Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MAISIE
The car rumbles along the winding road back to Bannock, and I’m feeling pleasantly warm and fuzzy from all the whisky we sampled at the distillery. My head is swimming a bit, but in that pleasant, slightly floaty way where everything feels soft around the edges.
I sneak a glance at Jamie, who’s focused on the road ahead. The golden light of the setting sun catches his profile—strong jawline, straight nose, thick lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. It’s unfair, really. He was handsome enough when I was sober, but now? Ugh, he looks even better somehow. How does that work?
“So,” I say, aiming for casual but probably missing by a mile, “what were you and Kyle chatting about? Looked very important.”
Jamie doesn’t take his eyes off the road but one corner of his mouth curves up. “Did it now?”
“Aye, it did. Come on, spill.”
“My lips are sealed.” There’s a teasing edge to his tone that makes my curiosity itch even more.
“Seriously?” I huff, crossing my arms. “You’re not going to tell me anything?”
“Nope.” He pops the p , all smug and self-satisfied.
I make a scoffing noise and shoot him my best you’re ridiculous glare, but my eyes have other ideas. They drift south, lingering on the way his shirt stretches across his chest before sliding lower... to those chinos. Specifically, that area where they’re doing some very intriguing bunching around the crotch. Damn their perfect tailoring and their suggestive folds that send my tipsy brain cartwheeling straight into Dangerous Thought Territory.
I can’t help but remember how Jamie caught me as we were leaving the distillery, my arse landing squarely against that area . And let me tell you, the sensation was... well, let’s just say it wasn’t forgettable. Because ladies and gentlemen (drumroll please), there had absolutely been something substantial beneath those trousers.
This, of course, raises questions—important questions! Like: just how substantial? Sadly, the encounter was too brief to allow me to answer that, so clearly further investigation is required. I never did do well in science at school, but honestly, if this had been in the curriculum, I’d have graduated top of the class. Hmm, how would a proper scientist go about gathering more data for a study?
What if—hypothetically—a sharp turn or pothole sent me toppling conveniently across Jamie’s lap? That could work! I’d pop a hand down to steady myself, and it might land somewhere... enlightening. Cue an entirely accidental grope-and-grab as I push myself up, followed by a dramatic gasp as I realise what I’ve got a hold of. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” And... voilà! Mystery solved. Give it an apologetic pat then let it go. No harm done.
Is it just me, or is that plan foolproof? Like, what could possibly go wrong?
I’m so deep in this questionable train of thought—definitely not my finest hour—that I don’t notice Jamie glancing my way until it’s too late. When I look up and our eyes meet, his brows rise in amusement and... oh hell, is that suspicion?
Oh no. Oh God. Does he know I was ogling his crotch?
I need to deflect. Fast. “Er, you’ve got a bit of something on your trousers,” I blurt out. Good save, right? Totally convincing. Then, for reasons I cannot explain even to myself, I add, “Here, let me get it for you.”
What am I doing? But now I’ve said it, I can’t back out. So I lean over and swipe at his thigh. Repeatedly. In a very determined fashion. You know, just to make sure the imaginary fluff is well and truly gone.
And... with dawning horror I realise that my hand is now perilously close to his crotch. Mere centimetres away from a region I’d just been mentally plotting to investigate. My pulse quickens as the tipsy devil on my shoulder whispers, You’re already in the neighbourhood. What’s one little nudge? A quick brush with with your fingertips—accidentally, of course. Go on! You can say, “Oopsie, how clumsy of me!”
The angel on my other shoulder pipes up: Don’t listen to her! You cannot grope a man’s crotch just because the thought popped into your whisky-addled brain. That’s not cheeky—it’s wildly inappropriate. Criminal, even!
Thankfully, even drunk Maisie understands boundaries. It was one thing to amuse myself with the ridiculous idea of copping a feel—and let’s face it, the idea was hilarious—but there’s no way I’m actually going to do this. Nope. Uh-uh. Time to take my hand back.
It’s at this exact moment we go over a bump in the road and—oh God—my hand slides onto Jamie’s crotch. My palm meets warmth and... a very distinct shape.
We both freeze.
For what feels like an eternity but is probably two seconds tops, nothing happens except for me developing sudden tunnel vision as all my senses zero in on The Thing Under My Hand . Turns out my earlier suspicions weren’t exaggerated—if anything, they were woefully underestimated. It’s quite the package. We’re talking first-class freight delivery here. And sweet baby Jesus, it isn’t even hard. What kind of monstrous proportions are we talking about when it is?
Jamie lets out an incredulous laugh that sounds half amused and half... something else entirely. “Er... Maisie?”
I finally come to my senses and snap my hand away so fast you’d think his trousers were made of molten lava. “Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!” My voice comes out in a high-pitched squeak, and I clutch both hands to my chest like I’m auditioning for a Victorian melodrama.
Jamie’s shoulders tremble with suppressed laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Maisie, what the hell was that?”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing happened! Don’t even know what you’re talking about.” I’m talking way too fast and my cheeks are on fire.
“You just groped me.”
“I did not grope you! It was the car’s fault. The bump in the road—it threw me off balance!”
“Hmm. Is your face always that shade of red?”
“It’s not red! It’s... warm in here! My colour is totally unrelated to me accidentally touching your... er... you know...” I don’t even know what to call it. Cock? Absolutely the word I use in my head, but saying it out loud might make it sound like I’ve wandered into the pages of Fifty Shades . Willy? Too playground. Penis? Nope, too clinical. Todger? Good God, no. “... thingy.”
He loses it then, laughter spilling out of him until he has to swipe a hand across his eyes as though wiping away tears.
“It’s not funny,” I mutter miserably.
“It’s absolutely funny,” he counters with maddening cheerfulness. “One of the funniest things that’s ever happened to me, in fact.”
God, he is impossible . Still, at least he’s chuckling and not giving me a lecture on appropriate car etiquette or declaring he’ll never let me near him again for fear of further unsolicited crotch encounters. Trust Jamie to find this funny—he turns everything into a joke. God forbid he take anything seriously for once in his life. No, he’d much rather have a giggle at my expense while I quietly try to die of embarrassment over here.
“If you could stop laughing sometime soon,” I grumble, “that’d be great.”
“Aw, come on now.” He wipes at his eyes again before glancing my way with a lopsided grin. “Lighten up! It was an accident... wasn’t it?” He lifts an eyebrow suggestively.
My jaw drops. “Of course it was an accident! What are you suggesting, I had some master plan involving rogue bumps and intrusive hands?” (Okay, so maybe I did have a plan like that, but I never actually intended to put it into action!)
Jamie chuckles again, utterly unbothered by my indignation as though winding me up is some kind of sport to him, and one where he receives bonus points for every shade of pink my cheeks turn in rapid succession.
Shifting slightly in his seat, he casts me a sideways glance so sly it ought to come with its own theme music. “Oh, Maisie, you’ve actually got something on your arm.”
I frown down at the aforementioned limb, which is completely clean. Not so much as a speck of lint in sight.
“Let me return the favour from earlier,” Jamie continues with mock chivalry, lifting one hand off the wheel and reaching towards me oh-so-casually. “Though, fair warning, if we hit another bump, I may accidentally graze a boob...”
“Jamie McIntyre!” I shriek, crossing both arms firmly over my chest. “Don’t even think about it!”
He shoots me a grin that’s all devilry and returns both hands to the wheel. “Relax. I just wanted to say the phrase graze a boob . I wasn’t actually going to do it. Unlike some people, I know how to keep my hands to myself.”
The joke breaks the tension—until one of his hands goes down and tugs at his chinos, all nonchalant-like. He’s clearly trying to act casual, but given my unhealthy level of crotch-awareness this entire journey, I catch it right away. He’s shifting things around down there. Is he... getting hard? From just the idea of grazing my boob? Or maybe it’s a delayed reaction to my earlier wandering hand?
“Are you... okay there?” I ask, aiming for breezy but landing somewhere between breathy and barely-functional instead. Damn whisky—why does it have to turn me into such a liability?
A moment passes, then, “Aye,” he says with just enough rasp to make my pulse trip over itself. “All good.”
Uh-huh. Sure you are. And I’m totally not imagining how good you’d look without your trousers right now. Except I absolutely am because apparently this is who I am as a person—a whisky-addled pervert who, having already placed my hand on his crotch, now wants to see it out and standing to attention. Possibly even pet it like a prize-winning Highland cow, murmuring “Good lad” with tears of pride glistening in my eyes.
Okay, no, that’s just ridiculous, Maisie.
But then, through the fog of idiotic drunken thoughts, a cold, hard truth smacks me in the face: Jamie has no idea I’m SassyLassie. Abort mission! I cannot—absolutely cannot—let this veer into spicy territory when I’m harbouring a secret like that. It wouldn’t be fair. I need to shut this down—immediately. Stop whatever is stirring in his chinos before it’s up and saluting. Toss a metaphorical bucket of icy water over his lap. Deploy every unsexy word in the dictionary.
Quick, what’s the least erotic thing I could say? Flaccid! Can I drop that in without sounding suspicious, though? Oh, look, what a flaccid sunset! Does that work?
No, Maisie, you eejit, of course that doesn’t work.
God! Right, tomorrow I’ll come clean, but right now I need to steer this ship back into safe, unsexy waters. Somehow. I just need some better ideas.
At this point it starts to rain, droplets peppering the windscreen like tiny liquid bullets. Jamie makes a noise low in his throat then reaches for the wipers and flicks them on. “This wasn’t forecast.”
“It’ll probably pass,” I say optimistically, delighted that Mother Nature has provided me with this opportunity to segue into a completely non-sexy topic: weather. “So, tell me, Jamie... what’s your favourite weather? Like, if you had to choose. Not that you’d have to choose—obviously there’s no weather competition or anything. But...”
“My favourite weather ?” Jamie stares at me for a beat, one eyebrow hitching up like I’ve just asked if he prefers his eggs scrambled or on fire.
“Aye,” I say brightly, plunging forwards because retreat isn’t an option now. “You know, sunshine? Rain? Maybe you’re a big fan of fog?”
Jamie turns his attention back to the road and shakes his head slowly, lips twitching like he can barely hold back another laugh. “Jesus Christ, Maisie.”
“What?” I snap a little defensively. “Okay, fine. If you don’t want to talk about the weather—clearly too controversial a topic—let’s talk about... oh, I know, your gamer friend. You know, the one you were telling me about on the way out?”
Quick Jamie crotch check and, yep, definitely bulgier than normal down there. C’mon, Maisie, you need to get that thing back to its usual (far from insignificant) size!
“What about her?” Jamie asks.
I shrug as casually as I can manage. “Hmm, how about... what’s her name? Where does she live? What does she look like?” Okay, I know the answers to all those questions—Jamie doesn’t—but I’d quite like to hear what sort of opinion he’s formed of my online identity.
He frowns. “I don’t know. Well, she’s Scottish, but I don’t whereabouts in the country she lives. Otherwise, I only know her username: SassyLassie.”
That’s me, pal! But I don’t say that, of course. Instead I say, “You don’t even know her real name?”
“Nope.” Jamie’s jaw tightens ever so slightly. He adjusts the windscreen wipers again. The rain is coming down harder now, lashing against the glass.
“But you’ve spoken to her, right? Like, with a microphone or something? You’d recognise her voice if she walked into a room?”
Jamie shakes his head. “We’ve only ever used text chat.”
“ Really? ” I lay on the pretend incredulity pretty thick. “So how do you know she is who she says she is? Or even a she at all? For all you know, SassyLassie could be some balding guy with a beer belly, parked in front of his computer in a stained vest and manky boxers. Right?”
Jamie mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like bloody hell . His grip on the wheel tightens, tension rippling up his forearms as he peers through the rain obscuring the road ahead.
Another glance at Jamie’s lap, and hallelujah! Things are settling down. The disturbing mental image of Beer-Belly SassyLassie—the ultimate anti-aphrodisiac—must have sent Jamie’s trouser department an urgent memo: Stand down, lad. This mission is a no go.
Well, go me! If penis pacification were a sport, I’d be an Olympic champion. Gold medal and everything. Don’t know if that’s something to be proud about, though.
Eventually Jamie says, “She’s not some guy. I trust her.”
He trusts SassyLassie? That’s kind of adorable, and maybe it ought to stir up some guilt about the whole hiding-my-identity thing, but I can’t resist teasing him a wee bit more. I blame the whisky.
“But you don’t know , do you? Not really. She told you she’s a lassie and you believed her, but what if she’s really... I don’t know... Big Davie from Glasgow? I can picture him right now. He’s sat there, stroking his nipple, whispering, ‘Call me SassyLassie again.’”
“Maisie...” There’s an unmistakable warning note in Jamie’s voice now, a low rumble that tells me I’m inching perilously close to some invisible line he doesn’t want me to cross. “Could you hold your tongue for a minute? I’m trying to concentrate here.”
But do I stop? Of course not.
“Tell me you haven’t sent Big Davie any sexy messages. Please, for the love of all things holy, say you haven’t!”
His reaction is instant—and epic. He tenses all over, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Ha! What must be going on in his head right now? Because he has sent Big Davie—I mean, SassyLassie—racy messages. About how he enjoys a bit of power play.
The rain turns savage, pounding the car with a vengeance. Fat droplets streak across the windscreen in chaotic rivulets, smearing the world into a blurry mess of grey and green. The wipers swipe furiously in what feels like an act of futility. Bloody hell, it’s as if some weather god has flipped the switch from “moderate” to “full-blown apocalypse”. Even for the Highlands, this is next-level. I’m talking biblical flood vibes here—“build-an-ark” territory.
Even so, I can’t resist carrying on with the ribbing—maybe it’s the whisky keeping me loose. Jamie still hasn’t answered me and I’m terrible at letting things go, especially when winding him up is so much fun. So I press him again.
“Come on, Jamie!” I say in a singsong lilt. “Fess up! Did Big Davie get a saucy little message? What did you say to him? You can tell me! Or—oh God—you didn’t send him a naughty photo, did you? Tell me Big Davie doesn’t have a cheeky pic of your, ahem , thingy?”
“Bloody hell , Maisie!” Jamie’s voice cuts loud and sharp through the deafening staccato of rain. Is he... breathing harder? Because from where I’m sitting, it sure looks like his chest is rising and falling faster than before. Oh wow, am I really working him up that much?
“Can you please just stop talking?” he says.
I should. I really should. But I don’t.
“What’s the wildest thing you’ve said to her—I mean him—I mean... whoever? Don’t tell me you went straight for ‘Sit on my face.’ Classic amateur mistake.”
Tyres screech against wet tarmac, their high-pitched wail slicing through the downpour, then my seatbelt slams into my chest as the car jerks to an abrupt halt.
For a few awful seconds, neither of us speaks. The only sounds are the frantic whirr-thwack-whirr of wiper blades and the rain hammering against metal and glass without mercy.
I turn to Jamie, my pulse thudding in my ears. “Why did you stop? Did you see something?”
But he doesn’t answer. He’s leaning back in his seat, breathing hard through his teeth, sharp tendons flexing in his neck like he’s trying to hold himself together and it’s taking every ounce of effort he can muster.
“Jamie?” My voice wavers slightly, uncertainty creeping in around the edges. He finally looks at me, and I wish he hadn’t. There’s something dark and raw in his eyes, some unspoken storm that rivals the one raging outside.
“Get out,” he says quietly. The words are calm enough on the surface but hum with a force that punches straight through me.
I blink at him, stunned. “What?”
His grip tightens on the steering wheel until his knuckles are bone-white. Rain hammers down on the roof like gunfire, but even that can’t drown out the tension crackling in the cramped space between us.
“I mean it.” His tone is low but deadly serious now—a razor edge I’ve never heard from him before. “Get out.”
I gape at him, struggling to process what’s happening. “Jamie, come on! You can’t be serious.” My laugh comes out high-pitched and hollow—more plea than humour. “I was just having a laugh! Don’t tell me you’re actually mad about?—”
“ Maisie! ” he snaps, cutting me off so sharply I flinch. He lets go of the wheel and rakes a hand through his hair, then he exhales harshly through his nose like a bull preparing to charge. His gaze flicks away from me, fixing straight ahead on the rain-streaked windscreen. “Just... go.”
His words land with the force of a blow, hard and unforgiving.
“You’re really kicking me out?” I gesture wildly to the chaos outside. “In this weather?”
His jaw tightens further—something I didn’t think was possible.
“This is ridiculous!” I protest. “It’s absolutely pissing down out there! Jamie?—”
“GET OUT!” His voice cuts across mine like a whip crack. Something deep within me fractures, splintering into pieces.
Swallowing hard, I fumble with my seatbelt. It takes me three tries to unclip the bloody thing. The storm is roaring against the car like some primal beast desperate to get at us. Or maybe just me—it sure feels personal when I finally shove open the door and all hell breaks loose.
Rain lashes sideways into the car interior before I’ve even got both feet on solid ground—or on soaking wet tarmac, more accurately. With teeth clenched so hard my jaw aches, I step out fully into the downpour. The rain punches through my dress in seconds, drenching me to the bone with merciless efficiency.
This is madness. Surely Jamie isn’t going to make me walk back? Even through the deluge, I can tell where we are—it’s a ten minute walk back at most—but I am not dressed for a rainy hike. Surely any second now he’ll shout out, Maisie, I’m joking. Get back in! And even though I’ll want to throttle him for being such an arse and pulling such a mean prank, I’ll swallow my pride and climb back in. Because at least then I’d be dry.
But no such miracle comes.
Instead Jamie sits stiffly in his seat, staring straight ahead as though all this—the weather, me —isn’t worth sparing another glance for.
I slam the door shut— bang! —but Jamie doesn’t even flinch. He’s nothing but a shadow behind the wheel now, his profile illuminated by the cold glow of dashboard lights. I will him to look at me, to realise what an absolute dickhead he’s being, but he doesn’t. Instead he shifts into gear and— vruh-vrrroooomm! —the car lurches forward and speeds off, its taillights smearing red streaks through the curtain of rain and the stinging wetness in my eyes that is most definitely not tears.
“You bastard!” I yell, the words ripping from my chest like a half-sob, half-battle cry.
My whisky haze is gone—not just lifted but ripped away by pelting rain and the searing sting of humiliation. In its place, something raw and electric sparks to life: fury.
I march forward, my soaked trainers squelching with every step.
Forget my plan to come clean and tell Jamie tomorrow that I’m SassyLassie. There’s no bloody way that’s happening, not after this. It’s war now, and I’m not above fighting dirty.