Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
MAISIE
Sunlight streams through the pub window, highlighting the dust motes drifting lazily in the still air. The Pheasant is eerily quiet. Normally, on a Saturday evening in June, this place would be packed with a lively mix of locals and tourists. But tonight? There are just three people in, sipping their drinks like they’ve got nowhere else to be. And one of them is Da.
Bloody hell.
With a sigh, I give the already spotless bar top another wipe.
Last night I prayed for rain—fat lot of good that did. It’s an absolute stunner of a day, perfect for basking in the sunshine with an ice-cold beer, not for being cooped up in a stuffy pub.
Ugh!
I toss down my cloth. “Back in a second,” I mutter to Da before heading outside. Leaning against the wall of the pub, I suck in a deep breath, hoping the fresh air will settle me. No chance. The laughter and cheerful chatter drifting down the road are impossible to ignore. Of course Jamie’s event is thriving—how could it not, with weather like this?
A huge banner spans the front of the Bannock Hotel, proudly announcing the beer garden’s grand opening. Clusters of balloons jiggle in the breeze like they’re mocking me. And the smoky scent of barbecue wafts through the air, teasing my empty stomach and making me hate Jamie even more.
A beer garden. Big deal! We’ve got real history here at the Pheasant—proper charm that you can’t fake with a bouncy castle and overpriced burgers. But apparently, folk around here are easily swayed by shiny new things. Who knew? And also, doesn’t loyalty count for anything anymore? Da’s been pulling pints for the people of this town for decades. He knows their orders before they do! And now? Now they’ve all buggered off.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting the knot of anger tightening in my chest. If folk knew that Da’s health isn’t what is used to be, maybe they’d rally around him instead of abandoning him when he needs them most.
But no. Da’s as stubborn as an old ram. He’d sooner juggle chainsaws than let people think he’s anything less than fighting fit.
With a sigh, I shove off the wall and head back into the quiet gloom of the pub. Behind the bar I fiddle with a row of glasses, nudging them into an even straighter line, though they’re already lined up like soldiers at attention. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Da heading over, carrying a half-finished pint.
“Maisie, love,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “Stop fussing. Relax. A slow day won’t kill us.”
“Aye, one day won’t. But what about tomorrow? Or next week? What if it stays this way?”
Da sets his pint down with a clink. “Ach, novelty burns bright but fizzles fast. Folk will be back. Don’t let it get under your skin.” He rests a hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.
His confidence, though, does nothing to calm me. If anything, it grates. I don’t like him brushing away my worries like they don’t matter. And maybe they don’t—to him. Because he’s got a pension waiting for him when he packs this in. Me? I’m twenty-seven years old and have no backup plan. This pub is the plan—it always has been. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I’m determined to make sure it stays not only open but busy.
“Bloody Jamie McIntyre,” I grumble. “He opens his beer garden, and suddenly all our customers are following him like rats to the Pied Piper.”
“Is there something... going on between you and Jamie?”
Da’s question catches me off-guard, and I blink at him. “Aside from him poaching our customers? Isn’t that enough?”
He arches an eyebrow. “I mean something more... personal. Something that explains why you’re so worked up about him all the time.”
A flush creeps up my neck, hot and unwelcome. “No,” I say quickly.
Because really, where do I even start with that question? Do I tell Da about how Jamie tossed me out of his car in the middle of a downpour? Aye, it is tempting to let that one slip—to Da, to Morag from the bakery, to anyone who’d listen. It’d be such an easy way to get folk turning their backs on him and his beer garden. But if Jamie decided to retaliate by sharing his version of events—a version featuring drunk me getting handsy with his unmentionables—well... no, thanks.
So instead I’ve kept my mouth shut and shoved all my feelings down, which may be why right now I feel like I may just burst.
“No, Da,” I reiterate. “There’s nothing is going on between me and Jamie.”
Da squints at me like he can see right through me, but thankfully he decides not to push further. He takes a swig of his beer then casts a glance towards our two customers. “Tell you what. Once they’re done with their drinks, let’s call it a night.”
My shoulders stiffen at his suggestion because it feels like an admission of failure. “But we never close early!”
“And we won’t make a habit of it. But you could do with a night off for once—you’ve been running yourself ragged lately.”
I huff out a resigned breath, knowing there’s no point in arguing. “Fine. But just this once.”
After Da and I close the pub early, a defeat that still stings, I can’t help myself—I have to see what all the fuss is about. Which is how I find myself at the beer garden.
The place is buzzing. Everywhere I turn, people are grinning, chatting, clinking pints and wine glasses. And, to add to my annoyance, the place looks good. Take the tables and benches, for instance. Proper solid wood—not a flimsy bit of plastic in sight—and arranged in a way that makes the most of the space. And then there’s the garden itself—blooming and immaculate, with bursts of colour and greenery.
Resentment prickles uncomfortably under my ribs, tangling messily with something else: reluctant admiration.
On the pristine lawn, a handful of oversized garden games are scattered about, each one surrounded by lively locals. Morag and Elspeth are at the giant Connect Four, wine glasses in hand, dissolving into fits of giggles every time one of them slots a piece into place. Bloody hell... this is clever—part hospitality, part entertainment, with something for everyone.
I spot Kyle at a sampling table, surrounded by locals and tourists, all hanging on his every word as he pours whisky into tiny glasses. Dammit. Yet another clever move by Jamie—using the event to deepen ties with local businesses. And it annoys me to see Hamish among the group. I can’t remember the last time he missed a Saturday night at the Pheasant—until tonight.
The Glen Garve distillery isn’t the only local business Jamie’s managed to rope in for the event. On a small stage Thistle and Reel, a band who regularly perform at the Pheasant, are playing a lively reel. A few folk are twirling each other about in impromptu dances on the grass.
The contrast to the ghostly stillness of the Pheasant earlier couldn’t be any more pronounced.
And then I see him. Jamie. He stands deep in animated conversation with a group of guests. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dark jeans that fit him far too well. His usually messy hair is still a bit tousled in that annoyingly effortless way—it suits him, always has—but tonight it seems like he’s made some attempt to tame it. There’s something different about him, though, and it’s not just the clothes. His shoulders seem broader, his stance more self-assured. He’s got a light tan now, no doubt from hours spent working out in the garden, and the changes—subtle as they are—make an undeniable impact.
It’s not fair. He’s not supposed to look this good while he’s destroying my family’s business.
I’m ready, primed to march over there and give him an earful, when someone tugs sharply at the back of my shorts. I whirl around, half-expecting to come face-to-face with some overly friendly tourist who hasn’t learned boundaries (it wouldn’t be the first time). But instead...
“Cat!” I exclaim, momentarily forgetting everything else.
The youngest McIntyre grins at me, her tiny nose stud catching the evening sunlight. With her long auburn hair and delicate features, Cat is an absolute knockout, but somehow she pulls it off without even a hint of smugness or arrogance.
“Maisie!” She pulls me in for a hug.
No sooner has she released me than Iona appears at her side, her grin as wide as Cat’s. “Look at this! We just need a few drinks and then we’ve got ourselves a proper Scottish Sirens reunion.”
“Oh, aye.” Cat loops an arm around Iona’s shoulders. “Though maybe we should rethink the name now that one of us is all domesticated, eh?” She wiggles her brows teasingly at Iona.
“Once a siren, always a siren,” I say to Iona. Though my eyes—traitorous things that they are—drift towards Jamie. He hasn’t clocked me yet. He’s too busy holding court, all charm and easy laughter. Right on cue his audience erupts into fits at something he’s said. When did he become this version of himself? I’m the one who effortless chats with locals and tourists alike as they’re drinking. Jamie’s meant to be the one who awkwardly sits at the bar in the snug, staring at his laptop rather than even pretending to be interested in anyone who’s in drinking.
“Sorry,” I blurt out abruptly to Cat and Iona. “We’ll chat more in a few minutes, okay? First there’s... er... something I need to do.”
Ignoring their puzzled looks, I stride—all right, stomp—towards Jamie before I can talk myself out of it.
His head turns as I approach, his eyes meeting mine and holding them for just a second too long. My stupid heart decides now is the time to somersault like it’s auditioning for the circus. He says something low to his group, shoots them one last grin, then excuses himself.
“Maisie! Welcome.” That maddening smirk is already tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Jamie,” I grit out.
“Let me get you a drink! On the house, of course. After all, success does taste sweeter when you can share it.” He winks.
I just scowl at him. I’m not accepting a free drink from him. But the problem with not replying to him straight away is it gives his eyes a chance to trail over me, slowly and deliberately, igniting a flush that creeps up my neck before I can stop it.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly all too conscious of the way my denim cut-offs sit on my thighs—not scandalously short, but under Jamie’s attention, they feel practically indecent. My off-the-shoulder T-shirt isn’t helping. The warm breeze skims across the sliver of skin between its hem and my shorts, leaving me torn between tugging it lower and folding my arms across my chest.
When Jamie’s gaze meets mine again, some of his playful confidence melts away into something softer... something dangerously sincere. “If we weren’t business rivals,” he murmurs, pitching his voice lower so no one but me can hear, “I might say you look bonny tonight.”
Bonny? Is he joking? With my hair scraped up into a messy blue bun that’s more bird nest than intentional style? Aye, right.
And yet... Jamie keeps looking at me like he actually means it, with those intense eyes searching mine before flicking back down as though he can’t help but take in my appearance a second time.
“Oi! My eyes are up here, McIntyre.” It’s not that I hate the way Jamie’s looking at me—if anything, it’s unsettling how much I don’t—but he’s the enemy. I can’t let him stand there giving me the once-over.
“Aye... sorry.” A crooked, almost bashful smile tugs at Jamie’s lips before his expression shifts into something more thoughtful. “I’ve been meaning to have a word with you. Planned to seek you out tomorrow, actually.”
“Oh, aye? And what exactly did you want to chat about?”
“Er...” He rubs the back of his neck. “Remember what happened on the drive back from the distillery?”
“Of course I bloody remember.” My voice is sharp enough to turn more than a few heads. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you forget. You tossed me out of your car in the middle of a downpour and left me to traipse home in the lashing rain!”
A few more heads turn. Jamie’s cheeks flush and he runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up.
“You know what,” he says in a low voice, “at your pub quiz, you asked me to step outside for a chat—and I think you had the right idea. Maybe we should go somewhere quieter to talk rather than doing it here.”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
So I follow Jamie through a back gate in a tall hedge, which leads to a tidy gravel driveway in which a couple of cars are parked outside a double garage.
Jamie stops in the middle of the driveway, glancing back at me as I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him. “Right,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck again. “If you do start shouting at me, how loud are you likely to get? I’m just wondering if the hedge is enough soundproofing, or if we should add a wall to be safe.”
“I’ve been cooped up in an empty pub all day watching customers flock to your beer garden,” I say. “How do you think my mood is holding up? Once I get going, no hedge in Scotland will be able to muffle me.”
He chuckles under his breath and nods toward the garage. “Well then, better safe than sorry.”
He leads us into the garage. There are no cars in here, but there is a lot of outdoor-activity equipment, including paddleboards, climbing harnesses, helmets, and more. Jamie’s brother, Ally, must use this as a storage spot for Bannock Adventures, the business he runs with Aidan Stewart. Still, there’s room for us both to stand.
“So.” I cross my arms over my chest and lift my chin. “Decided to apologise, have you? Did you consider that maybe it’s a bit late for that? And now I’ve got more things to be angry about than just the rainy walk home.”
Jamie exhales heavily, his fingers raking through that unruly hair of his, and for half a second I wonder if it feels as soft as it looks.
“Er... aye. Well. This isn’t exactly easy for me, but the thing is?—”
“Do you even care that the Pheasant was so quiet we had to shut it today?” I cut him off, stepping closer before I can think better of it. “You’ve stolen everyone away... you’ve even poached the bloody band!”
“To be fair,” Jamie replies with maddening calmness, “Thistle and Reel are hardly your band. They’ve done a few ceilidhs in our function room.”
“Argh!” I curl my hands into fists just to stop myself from grabbing his stupidly crisp shirt. “You’re infuriating!”
“ I’m infuriating?” Jamie’s eyes flash as he takes a step closer. “You’re the one who went around town bad-mouthing my beer garden before it was even open!”
“I was simply doing my civic duty by giving people a heads-up.”
“Civic duty?” Jamie scoffs. “You’ve seen the beer garden. You’ve seen how much folk are enjoying it—how it’s brought everyone together. You think that’s not good for the community?”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Oh aye, Jamie, because what this town really needs to thrive is fairy lights and giant Jenga.”
Rather than respond immediately, Jamie and crosses his arms over his chest. The movement pulls the fabric of his shirt taut across his shoulders and chest, accentuating a physique I swear he didn’t have a few months ago.
“People have been loving the garden games. You may want to give them a go—you might actually have fun. The chess might be a bit above your head, but I’m sure you could manage Connect Four.”
I narrow my eyes.
“It’s nice and straightforward. It even comes in bright colours to help keep your attention.”
I step in closer still, tilting my head with a sugary-sweet smile. “You reckon you’re hilarious, don’t you? Newsflash, Jamie, you’re not. Actually, your jokes are pretty terrible.”
There’s the tiniest flicker in his jaw—a pulse that tells me I’m striking a nerve. “Oh, aye? Well, you seem to think dyeing your hair a bright colour makes you interesting. Newsflash ”—he does a high-pitched mockery of my voice—“it really doesn’t.”
I gasp and take yet another step forwards. Which is a mistake as suddenly I’m achingly aware of everything about him: his folded strong forearms just inches from my chest; the woodsy-spicy scent of his aftershave; the almost imperceptible way his throat bobs.
“It does too!” Okay, so not exactly a winning comeback, but it’s hard to think straight when my brain is too busy cataloguing the little flecks of gold at the centre of Jamie’s irises.
For a moment he doesn’t say anything. His gaze locks on mine, steady and unreadable, before it dips—slowly, deliberately—to my lips. My stupid heart thunders in response, hammering so loudly I’m certain he can hear it. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough. “You’re awfully close, Maisie.”
He doesn’t move back. Doesn’t even blink. The words hang heavy in the sliver of air between us until his eyes drag back up to mine. “Sure you’re just here to argue?”
“What else would I be here for?” My words come out steadier than I feel—a small personal victory.
Jamie’s mouth curves into something wicked and impossibly sexy. “I can think of a few things...” His voice drops even lower, then his hand finds my waist, his thumb brushing over the bare skin where my top rides up ever so slightly.
A spark ignites beneath his touch, hot and consuming, and suddenly I’m clutching at his shirt—not to push him away but to pull him closer. There’s no distance left between us now. Just warmth—so much warmth radiating from him it’s ridiculous—and his aftershave messing with what little focus I have left.
God help me.
“I hate you,” I whisper hoarsely. I really do—or at least I did. But right now? Right now my body is determined to betray every shred of logic screaming at me to step away.
“No,” Jamie murmurs with maddening certainty, dipping his head, his breath a whisper against my lips. “You don’t.”
The moment stretches unbearably taut between us until finally— finally —it snaps.
I’m not sure who moves first, but the next thing I know, our mouths are crashing together like every sharp word and buried feeling has finally burst free in a collision of heat and frustration. His lips are firm against mine, carrying the faint taste of smoky whisky and something deeper, something intoxicatingly elusive that leaves my thoughts spinning.
My fingers twist tighter into the fabric of his shirt while his hand curls possessively around my waist, holding me against him like he has no intention of letting go.
Whatever clarity or common sense I had left dissolves into nothingness as the kiss deepens, blotting out everything else: time, place, even reason itself. I barely register that I’m moving until my back meets the rough, unyielding surface of the garage wall. The jarring contrast—the cold bite of concrete and the blistering warmth of his body—sends a shiver through me.
The scrape of his stubble against my skin... the way his lips move over mine like he’s determined to leave no part unexplored... his chest pressed close to me, every shallow breath I take matched by his deeper ones...
For a brief, blessed moment, all I can think about is how good this feels—and then I feel it . Him. That unmistakable press of arousal, firm and insistent against my stomach. A flush spreads through me—hot and heady—curling low in my belly like steam building under pressure.
Laughter carries from the garden, mingling with the strains of music, but it seems so far removed from this moment that it could be happening in another world entirely.
I slide my fingers over the hard planes of his shoulders, mapping every muscle beneath that crisp shirt, then bury them in his hair. It’s even softer than I expected, but I don’t linger on that thought. Instead I give it a firm tug, and the sound that rumbles out of him—a low, guttural groan—vibrates straight through me.
Jamie leans back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes wild now, gold flecks burning bright amidst the hazel. “Maisie.” That’s all he says—my name—but he says it in such a deep, gravelly tone, and with such desire, that it steals away what little breath I have left.
A faint voice of reason stirs somewhere in the fog of want, warning me to stop—to remember all the reasons this shouldn’t happen—but Jamie doesn’t leave room for coherent thought. He slides his hands down to grip my thighs then lifts me off the ground and pins me to the wall. For half a second, something flickers inside me—logic clawing at its final chance—then the hard ridge of his cock presses exactly where I need it, and any hesitation crumbles. Instinct overtakes me before I can stop it, and my legs lock around his waist, drawing him closer.
Jamie moves with purpose now, grinding against me in slow, deliberate rolls that have me biting back a moan. Our mouths collide again, but there’s no finesse left in either of us—just heat and need and almost frantic desperation. He kisses me like he’s trying to devour me whole, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with unrestrained hunger even as one hand slides beneath my T-shirt to skim along bare skin. The calluses on his fingers heighten every sensation, exploring upwards until they reach the edge of my bra.
I should stop this—I know I should—but it’s impossible when everything about him sets fire to my senses: the taste of whisky lingering on his lips; the woodsy scent clinging to him; the way he growls low in his throat when I arch against him. My nails scrape along the nape of his neck lightly at first but then harder. Then he shifts just right and oh ?—
My head drops back against the wall with a barely contained whimper.
“Fuck,” Jamie mutters, burying his face against my neck as though trying to steady himself—though judging by how tightly he’s gripping me, steady isn’t really an option for either of us anymore.
His hips move again, and dear God, if this keeps up much longer...
This is madness. Pure insanity.
And then?—
“Jamie! Where are you, mate?” A sharp male voice cuts through the haze like a bucket of icy water.
Jamie freezes instantly, and suddenly we’re both holding our breath as if staying perfectly still will somehow make whoever it is bugger off and leave us alone. We exchange wide-eyed glances, the heat between us still thrumming even though neither one of us dares move another inch.
“Shit,” Jamie murmurs, a mix of frustration and regret lacing the word. His shirt is rumpled where my fist gripped it, his hair sticking up wildly thanks to my wandering fingers. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, and his lips, swollen from our kiss, part slightly as if ready to say something but unsure what. I can’t ignore how he feels against me either: solid, warm, and... damn it, still hard. The heat of him lingers between us, radiating like a fire that refuses to die down.
And yet, like an unwelcome guest at the worst possible moment, reality forces its way back in. The strains of ceilidh music; the chatter and laughter. The world is waiting just beyond these walls—a world where Jamie McIntyre isn’t supposed to make me feel like this.
“Jamie,” I manage finally. “You need to put me down.”
For a moment he doesn’t move. Hesitation flickers in his eyes, and his hands remain firm against my thighs. But then he exhales sharply—something low and frustrated slipping between his teeth—and sets me carefully back on trembling legs.
The second my feet touch the ground, I step out of his reach like he’s suddenly turned radioactive. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape my chest entirely. And although I can feel his gaze boring into me, I don’t dare meet it.
“Maisie—” His voice is rough with something unspoken. Regret? Frustration? Desire? Maybe all three, but I cut him off before he can say anything else.
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “I... I have to go.” I swiftly move towards the garage door.
Jamie calls my name again, rough and hoarse, but I don’t look back. I slip outside and then away as fast as my legs will carry me.
What happened back there wasn’t part of the plan. And it can never, ever happen again.