Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
ROBBIE
Now
Scotland isn’t built for weather like this, and neither am I. This far north we’re more about drizzle, wellies, and complaining about how cold it is. Today, though? It’s an absolute scorcher. The mid-August heat shimmers over the manicured lawns of the Glen Garve Resort.
It’s a perfect afternoon for lying in the shade with an ice-cold beer, but instead I’m crouched over a wooden bench that’s in need of some serious TLC. Hammer in hand, sweat dripping down my back, I drive in another nail with a loud crack. It’s kind of satisfying, although given the long list of shit I’ve got to get through today, one measly nail is a bit like pissing in the sea.
Around me, the resort stretches out, a picture-postcard blend of fairytale charm and corporate polish. There’s the castle-like main building, the golf course rolling off into the distance, the flower gardens bright enough to give you a headache—all set against the jaw-dropping backdrop of Highland hills. It’s the kind of beauty that feels almost too perfect, like it was designed to be ogled at rather than lived in.
I’m on one of the resort’s garden paths, tucked between rows of ornamental cherry trees and borders overflowing with roses and lilies. It’s meant to be peaceful—a spot for guests to take lazy strolls and pretend a walk is enough to burn off their hearty Scottish breakfast. But if peace is what you’re after, a bloke with a hammer is guaranteed to ruin it. That probably explains why the couple approaching me look as thrilled to see me as they would an overflowing bin.
Even from thirty paces, I can tell they’re the type who booked into a five-star resort expecting the world to rearrange itself around their every whim. Him in golf-ready chinos and a yellow jumper far too heavy for this heat. Her in floaty linen trousers and sunglasses so oversized they’re practically a visor. Their matching expressions of mild disdain suggest that neither has ever had to do anything more taxing than lift a wine glass.
Trailing behind them is their daughter—a definite upgrade on her parents. She must be in her late twenties, a few years younger than my own thirty-one. Her blonde hair falls in those artfully effortless waves rich girls seem to be born with, and she’s wearing a flowy dress that screams “expensive” even though there’s barely enough fabric to call it an outfit. Her gaze lingers on me as I crouch by the bench, her eyes sweeping over my broad shoulders and the navy polo shirt clinging to my skin in this relentless heat. A bead of sweat rolls down my temple, catching her attention before she zeroes in on the tattoo running up my right arm: a tangle of Celtic knots inked in black. She tilts her head like she’s trying to unravel their meaning. Good luck with that, sweetheart.
Her parents are completely oblivious to her interest in me. They’re too busy radiating irritation. They haven’t said a word yet, but I can see it coming a mile off: they’ve got a complaint lined up, and I’m to be on the receiving end of it. With a sharp crack of the hammer, I drive another nail into the bench, a wee bit harder than necessary.
Before either of them addresses me, the wife leans towards her husband and mutters in a stage whisper about as subtle as a bagpipe, “Why on earth can’t they schedule this sort of thing for when guests aren’t around?” She flicks a pointed glance at my tools, as if their mere presence is a personal insult.
When exactly would you suggest? I want to ask her. Because I doubt she’d appreciate me hammering away at three in the morning. Things need to be maintained. If they weren’t, can you guess who’d be the first to moan about it? That’s right, these two.
“Excuse me,” the man says, his sharp tone carrying the entitled edge of someone who’s used to getting his way without delay or argument.
I straighten up, all six foot five of me towering over him, hammer still clutched in my hand. “Aye? Can I help you?” The fake politeness in my voice has been hammered into shape over time. When you work in hospitality—even just in maintenance—it’s a survival skill.
“Is it really necessary to make such a racket? We’re trying to enjoy a peaceful walk.”
I bite back what I want to say and plaster on a smile. “Sorry for disturbing you. I’ll hold fire till you’re well out of earshot.” Because of course I’ve got time to add Standing around doing bugger all for five minutes to my schedule. It’s not like I’ve got half a dozen other jobs to finish before the sun melts me into a puddle.
But if it wasn’t this, they’d find something else to whinge about. The roses aren’t red enough. The hills are too hilly. The air smells too much like nature and not enough like whatever overpriced candles they burn at home. But hey, the customer’s always right. Even when they’re absolutely not.
With all the facilities on offer, you’d think these folk would be happy. Swimming pool, sauna, steam room, bubble pool. Eighteen-hole golf course. Massages in the spa. A cocktail bar and fine-dining restaurant to keep anyone’s taste buds thoroughly spoiled. A fully equipped gym and yoga classes. And the sun is even out—they literally couldn’t have picked a better time to come. How could you not be happy on a day like this?
But no. Despite all the indulgent possibilities they could be losing themselves in, they’re here, moaning at me. Because, apparently, nothing beats finding something trivial to get angry about.
The couple move past me, and I offer them a tight-lipped nod as they go, though they don’t acknowledge it. They do, however, mutter away to each other that tattoos are hardly the image they’d expect of an employee of the Glen Garve Resort.
“And an eyebrow piercing!” The woman tuts and shakes her head. “Honestly!”
All I can do is grit my teeth and bear it. I can’t even get on with my hammering to drown them out.
“Maybe you could have a word with management about standards, darling,” she adds.
Good luck with that , I think. The general manager of the Glen Garve Resort just so happens to be Craig MacDonald, my father. And trust me, he’s heard it all before, and I’ve heard it all from him. But still I’ve got this job because, one, I’m good at it—very good, in fact—and two, despite all his fatherly failings, I don’t think he’s got the heart to let me go.
Even so, the couple’s snide muttering gets under my skin, and one hand curls into a fist at my side, tension coiling in my muscles. I used to have a very effective outlet for my frustrations—one that also brought in a nice wee bit of money, even if it came with a guarantee of regular cuts and bruises. But I’ve not fought anyone for seven years. Not since...
I shake the thought away. Besides, right now there’s something—or rather, someone —demanding my attention.
The daughter, still trailing behind her parents by several paces, pauses as she passes me. Her eyes sweep over me in lazy appraisal, lingering shamelessly on my arms. Then she looks up at me through thick lashes, her lush lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile that holds just enough cheekiness to make my pulse kick up a notch.
There’s mischief in her expression. And heat. An unspoken invitation written plain across her pretty face.
Well, well. I may not fight anymore, but there are other ways to burn off some energy. Judging by the way this rich lassie is looking at me, she’s thinking the same thing.
* * *
I tug my polo shirt back on over my head, the cotton sticking to my sweat-slicked skin. The air conditioning in the room hums quietly, fighting a losing battle against the heat seeping through the half-open balcony door. Behind me, the daughter—Melissa? Melanie? I didn’t catch her name and it doesn’t really matter—lounges on Egyptian cotton sheets so crisp and smooth they practically whisper “indulgence”.
She watches me through half-lidded eyes, a lazy, satisfied smile playing on her lips. Her blonde hair is splayed across the pillow, and the sheet is draped artfully across her naked body.
“Leaving already?” she purrs, stretching like a contented cat.
“Aye, time for me to head home.” I buckle my belt. “That was my reward for surviving today’s to-do list.”
The suite around us is all tasteful opulence—crystal glasses on the minibar, plush carpet underfoot, and a bathroom gleaming with marble surfaces.
She props herself up on one elbow. “Will I see you again before I leave?”
“Depends on how many more benches need fixed near your parents’ walking route.”
This makes her laugh, a sound that’s genuinely warm despite the silver spoon she was clearly born with. “God, they were awful to you. I’m sorry about that.”
I shrug. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse.”
Besides, I think to myself, there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that while her parents were looking down their noses at the tattooed maintenance man, their precious daughter was mentally undressing him. And then actually undressing him a few hours later.
“Well, thanks for...” She gestures at the rumpled bed. “... everything.”
“My pleasure.” I give her a sly wink. “Literally.”
I smooth down my messed-up hair then glance into the corridor to make sure it’s clear. There’s no sign of her parents, so I slip out then head downstairs. With a swipe of my keycard, I access the staff-only area, with its no-frills decor. The transition is always jarring—from soft lighting and artwork to fluorescent bulbs and noticeboards plastered with health and safety reminders.
I’m heading for the guys’ locker room when Drew, another member of the maintenance team, emerges from it. He stops short when he sees me. “Robbie! Thought your shift ended an hour ago.” His nose twitches. “Christ, mate, you reek of perfume. Wait, don’t tell me you’ve been?—”
“Just pleasing a guest,” I cut in with a shrug. “Hospitality is all about going above and beyond, after all.”
He lets out a low whistle. “You sneaky bugger. Was it that blonde in the sundress? The one you said was eye-fucking you earlier?”
I don’t confirm or deny this, but my smirk is all the answer he needs.
“Unbelievable.” Drew claps my shoulder. “How do you do it? Seriously, mate. Is it some secret module in manager training? Or just the appeal of the bad boy?”
I shoot him a grin. I’m not big on corporate hierarchy, but technically Drew reports to me. Not that it matters. We work well together because we don’t take any of that superior–subordinate bollocks seriously. Truth is, he’s one of the few blokes here I like. Most of the time, I keep to myself—I’ve always preferred doing my own thing—but Drew’s all right. Easy-going, sharp enough to have some decent banter, and he doesn’t act like a knob.
“Well, are you going to give me some tips on pulling or not?” Drew presses.
“Step one: look like this.” I gesture to myself with mock seriousness. “Step two... there is no step two.”
Drew snorts, loudly enough to make us both laugh, which is why we miss the approaching click of sensible heels. Samantha, the head of housekeeping, rounds the corner. As always, she’s immaculately put together, not a hair out of place in her tight bun, uniform pressed to military precision, and make-up that could withstand a Highland storm. She fixes me with her signature glare.
Unfortunately, Drew—who has his back to her and hasn’t yet noticed her—picks this moment to say, “Honestly, mate, only you would have the balls to hook up with a guest.”
It’s only when my expression shifts—probably into something resembling oh shite —that Drew clocks Samantha. His grin falters.
Samantha’s eyes narrow like she’s about to deduct points from Gryffindor. “Well, well, Robbie. I’m sure your father would be very interested to hear about your unique... customer service approach.”
I plaster on my best “innocent until proven guilty” smile. “Now, Samantha, you know me. I’m just here to keep the benches sturdy and the lightbulbs glowing. Anything else is pure speculation.”
She holds my gaze, trying to rattle me, but it won’t work. I’ve been standing my ground against authority figures since my teens. It’s second nature to me.
She must realise she’s not going to win our wee staring contest because she huffs under her breath then marches off down the hallway without another word. Only once she’s out of sight do I let out a slow exhale.
“That woman’s always had it in for me.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Drew says deadpan. “You’re such a delight to work with.”
“Piss off,” I fire back good-naturedly. Although I don’t say it, I happen to know Samantha isn’t quite as squeaky clean as her pressed uniform might suggest. “Anyway, I’m out of here. Try not to break anything before tomorrow.”
“No promises!”
I push open the door to the locker room, grab my leather jacket, and shrug it on, even though I’m aware it’ll roast me alive out there. But sweat is preferable to peeling half my skin off if I skid on loose gravel.
Out in the car park, my Triumph Bonneville Speedmaster sits waiting for me, its black and chrome finish catching the sunlight. This bike has been through hell with me—through storms, breakdowns, miles of unforgiving roads—and it hasn’t failed me yet. That’s more than most people can boast about their relationships.
I pull on my helmet, then my gloves, the movements practised and precise. As always, there’s something oddly calming about the ritual. I swing my leg over, settle into the familiar contours of the seat, then kick up the stand. A turn of the key, a twist of the throttle, and the engine growls awake beneath me, sending vibrations buzzing through every nerve ending.
And just like that, freedom roars to life.
The bike eats up tarmac as I pull away from the resort—past manicured lawns trimmed within an inch of their lives, past carefully cultivated flowerbeds designed only to impress—and onto country roads that couldn’t be less polished if they tried.
The Highlands unfold around me: emerald hills patched with untamed forest, fields scattered with woolly sheep. Hot air rushes against me, carrying the scent of sun-baked heather and pine.
Out here, there are no entitled guests, no haughty colleagues. Out here, I’m free.