Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JAMIE
The sun beats down on my neck as I adjust one of the wooden benches for what must be the hundredth time this morning. It’s probably perfect already, but I can’t help myself. Everything has to be just right for the opening. It’s not just an event, it’s my event.
“There,” I mutter, stepping back to survey my handiwork.
The beer garden has transformed the Bannock Hotel’s previously underused outdoor space into something I’m actually, properly proud of. New decking stretches out from the French windows in clean, sharp lines, and solar-powered fairy lights crisscross overhead, ready to create a magical atmosphere when evening falls. The tables and chairs are arranged in clusters, with a mix of regular seating and longer communal benches. Flowers spill in vibrant cascades from hanging baskets hooked onto wrought-iron shepherd’s crooks. There’s colour everywhere: bright blossoms against freshly painted wood, deep green from the potted plants dotted around the space.
In one corner sits a kids’ play area with swings and a slide—small but enough to give parents a moment of peace while they sit for a drink. Next to that are oversized garden games: Jenga, chess, Connect 4. I’d love to say I picked those because they’ll be great for families, but honestly? I can’t wait to have a go at giant Jenga after a pint or two. Meanwhile, a fire pit waits patiently for cooler evenings. I can already picture folk huddling around it, drams in hand and laughter in the air.
Jamie McIntyre: beer garden designer extraordinaire. Who knew?
In the end I did most of the work myself, to keep costs down and because I couldn’t bear to let anyone else take charge. I’ve sweated over this too much to let anyone else interfere. And honestly? That only makes me prouder of how it’s turned out.
For today’s grand opening we’ve gone all out: there’s a barbecue station set up near the decking, a bouncy castle and face painting for kids, an area designated for Kyle to run whisky tastings, and a small stage where a local band will play this evening. I’m sure I’ve thought of everything—even Lewis said so yesterday—and yet...
I run a hand through my hair, probably making it stick up at all angles, and let my gaze sweep over the space again. It looks good. Better than good—it looks amazing. A little corner of magic carved out here in Bannock.
But what if no one shows up? What if Maisie’s crusade against my beer garden has ruined everything? Her flyers and posters were bloody everywhere— stop the beer garden! plastered across town like she was rallying troops for battle instead of just opposing someone trying to serve drinks outside.
I shift a table an inch to the left. Then back again. Pointless, but I’m just trying to keep myself busy—standing around getting nervous isn’t going to help. The physical work feels good, though—almost natural these days. Between building this space and hitting the gym with Lewis (which has already become as routine as breakfast), I’m in better shape than I’ve been since... well, since before everything went sideways.
It still feels weird sometimes—that sense of energy buzzing through me that used to be second nature when rugby was my life but had been missing ever since... the accident . For years after that crash stole my shot at going pro, I gave up on keeping fit altogether, like if rugby wasn’t an option, there was no point even trying anymore. But lately? Lately things have shifted again—for my body and my brain—and working on this beer garden has helped more than I could’ve imagined.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Lewis asking if we need more ice (we do). After firing back a quick yes, my thumb hovers before instinctively tapping open my chat with SassyLassie. Just in case. Maybe I missed a notification somehow? But no, the last message is mine from days ago, checking if she’s okay. It’s been weeks since she last logged in to Highland Legacy . True, it’s not like I’ve had much time to play myself, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying about her.
The trouble with online mates is if they vanish, you’re left with no way of knowing why. What can you actually do if you don’t even know their real name? Maybe it’s nothing—maybe she’s just been caught up in life, the same as me. At least, I hope that’s all it is.
I shove my phone away before the spiral of overthinking can drag me under and turn my attention back to the task at hand. Wandering over to the giant Jenga, I nudge back into place a piece that’s sticking out. For some reason I immediately picture the tower toppling over onto some poor kid’s head later this afternoon. Brilliant. Like I didn’t have enough to stress about already.
Keep busy, Jamie. Keep busy!
As I adjust a plant pot—this one with spiky green grasses shooting out—the deep blue splash of delphiniums catches my eye among all the other pops of colour. Their colour is striking—bold and unexpected—and it reminds me of something, or rather, someone. Navy-blue hair, stray wisps escape in every direction...
And just like that, Maisie has stomped her way back into my brain without so much as a polite knock to ask permission.
Last night when I was walking Bruce, I wandered past the Pheasant and spotted her through the window. She didn’t see me, which is probably a good thing, seeing as I was standing there like some sort of creep in the shadows, watching her work. She poured pints faster than you’d think humanly possible without spilling so much as a drop, all the time chatting away with customers without missing a beat. That smile... so genuine, so effortless. But never directed at me, of course.
There’s something about her that ties my brain in knots—and not just because we’re currently at war over this beer garden. It’s inconvenient as hell, if I’m honest. How am I supposed to hate someone when even thinking about her has a way of setting off memories I’ve no business dwelling on?
Like how her body felt pressed against mine on Ben Garve—slim curves leaning into me while Bruce wagged his tail like he’d done us both a favour. Or that moment outside the distillery when she stumbled into me after one too many drams at Kyle’s tasting session, her arse flush up against me in a way that fried every coherent thought in my head.
And don’t even get me started on the car incident. Bloody hell. Her hand slipping and landing squarely on my crotch...
That was two months ago now, yet somehow my brain refuses to let it go. Instead I’ve replayed it so many times I’ve started imagining all the ways it could’ve gone differently. Like what if, instead of yanking her hand away, she’d... kept it there? Curled those fingers around me? Maybe even... unzipped me?
Oh Christ.
I groan out loud and rake my fingers through my hair like that’ll somehow clear my head. Because this is exactly what I need right now: getting hot under the collar over someone who absolutely can’t stand me, right before an event I’ve been breaking my back over for weeks.
I shouldn’t be thinking about Maisie right now. Not like this, not with everything riding on today. But guilt has a funny way of creeping in, even when you’re desperate to shove it aside. Because, of course, it’s not just about the attraction with Maisie—though that’s a beast of its own, clawing at me when I least expect it. No, it’s also about everything else. Like how I can’t forget the way her green eyes shadowed with fear the night before the council announced their decision, right after I admitted that I already knew what they’d say. She tried to hide it, but I saw. She’s worried about the Pheasant—that much was clear. Her and her father’s livelihood is tied up in that pub, and here I am, charging headfirst at it like a battering ram.
But then again... she hasn’t exactly made things easy for me, has she? The posters, the petition—the bloody crusade against this beer garden. Glancing around now at what I’ve built here—this space that made me sweat and ache and bleed—I know this is more than just some project to me. Losing rugby left a hole nothing could fill... until this. Until now. Don’t get me wrong, I love Highland Legacy , but this ... this is real.
A sharp pang hits my chest as my mind drifts back to that rainy night in the car. Kicking Maisie out like that was low—arsehole behaviour of the highest order—but what would she have thought if she’d seen me falling apart? If she’d sat there while my hands locked around the wheel in a death grip, shaking so violently I could barely breathe? Flashbacks are bad enough—they don’t need an audience.
And yet, knowing all that doesn’t make me feel any better about what I did.
I close my eyes briefly as vivid memories return: rain hammering against the windscreen... my chest tightening until it felt like my ribs might snap under the pressure... forcing myself to pull over just minutes after dumping her on the roadside so I could work through my breathing exercises. It had taken nearly twenty minutes for me to feel human again—and by then, Maisie was gone.
She still thinks I kicked her out because of some flippant joke about SassyLassie being an old pervert called Big Davie. Honestly, part of me wishes that were the reason—it’d be easier to explain than admitting I’m too broken to handle heavy rain behind a wheel without spiralling into panic attacks.
I should really tell her the truth. But every time we talk—or rather, argue—it feels like we’re playing a game where neither of us knows the rules, but we’re both sure we’re losing. And naturally, that just makes us bloody furious with each other. Besides, dragging up those memories isn’t exactly high on my list of enjoyable activities. Even now, just thinking about them makes my throat constrict.
Tomorrow, I decide. Tomorrow, after the opening event, I’ll track down Maisie and explain everything. Hell, I’ll try contacting SassyLassie again too, though I don’t know if that’ll do any good.
But today? Today is about the beer garden.
I check the time on my phone. Two hours until we open. The sun blazes above without a single cloud in sight, a stroke of luck in Scotland if ever there was one. Inside the hotel kitchen, Elspeth is busy chopping and prepping for the barbecue.
It’s going to be fine. More than fine.
Closing my eyes for a second, I let out an exhale so deep it nearly doubles as a prayer. Please let folk show up.
The afternoon sun hangs high above the beer garden, drenching it in warm golden light. The place is picture-perfect—no, better than that, it’s alive . Every single seat is taken. Laughter ripples through the air, mingling with the lively buzz of conversation coming from all directions. Folk are gathered around tables dotted with half-empty glasses of beer and wine, while others stand together in loose huddles, their faces lit with animated expressions as they swap stories or catch up on gossip. Kids dart between the bouncy castle and the play area, ice creams melting faster than they can lick them. A few brave souls are locked in a battle over the giant Jenga tower, which sways precariously after each reckless tug at its wooden blocks. No casualties yet—thankfully—and I’ve mostly stopped envisioning it collapsing onto someone’s head. Mostly.
Honestly? The place is bloody packed. Families sprawl across tartan picnic rugs in the grassy areas; couples sip prosecco by the hanging baskets; and tourists stand about like they belong here, clutching pints as they soak up the sun and chatter away. It’s surreal seeing strangers in this space I built with my own hands and knowing they didn’t just wander in by chance. They came for this . For something I created.
It’s more than I could’ve hoped for when I first started putting this plan into motion, and so far everything is going brilliantly. No disasters, no complaints—hell, not even a hint of drama (which might be a first for Bannock). Elspeth and Lewis have the barbecue station running like a well-oiled machine, while the local teens I hired for face painting are crazily talented. And best of all? The tables I’ve been checking in on all afternoon keep saying the same thing: they’re happy.
Not that I’ve exactly had time to kick back and bask in my runaway success. It’s been nonstop since we opened—a blur of ferrying drinks, clearing glasses, and making small talk just long enough to seem welcoming without coming across as rude when I inevitably dash off mid-sentence to tend to something else. Emily’s been helping out where she can, but right now she’s taking a break at one of the tables. Seated next to her is Grace, and across from them are David, Grace’s brother, and his boyfriend, Johnny MacDonald.
All four of them are laughing, albeit to different degrees. Tears stream unchecked down Grace’s cheeks, while David clutches Johnny’s arm like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Johnny sits there grinning like he’s seen it all before, quietly amused by just how ridiculous they’ve got this time. And then there’s Emily, chuckling softly as she strokes slow circles over her baby bump without spilling a single drop from her glass of lemonade.
As I weave past them on my way to the snug, to sort out yet another order, Emily fixes me with a mock-stern glare and tilts her head just so.
“Don’t even think about telling me my break is over,” she warns.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I shoot back, because honestly? Like hell am I going to boss around my very pregnant sister-in-law today. “Take as long as you need.”
She gives me a sly smile before turning back to whatever over-the-top anecdote from David has Grace dissolving into giggles. I continue on to the snug but manage only six steps before someone else stops me.
“Oh, Jamie!” Cat calls out sweetly—the kind of sweet that sets alarm bells ringing if you know my sister even a little. She’s down from Wick to support me for the beer garden’s opening weekend... or, more likely, to catch up with her pals and soak up as much free booze as she can. One or the other.
Right now she’s perched on the edge of a table, chatting away with Iona, who has Bruce with her. Cat looks like she hasn’t got a care in the world, except clearly she wants something from me, and whatever it is, I can’t imagine it’ll make my life any easier. Not knowing my sister.
“Aye?” I reply warily, already bracing myself. “What is it?”
“Oh, nothing major,” she says casually, waving one hand like she’s swatting away a midge. “It’s just, you see that table over there? They asked for five pints of Golden Stag, two glasses of house white, and one house red, while that table asked for...” She pauses then turns to Iona. “Hmm, what was it again? Can you remember?”
“Hang on!” There’s an ache building behind my eyes, the kind that promises a headache later, but that’s future Jamie’s problem, isn’t it? “Let me write down that first order before you try to remember the other one.”
I take out my battered notepad, trying not to wince at the sight of three orders I haven’t even started on yet. And now there’s two more? Brilliant. With Emily on her break, it’s just me holding down the fort, and while everyone is all smiles and easy-going vibes for now, their patience might not last. If I don’t speed up, this chilled-out beer garden could turn into a riot of empty glasses and grumbling punters.
When people talk about being a victim of your own success, is this what they mean? Because I am proud of how buzzing this place is, but it’s got to be said, hanging about in an empty bar playing video games was a shitload easier than this.
“So,” I mutter, “what was it again? Five pints of?—”
“Six,” Cat interrupts breezily.
I look up and narrow my eyes at her. “Didn’t you just say five?”
“Oh, did I? Maybe that’s because... I made those orders up.” She flashes me a cheeky grin. “I just wanted to watch you panic for a minute.”
I bite back a groan. “Cat!” I say, my tone full of warning.
She winks. “Seriously, though, give me a few pages from that notepad and let me help. You’re looking pretty swamped.”
I cock my head to the side and raise an eyebrow. “Did I hear that right? Did you seriously just volunteer to help? Like, without coercion? Without being bribed? What’s going on?”
She rolls her eyes. “Consider this me earning the complimentary drinks I’ve been enjoying all afternoon. But the offer won’t last, Jamie. Take it or leave it.”
I quickly tear three pages from the notepad and hand them to her. “Taking it!”
Cat turns back to Iona. “Right, drinks to prep, but we’ll catch up more later, okay? Oh, and you, me, and Maisie need to sort a Scottish Sirens meet-up while I’m down. A proper in-person gathering!”
At Maisie’s name my brain threatens rebellion again—but no time for that right now.
As Cat strides off towards the snug—armed with my notepad pages and a level of confidence I can only hope isn’t misplaced—I crouch down by Bruce for what feels like my first real breather since we opened. Petting dogs is supposed to reduce stress, isn’t it? God knows I could use some of that right now.
“All right, big man?” I say, scratching behind one of his floppy ears. But Bruce’s soulful brown eyes are locked firmly on Lewis over at the barbecue station. Or, more specifically, on the sausages and burgers sizzling away under Lewis’s watchful eye.
Can’t say I blame him.
I follow Bruce’s gaze in time to catch Lewis blowing an absurdly dramatic kiss across the beer garden. Without missing a beat, I straighten up and snag it out of the air like this is a routine we’ve perfected over years.
“Love you too, bro!” I call out loudly enough to turn a few heads.
Lewis doesn’t so much as blink, his focus laser-sharp as he flips another burger. Not even blatant public embarrassment can rattle him when he’s fully immersed in the sacred art of barbecue.
Beside me, Iona snorts into her glass of wine. “That was meant for me, you daftie.”
“Was it?” I grin at her innocently as Bruce noses at my pocket in what appears to be an increasingly desperate plea for snacks. “Could’ve been meant for you... or Bruce... or me. We may never know.”
She shakes her head slowly in mock despair. “You might’ve pulled off something amazing here today, but you’ve not lost your bloody sense of humour.”
“And thank God for that!”
I give Bruce one last ear scratch. He lets out a mournful whine and casts another glance at the barbecue, a string of drool hanging from his jowls.
“Right then,” Iona says, “I’ll see if Aidan and Callie can distract Bruce from those tantalising smells. But seriously, Jamie, good work here. You’ve done a cracking job with everything.” With a quick smile, she leads Bruce off towards her brother, who’s currently hurrying after her adorable, pint-sized whirlwind of a niece.
Right, what now? With Cat handling those orders, maybe I should do a quick circuit of the tables and check everyone is happy? But before I can so much as take a step, Ally, my eldest brother, waves me over. Honestly, would it kill my family to cut me some slack today? I’ve got a whole crowd of customers to keep smiling. Still, I head his way to find out what he wants.
Ally lounges on a tartan blanket with Ru, his fourteen-month-old son, planted beside him. My nephew’s face is painted like a tiger, although the stripes are a bit smudged now. Wide-eyed with wonder, Ru watches Callie’s antics with a sort of adoration lighting up his wee round face.
Callie totters across the lawn with an air of determined mischief, her tiny feet surprisingly fast for someone so new to walking. Every wobble looks like it’s about to end in disaster, yet somehow she powers on unscathed. And then she spots Bruce, coming over with Iona. Her face lights up like it’s Christmas morning and she charges towards him, arms wide open. “Boose!”
Ru isn’t walking yet—or talking either—but he’s utterly enchanted by Callie. The tilt of his chubby wee face as he follows her every move says it all: he thinks she put the stars in the sky.
“Jamie, come sit for a moment.” Ally pats the rug beside him.
“I’m kind of rushed off my feet here.”
“It’ll only take a minute.” He fixes me with one of those big-brother looks that isn’t really a request at all. “You’ve got time for your eldest brother and your only nephew, don’t you?”
“All right, fine.” I plonk myself down and hold a hand up to Ru for a high five. “How’s it going, wee man?”
Ru studies me intently for a moment before offering a cautious slap against my palm. Then he goes back to watching Callie.
“So, what’s up?” I ask Ally.
“I just wanted to say... I’m impressed by what you’ve done here. Really impressed.”
The compliment—coming from him—warms my chest in a way I’m not sure how to handle, so naturally, my first instinct is to brush it off with humour. “Jesus,” I mutter. “Becoming a da has made you soft.”
Ally growls. “I was trying to be nice.”
“Aha! There’s the moody git I know and love.” I wink. “Good to have you back.”
He shakes his head. “Seriously, though, it really is impressive what you’ve done here—even if you do still have a bit of work to do on your personality.” He ruffles my hair like I’m twelve. “But listen, even if it makes you squirm to hear it, I’m proud of you, Jamie. I really am. I remember waiting in the hospital after the crash, scared out of my mind for you, and now look at you. Look at what you’ve built. Well done.”
My chest tightens at the mention of the crash, but I push the feeling aside. Today is too good to let those memories in.
“Cheers, Ally. Anyway, I really best get on.”
I get back to my feet and dive straight back into it. Orders need taking, glasses need clearing, and conversations need just enough charm from me to keep everyone happily buzzing along. It’s a rhythm now: check the tables, crack a joke here, share a quick smile there, mentally triage what needs sorting next. I’ve never worked this hard in my life, not even close, but because I built this place with my own two hands, I honestly don’t mind the graft so much.
As the afternoon slips towards evening, the families peel away one by one. Ally and Emily head off with Ru slumped fast asleep against his da’s shoulder, his tiger face paint even more smeared now but still very cute. Aidan follows soon after with Grace and Callie, who somehow still has energy left. The garden doesn’t quieten down, however. Rather, it shifts gears, filling up with childless couples and lively groups of friends, all fresh-faced and ready for a good time. Conversations grow louder; laughter rings out sharper.
On the stage Neil straps on his accordion while Eileen tunes her fiddle beside him. Scott, sporting an impressive amount of facial hair—even by Bannock standards—adjusts the height of a cymbal from behind his drum kit. They’re not big names or anything (not outside our part of Scotland anyway), but they’re local legends, the sort of band that can get any crowd tapping their feet and nodding their heads within seconds of playing their first note.
Meanwhile, Kyle is already charming small groups into sampling the distillery’s various whiskies, guiding them through each dram with the reverence of a priest delivering a sermon.
Even though I’m running on empty at this point, there’s something magical about witnessing the vibe shift without the buzz fading.
“Jamie!” Lewis calls from behind the barbecue station, where he’s still flipping burgers.
I let out an exaggerated groan then make my way toward him. “If you’re about to tell me we’ve run out of sausages again?—”
“No,” he interrupts, shooting me a rare grin as he gestures around us. “I just wanted to say... you’ve impressed me today.”
I blink at him like he’s sprouted antlers on top of that ridiculous apron he’s wearing (which reads licensed to grill in big black letters).
“Sorry,” I say dryly. “What was that? Could you repeat it? Louder this time?”
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t take it back. “Don’t make me regret saying it.” He nods towards the crowd instead. “Look at this place—it’s packed! Folk are raving about everything: the food, the drinks, the atmosphere. I didn’t think you’d actually see this through when you first suggested the idea. Thought you’d lose interest or cock something up halfway through.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “You really know how to deliver a compliment.”
He smirks. “Okay, how about this: you smashed it. Everyone loves the place, and we must be taking in a good bit of money too.”
Whoa, Ally and Lewis complimenting me on the same day? Is there a full moon or something?
Lewis continues, “Even some of the die-hard regulars from the Pheasant have shown up, like old Hamish over there by Kyle’s tasting table. Never thought we’d see him, let alone on day one.”
I glance over at Hamish and, at the sight of him, a pang of guilt sneaks in, unwelcome but insistent. Because if the Pheasant’s regulars are here instead of there...
Nope. Not going there. I worked my arse off for this, and I am not going to feel bad about pulling it off. Instead I let myself bask in the moment, taking in the laughter, the clinking glasses, and the first notes of music drifting from the stage. This is what success feels like, I realise. And damn, it feels good.