Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MAISIE
My fingers drum a restless rhythm against the bar as I watch Da attack his glass-polishing like each tumbler has personally insulted him. The clink of glass on glass echoes through the space, punctuating the prickly silence between us.
“I still don’t see why you need to go to the distillery event,” Da grumbles, setting down a freshly polished glass with more force than necessary. “I’ve always handled these things. This isn’t about that dropped crate of whisky the other week, is it? You’re not still holding on to that?”
“No, Da. It’s not about that.”
He huffs out a breath and studies me, his eyes narrowing. “Then what is it? You think I’ll mess something up? Cause problems?”
“Of course not!”
His face softens slightly but not enough to hide the hurt creeping into his expression. I can already see where this is going—all wounded pride and stubborn male determination.
“Feels like you’re trying to push me into the background,” he says gruffly. “A secondary role in my own business. A business I’ve built up with these two hands for decades.”
The accusation stings. Heat rushes to my cheeks like I’m twelve years old and have been caught nicking biscuits from the tin.
“That’s not it at all! I just...” I bite my lip, trying to keep my emotions in check.
“You just what?” Da presses, his tone sharper now.
“I just... care about you, you daft old man!” I’ve no wish to spell it out any further than that, but honestly, I think the long event may be a bit much for him at the moment.
Da’s shoulders sag and he sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair. “All right, all right. I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I know you mean well. Anyway, enjoy yourself at the event. I heard Jamie McIntyre is going along to it too.”
I’ve heard the same and I reckon this could be an opportunity to suss out what Jamie is up to with the snug. And this time, I can just be myself rather than SassyLassie, which is a whole lot simpler. Besides, my attempts at coaxing useful info out of LochNLoad haven’t exactly borne fruit. Plus, that time he chatted with me about the body-painting scene... well, things got a little uncomfortable. I mean, he did crack a joke about grabbing a jar of paint and decorating my boobs.
Aye, I’ve previously teased him about his sword fixation, suggesting—not too subtly!—it’s actually about the size of his dick, so I can’t be too miffed at a bit of boob banter. But... let’s just say the whole keeping-my-identity-a-secret thing is starting to weigh on me.
“Aye, I might see if Jamie wants to share a ride,” I say nonchalantly. “Save on petrol and all that.”
Of course, if I’m stuck in a car with Jamie—just the two of us and no distractions—I might just find an opportunity to tease out some details about Jamie’s plans. I’ve not told Da that the Bannock Hotel is up to something. He’s got enough on his plate without me adding to it.
Before heading out to ask Jamie if he fancies playing chauffeur, I fuss over my reflection in the mirror until I catch myself. What am I doing? I could try and claim I’m just making sure I look polished for the distillery event, but that’s nonsense. This is about looking good for Jamie, which is ridiculous because it’s not like I care what he thinks. Besides, he’s made it abundantly clear he has zero interest in me. He called me a bloody Smurf, for goodness’ sake.
Still, I inspect the offending hair, which is now up in a simple twist at the back, and tug at the hem of my navy corduroy pinafore dress—short enough to show a bit of leg but not so short as to cause gossip. I’ve paired my outfit with my black-and-white checked Converse trainers—the only ones in my collection that aren’t completely knackered—and a white T-shirt. Smart casual, but cute.
With one last glance in the mirror, I grab my bag, call goodbye to Da, silently pray he’ll be all right behind the bar by himself this evening, then head out to Main Street and along the road to the Bannock Hotel, a spark of determination in my stride. Today I’m less small-town bartender and more covert operative on a mission. Move over, James Bond. There’s a new secret agent in town, and she’s armed with sass, wit, and a sixth sense for sniffing out secrets.
I enter the hotel then step into the snug, which—unlike the Pheasant—is already open. Or at least, it’s supposed to be open, but there’s no buzz of conversation or clink of glasses. In fact, there’s not a soul in sight except Jamie. Whatever his grand scheme is, it clearly hasn’t kicked off yet. This place is dead.
Jamie is wiping down a table, a tea towel slung over one shoulder. Gone are the usual jeans plus casual shirt or polo—he’s wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of navy chinos that hug him in all the right places. His outfit highlights his lean frame in a way that’s maddeningly appealing.
His head lifts just as I’m taking in the way those chinos fit a little too snugly across his thighs. Our eyes meet for a split second, and my stomach does an awkward little lurch. Oh God, did he just catch me gawking? His hazel eyes lock on mine and one brow raises ever so slightly, as if to say, Gotcha! I quickly avert my gaze, pretending to suddenly find the floorboards fascinating.
Luckily, Bruce ambles over to say hello before my face can reach tomato-level redness, and I turn my attention to him.
“Hiya, pal.” I crouch and give him a thorough scratch behind his ears. “See? This is what a proper welcome looks like. Take notes, Jamie.”
Bruce chooses this moment to give my hand a big slobbery kiss.
“Oh?” Jamie comments. “ That’s a proper welcome, is it? Noted. Next time you come by, I’ll drop to all fours and give you a good lick.”
I snap my head up and gape at him. “Jamie!” My brain scrambles for a clever retort but it’s gone completely blank. I wasn’t expecting him to say that.
“What?” His eyes gleam with mock innocence but he can’t hide the laughter bubbling beneath. “Just following your lead.”
“You—” I splutter, pointing a finger at him like it might help me find words. “That’s not what I meant and you know it!”
He shoots me a cheeky grin. “Anyway, what can I do for you, Maisie?”
“I”—I clear my throat—“heard you’re going to this event at the distillery too?”
“Aye, I am.”
“Well,” I say in what I hope is a breezy manner, “I was thinking, why don’t we go together? Seems daft taking two cars when we live so close.”
Jamie’s grin stretches into a devilish smirk. “Ah, so that’s how it is, eh? First you’re throwing yourself at me on Ben Garve, and now you’re angling for a cosy wee car date?”
“I threw myself at you?” I splutter. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep this dog under control!” Glancing down at Bruce, I murmur to him that he’s a perfect wee angel.
Jamie lets out a mock sigh. “That’s not how I remember it. Pretty sure you just couldn’t keep your hands off me. If we go to the distillery together, what’s to stop you ‘accidentally’ spilling your drink on me so you can help me out of my shirt?”
I roll my eyes. “Is there an off switch for your crappy banter? Asking on behalf of everyone who’s ever met you. And seriously, Jamie, don’t flatter yourself. If I wanted to ogle a topless man, I’d just google Chris Hemsworth. Anyway, thanks for reminding me how utterly insufferable you are. I thought I’d give you a second chance after your Smurf comment, but this was obviously a mistake. I’ll make my own way to the distillery.”
Spinning on my heel dramatically (because a good exit deserves a bit of pizzazz), I stride off. But just as I’m about to step outside—and leave Jamie McIntyre’s maddeningly punchable grin behind—brisk footsteps catch up with me.
“Maisie!” His hand lightly brushes my shoulder, the touch warm but unassuming. It’s enough to stop me in my tracks. When I glance back, his eyes have lost their usual mischief, replaced by something gentler and almost... regretful?
“Hang on a minute.” He drops his hand and shoves it into his pocket, while the other rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck—the universal sign for This Idiot Knows He Messed Up . “Look, I was only pulling your leg. Sorry if it went a bit far. Of course I’ll drive you to the distillery, and, er...” He hesitates, clears his throat, then looks me squarely in the eye. “That Smurf joke? It was out of order—not funny at all.” A pause stretches between us, thick and awkward, before he adds quietly, “Your hair is brilliant. And... you look good. Really good.”
Jamie’s words hang in the air between us, and I feel my resolve weakening. It’s infuriating how he can go from irritating to endearing in the blink of an eye.
“Thanks,” I manage. “And I’ll accept the lift. Although if you bring up Smurfs again, just know that my revenge will be swift and creative.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of Jamie’s mouth. “Deal. Now, shall we get going before they drink all the whisky without us?”
He lets his brother, Lewis, know that he’s off, then we make our way to his car, which is parked around the back of the hotel. Settling into the passenger seat, I’m acutely aware of Jamie’s presence beside me. It’s like the car shrinks around us—the space is far more intimate than I expected. Jamie’s arm brushes mine as he clicks in his seatbelt, and a surprising flicker of heat dances across my skin.
I take a deep breath, willing myself to focus on the task at hand. I’m here to gather information, not get distracted by Jamie’s proximity or the way his aftershave seems to fill the vehicle (it’s woodsy and warm, like cedar and sandalwood, with the faintest trace of smoky peat).
The late afternoon sun glints off Jamie’s windscreen as we leave Bannock then take the winding country road through Glen Garve. It snakes through a patchwork of emerald fields dotted with woolly white sheep grazing lazily as if they’ve got all the time in the world. Towering hills frame the glen on both sides, while a meandering river cuts through the valley floor, its gentle flow flashing into view now and then like a shy guest at a party.
I steal a glance at Jamie, only to catch his eyes flicking away from me, as if I’ve caught him doing something he shouldn’t. Was he just checking me out? Is it because I made more effort than usual today? Did he actually mean it when he said I looked good?
I can’t resist testing the waters so I shift slightly in my seat, staring resolutely out the window before daring to sneak another peek. This time, his eyes collide with mine, holding steady rather than darting away. And then it happens—a smile blooms on his face, slow and unguarded, soft enough to make my stomach flip like an acrobat on a trampoline. And then... the moment is over and his gaze shifts back to the road.
God help me. Why did he smile at me like that? And why do I feel like I might melt into this seat if he does it again?
Sitting up straighter, I force myself to focus on what I’m here for: information about the snug. Not Jamie’s smile... or how annoyingly good those chinos look on him... or how they seem to fit extra snugly around his— oh, for crying out loud, Maisie. You’re not a hormonal teenager. Get a grip!
“So,” I say, trying to sound casual, “how are things going at the Bannock Hotel?”
“All good,” he replies, his tone easy, though a flicker of something unreadable passes across his face.
“All good? That’s all I’m getting? Come on, it’s not like you’re guarding state secrets over there.”
His lips curve into a grin that manages to be both irritating and stupidly attractive all at once. “Maybe I am.”
“Right.” I huff out a breath and lean back in my seat. “You know what? Forget I asked. You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly handsome,” he corrects, glancing my way and waggling his eyebrows.
“Impossibly delusional, more like. I suppose you’re not bad looking—if you squint a wee bit and have low standards.”
Lying through my teeth, obviously. The truth is, Jamie’s annoyingly good-looking. Those hazel eyes with that cheeky freckle at the corner of the left one? Absolute menace. And don’t get me started on that messy chestnut hair just begging to be messed up further.
I flick my gaze back to the road ahead before he can catch me staring, but my mind is less cooperative. Because now all I can think about is running my hands through that tousled hair until it’s a complete disaster. And maybe... just maybe... letting my hands wander elsewhere on his body too.
Didn’t I tell you to get a grip, Maisie Kerr? Well, get a grip!
“Low standards, eh?” Jamie says. “Ouch. And yet something tells me you don’t mind me nearly as much as you pretend to.”
Our gazes meet and he winks. Oh God.
Determined to wrestle back some control over whatever strange energy is swirling between us tonight, I decide to throw him off balance.
“You know, it’s good you’re going to the distillery tonight. Word around Bannock is your social life could use a wee boost. Remind me, apart from Bruce, who are your mates again?”
Jamie’s head jerks slightly, his eyes darting towards me and then back to the road, but not before I catch something—just a flicker—a shadow of vulnerability that vanishes almost as quickly as it appears.
Crap, was that too harsh, what I just said? I mean, I know he spends most of his free time on his laptop. But come on, it’s Jamie! He dishes it out constantly. Surely he can take a little teasing in return? Still, I can’t help wondering if that hit closer to home than I intended.
A pause stretches between us then he says, “There’s... someone. A gamer I play with online.”
My pulse skips.
“She just gets me, you know?” His voice is uncharacteristically soft—thoughtful—and it throws me completely off kilter.
Oh no. Oh no. He’s talking about me. SassyLassie. His gaming partner. Me... and yet not me.
“That’s the great thing about the internet,” Jamie continues, oblivious to the chaos crashing around inside my skull. “Before it, people could live their entire lives in a town without finding anyone who truly gets them. But now? I can chat with this gamer, even though... well, there’s no one in Bannock quite like her.”
His words are coated in unintentional irony so thick it makes my stomach squirm. It’s not like I’m technically lying to him, but withholding the truth isn’t exactly honest.
I glance out the window to steady myself, watching the golden light stretch long across the glen. It’s breathtakingly beautiful... and it does absolutely nothing to untangle the mess in my head.
“You’re quiet over there,” Jamie remarks after a beat.
“Aye, well... I’m just thinking how weird it is that there’s someone out there who actually tolerates your nonsense.”
God, why is this so complicated? It’s supposed to be a simple mission: find out what Jamie is up to with the snug and use that information to protect the Pheasant. End of story. And once I’ve done that? I’ll come clean. Of course I will.
But as I steal another look at Jamie—relaxed, disarmingly handsome, utterly infuriating—I realise there’s nothing simple about this anymore.