Chapter 10
ten
OWEN
The Tipsy Otter was only half-full when Isla and I sat at the bar and got a round in. A pint for me, gin and tonic for her. We’d snuck off early to beat the rush. By five o’clock, it would be filling up with the after-work crew, then later the rowdier drinkers would tumble in for karaoke.
MacKay scowled at the darks he threw when they failed to go anywhere near the bullseye. Morag held with the gang of retirees in one corner, Alastair hidden behind his paper and ignoring the nattering.
I’d barely dented my pint when Isla pulled out her phone with a grin.
'Don’t,' I said.
'Too late.' Her eyes glittered. 'Congratulations, we’re viral.'
‘You can get a cream for that.’
She snorted and shoved the screen at me. Claire’s video looped. My hands, the stupid hair push, the kilt. The view count made my arse clench.
‘It’s a ten-second advert for my forearms,’ I said.
‘And the people are eating it up,’ Isla laughed, waving Eilidh over. ‘Ladies! Owen’s an influencer.’
‘I’m not.’ I shifted on my seat in discomfort.
Eilidh joined us, the ever-present aroma of coffee and cake enveloping us. Lola, the librarian, and our artist in residence, Emma, flanked her.
‘I've watched it nine times,’ Eilidh said, revelling in my discomfort. ‘Eight were research.’
‘And the ninth?’
‘For the forearm porn. Look at you putting Otterleigh Bay on the map. If you bring a surge of horny women to the village, I’ll need to bake more cakes.’
Lola grinned at Eilidh. ‘Whoever added the bottle shot at the end deserves a raise. Have you seen the comments, though? Absolutely feral.’
Emma leaned in. ‘Also, who choreographed that hair push?’
‘Gravity,’ I said.
‘You’ll be giving him a big head,’ Isla said with a groan.
‘That’s what they are hoping to see in the next video.’ Lola burst into a cackle at her joke.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. ‘I’m trying to sell whisky.’
‘Great news,’ Isla said. ‘Eight new tasting bookings have come since the video went up. A food mag emailed asking if you do experiences. I think she means whisky-based.’
‘Experiences,’ I repeated, like the word was alien.
‘Relax, you did your job. Just need to stand there and look pretty.’ Eilidh patted me on the shoulder, and I grumbled.
Kenny piped up from behind the bar. ‘What do the comments say about our Owen?’
God help me.
Isla read loud enough for everyone to look. ‘“If he knocked my barrel, I’d combust.” “Green Kilt Daddy.” “He can pet my kitty any day.” “He can bed me over that barrel for a good hammering.” The internet has discovered you and they are...’
‘Crazy.’ I drank. It didn’t help. ‘This is mortifying.’
‘This is working.’ Isla shrugged. ‘We want younger. We want women. Women who will drink whisky and enjoy looking at nice things. As much as it pains me that anyone thinks you’re hot. Gross.’
‘Objectification. Fantastic.’
‘Oh, boo hoo.’ Eilidh patted my shoulder. ‘I bet you love it really.’
The compliments were nice, but the attention made me uncomfortable. What if Becky posted something to capitalise on the buzz? No. I had to believe she’d moved on.
Lola arched a brow. ‘What about your English girl?’
‘She’s not mine,’ I said, cutting off that conversation with my tone.
Eilidh, Emma and Lola soon wandered back to their table, likely to gossip about how tetchy I sounded.
Isla rested her chin on her palm. ‘What are you doing with Claire? Are your intentions honourable?’
My dreams over the past week had been aeons away from honourable.
‘Nothing, just helping her out a bit.’
‘Don’t hurt her. I like this one.’ Isla said.
‘I’m your brother, shouldn’t you be having the don’t hurt him talk with her? She’s interested in me.’ I took a long sip of lager.
‘Well, duh, of course she is.’ Isla rolled her eyes. ‘You’re a walking postcard for Scotland. A kilt-wearing, whisky-swilling, R-rolling menace. Who better for a city escaping holiday fling?’
‘Right,’ I said lightly. ‘Hilarious.’
Isla’s face flipped from smug to sorry in a heartbeat.
‘Hey. Look at me.’
I did.
‘You know I’m kidding? The woman looks at you like you’re her favourite tattie scone.’
I shrugged, wishing the ground would swallow me. Talking about the red-haired woman I was mooning over with my sister wasn’t my idea of relaxing.
‘She walked into a pub full of strangers just to see you. That’s something.’
Sighing, I looked at my sister, who’d gone all sincere.
‘I think I like her,’ I said, and the truth of it pained me enough that I looked away. ‘Which is something I haven’t felt in a while.’
Isla’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Then stop letting your past kick you about and go get her.’
‘It’s not that easy.’ I drained my glass before continuing. ‘She’s leaving. That’s the point. She’ll go. I’ll still be here.’
‘Are a few weeks of fun worse than no fun at all?’
It was becoming increasingly difficult to argue with myself against that thought.
‘Some of the best things in life are fleeting. Enjoy them while you can hold them, then if they go, appreciate that you had them for a while.’ Isla smiled as Kenny handed us both a fresh drink.
I thought about Claire. The way she’d demanded a kiss and the way I’d said no. Denying her had been physically painful. There was something in Claire that felt like standing by a fire after working in the cold all day.
‘She named a seagull.’
‘Named it what?’ Isla’s brow raised.
‘Trevor.’
Isla laughed. ‘You have a cat called Inspector Meowrse!’
‘I named him when I was in my Morse phase.’
Across the room, Kenny turned the music up, signalling the turn into evening, and the usual chatter rolled over us.
Isla tapped my knuckles. ‘I mean it. Don’t hurt her.’
‘I won’t.’ I paused. ‘She could hurt me.’
‘Just let her see the real you. Despite all your brotherly misgivings, she’d be lucky to have you.’ Isla’s glass made a wet ring on the wooden bar as she lifted it.
‘You’re very wise for someone who once cried because a hedgehog ignored her.’
‘It was a deep rejection.’ Isla placed her hand on her chest as if it had gravely offended her.
My phone buzzed.
Paint ready for the morning. See you at 12? — Claire
I fought a smile.
Isla saw and waggled her brows.
Finishing up my drink, I made my way outside, my eyes instantly fixing on the cute cottage where Claire stayed.
Quiet filled the square, only the distant crash of the sea and the muffled chatter from the pub.
It took a lot of restraint not to walk over and knock on her door, so I loitered outside the pub and messaged her back.
On it. I’ll bring the lunch.
Three dots.
Gone.
Three dots again.
Dots that never turned into words.
I pocketed the phone after a few minutes and headed home, already counting down the hours like an idiot.