla, Owen’s sister and the brains of the operation.’
‘Jeff.’ He leant across the table and offered a hand. ‘Brother-in-law. Quiz team snack master.’
Dad pushed himself up to standing while stifling a groan and pulled Claire into a friendly hug. I cringed, but it made her smile. ‘I’m Jim. Sit before Kenny docks us points for causing a disturbance.’
‘It’s nice to meet you all,’ Claire said, her cheeks pinking as she took the seat beside me, her bare thigh brushing my jeans.
‘‘We’re in the middle of general knowledge.’ It took everything in me to drag my eyes from her legs and back to the answer sheet.
‘And we’re being whacked by the Campbells because Alastair’s as old as the hills,’ Isla said, nodding toward the far table where Alastair adjusted his glasses. Morag grinned at Claire, as if she’d planned the whole thing.
I tried very hard not to look at Claire’s legs again.
I failed. The dress hit mid-thigh, and sitting, it rode even higher.
Swallowing, I tore my eyes up to her face, but she looked around the pub.
A loose curl of red had slipped over her shoulder and lay against her neck, enticing me to reach out and drag my fingers over her pulse point.
I sat on the hand that wasn’t gripping the pen to avoid reaching out like a maniac.
‘Beer? Wine?’ I asked.
‘Whatever won’t get me run out of town.’ Claire fixed me with a sunny smile, and my knees buckled as I stood.
‘A long drink,’ Dad advised. ‘Wine makes Kenny think you’re from the city and he punishes you with music questions from the 70s.’
‘I am from the city.’ Claire shrugged.
‘That’s slander,’ Kenny called over, without looking up from his sheet.
‘I’ll have a vodka and lemonade, please.’
I made my way to the bar and topped up the round for everyone. By the time I returned, I found Claire leaning in toward Isla, who whispered and giggled in her ear.
Good god. What had I done? I may as well have thrown her to the wolves. Not that Scotland had wolves, but throwing her to the highland cows didn’t quite have the same ring to it.
‘You’re allowed to whisper, but not shout,’ Isla said as I sat. ‘Owen pretends he’s not competitive, but you’ve never seen him playing Uno.’
‘Lies,’ I said, placing down the drinks and sitting next to Claire, separating her from the gossip-monger that I called a sister.
‘He’s quiet but relentless.’ Jeff reached over for his pint and winked.
‘Welcome to team Cask Force,’ Isla said, dragging the sheet toward her and scribbling.
‘That’s terrible,’ Claire laughed.
‘He named us,’ Isla said, pointing at Jeff.
‘It’s funny.’ Jeff opened another packet of crisps and stuffed a handful in his mouth.
We found a rhythm. Claire was shy at first, but by her third drink, it was like she’d always been a part of the team.
A puzzle piece that I hadn’t noticed was missing.
Every time I felt her eyes slide to me, I’d look over only for her to be looking anywhere else.
But she didn’t move the leg that pressed against mine away.
Heat tumbled from her skin, and I missed half a dozen questions, lost in her proximity.
Claire smelled like sugared lemons or sherbet, and I wanted to see if she tasted the same way.
She laughed with her whole face when Dad threw out a ridiculous answer as a joke and then cackled when it turned out to be right.
Across the room, Eilidh caught my eye from her table and grinned while Morag rotated in her chair to stare openly until Alastair nudged her.
Between rounds, there was the usual low rumble of taunts.
MacKay shouted something about retirement homes at Dad, who responded by reminding him he was a good five years younger than MacKay.
Morag threatened to report the quizmaster to the council for favouritism in the question setting.
The barmaid put a plate of chips in front of our team with a roll of her eyes.
‘So,’ Isla said to Claire during a pause while Kenny suffered through an argument about the definition of a peninsula. ‘How are you settling in?’
‘It’s an adjustment, but I started painting today, and it was so therapeutic. Who knew?’
Dad gave her a soft smile. ‘You let us know if you need a hand.’
‘Thank you. Owen has kindly offered to help in exchange for some marketing tips.’
Isla raised her eyebrows at me as if to say that was my idea. I gave her a look that I hoped said shut it.
Everything in me warmed and buckled at once.
The night wore on in a bubble of warmth. I couldn’t focus on anything but the redhead pressed against me. I barely knew her, but already I craved more, albeit maybe not in a pub with the whole damned village watching us.
When Kenny finally rang the bell and declared the Campbells the winners by a single point, I was itching to have Claire to myself.
People drifted over to say hello, both the curious and the kind. Claire held her own until finally she stood and pulled on her coat.
‘I should probably get back, I’ll have a thumping head by morning.’
‘I’ll walk you home.’
Isla opened her mouth, and I glared.
We said our goodbyes before tumbling out into the crisp night. I cursed that I could see Rose Cottage from the pub. I’d have preferred a much longer walk.
Her heels clicked, and I matched my stride to hers. Thankfully, she didn’t seem in a hurry to get home either.
‘Thanks for letting me crash your team.’
I wanted to thank her for crashing my life. But I didn’t want to let her know how pathetically I mooned over her already.
‘Anytime. We’re a welcoming bunch around here.’
Claire tipped her face toward me and narrowed her eyes just a touch. ‘And that’s all it is, just being a village welcome committee?’
My eyes caught on her lips, the porch light highlighting them as we stopped outside Rose Cottage. My breath caught as I lost myself in her gaze.
‘It’s not all it is.’
She smiled up at me, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
‘Mutual trade, right?’ Claire leaned just a touch closer, and our hands grazed, her pinky sending a jolt of need through me. Such a slight touch. It should have been insignificant, but it had my pulse skipping.
‘Yeah. Mutual—’
‘Goodnight, Owen.’ Claire cut me off before standing on her toes to softly drift her lips over my cheek. And in her eyes there was a devious little glint that told me she knew exactly the impact she was having on me.
And that she was enjoying it.
Such a brat.
Well, two could play her game.
‘Goodnight, Claire.’
She waited a few beats, uncertainty warring in her face, before she let herself into the cottage.
Turning to me, she gave me a sultry look that about knocked me socks off, before bending over at the waist to remove her heels.
Her dress rode up until it gave me the tiniest peek at a scrap of red lace beneath.
When she stood back up, she looked as pleased as pie with herself. And shut the door.
I stood on the path for a handful of long breaths after it clicked shut, listening to the murmur of the pub behind me and waiting for the thickening in my jeans to dissipate.
Well, well.
If she wanted to play…
Then I caught myself, a flash of Becky and the way she used our games to hurt me rearing up.
If we were going to play, maybe I’d have to be careful. After all, she wasn’t sticking around.