Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MAISIE
I haul the last crate of empty glasses out of the beer tent and dump it into the back of the van with a wee bit more force than necessary. My hands are steady as I tidy up after the Games, but my brain is a riot—spinning and tumbling through every worst-case scenario I can dream up. What if Jamie’s full-frontal race finish ruins everything? My followers, my profile, all the plans I’ve made for future content—it could all come crashing down.
Near me, Da works efficiently in his usual no-nonsense way, folding up tables and stacking chairs into neat piles. I’ve reminded him on multiple occasions to take a break whenever he needs one, but he claims he’s all right. We mostly work in silence, the tension from our earlier clash hanging unspoken between us.
The clean-up is repetitive and methodical—the kind of task that should soothe me—but my nerves are frayed too thin for that. I still can’t believe Jamie crossed the finish line stark naked for all the world to see. And by “the world,” I mean my world: my followers, who now probably think I’m running some kind of OnlyFans-lite account for accidental-nudity enthusiasts. The sound of laughter from another part of the field floats past—other stallholders tidying up, buzzing with gossip and no doubt replaying the day’s events. I can only imagine what they’re saying about Jamie’s grand finale.
The one small mercy is that Kyle and other staff from the distillery have taken charge of cleaning up Jamie’s tent. Emily is there too—more to supervise than to lend a hand, given her bump. She’s cast a few glances my way, clearly trying to catch my eye, but I’ve made a point of looking anywhere but at her. I’m sure she’s figured out by now that I’m not ready to go over the whole fiasco just yet.
What hurts the most is how perfect it had all been up until that moment. Jamie charging up the hill, his kilt swishing with every powerful stride, his calves flexing as if sculpted by some divine hand. He reminded me of a Highland warrior—of LochNLoad. And he was running for me—no, for us . But instead of a triumphant ending, we got... well, more of Jamie than anyone asked for.
Once our beer tent stands empty, it’s time to dismantle it. Da gestures to the nearest peg. “Start with those.”
I kneel and wrestle it loose from the ground. The tension of being at odds with both my father and Jamie is gnawing at me, so I say, “About what I said earlier...”
“It needed saying.” Da doesn’t look at me but instead focuses on loosening a peg of his own. “I’ve been too damned stubborn for too damned long. You were right to call me out on it.”
A lump rises in my throat but I swallow it back then grip another peg. “I love you, Da. You know that, right? If I’ve been stressed lately, it’s only because I care—about you and about keeping the Pheasant going strong.”
He keeps his head down but nods once, a small gesture of understanding. “Aye, I know. And you’re right—we need to face things head-on rather than me burying my head in the sand like some daft old fool. Which is why we’ll sit down soon and figure it all out. Together.”
The heaviness in my chest shifts—not gone, but lighter by just enough that I can breathe again. That’s one problem chipped away, at least.
Straightening, I glance at Da—his hair flecked with silver, his hands calloused from years of work—and my throat tightens again, this time for entirely different reasons. I step closer and squeeze his arm gently. “Thanks, Da.”
Not everything is fixed—not even close—but it’s a start.
We work in companionable silence after that, peeling away the canvas bit by bit until only the bare skeleton of the tent remains. As we’re folding the canvas up, Elspeth appears. She exchanges a few words with Emily across the way before heading in our direction with her usual no-nonsense stride.
“I’m not going to bring up what happened at the race!” she announces pre-emptively, glancing my way. “I’ll leave that for you young folk to sort among yourselves. But, Bryce, do you have a few minutes for a chat?”
“Aye,” Da says. “It’s the perfect moment for a wee break.”
Oh, is it now? It’s funny how any time I suggested he have a rest, he didn’t want to hear it, but now that Elspeth brings it up, it’s a brilliant idea.
I can’t help but remember Jamie’s claim at my Bannock-themed pub quiz that Da and Elspeth were flirting. At the time I’d assumed it was one of his usual wind-ups, but maybe he was on to something. Still, I’ve got more than enough on my plate at the moment without adding their potential love lives. That’s a mystery for Future Me to dig into. For now, a quick break sounds like just what I need, especially since it’ll give me an excuse to check in on social media. I’ve been putting that off—I wasn’t exactly in the right headspace earlier—but the tidy-up work has helped.
Da and I agree to continue in ten, then I wander off to a quiet spot near the edge of the field. Sitting on the grass, I pull out my phone, take a deep breath, then check in on my profile. I think I have some idea of what I’m about to face, but it turns out it’s even worse than I expected. A lot worse.
Oh no. Oh bloody hell.
Apparently, after the livestream ended, the video automatically uploaded to my timeline for people to rewatch. I didn’t know it did that! Today was my very first time going live—I’m still learning how it all works.
My stomach lurches as I stare wide-eyed at the stats. The number of views is astronomical—the highest I’ve seen since my very first video, about the stone circle. And there’s been an explosion of new followers since earlier today.
Normally, I’d be thrilled by this kind of attention, but not for this. What exactly do these new followers think they’ve signed up to watch?
And then there are the comments. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Bracing myself, I scroll through them.
The laughing emojis alone could probably fill a novel. Then come the jokes—terrible, shameless jokes that somehow still manage to coax a reluctant laugh from me:
Well, that’s one way to cross the finish line!
Now we know where the Loch Ness Monster has been hiding!
Came for the race, stayed for the unexpected show!
Is this what they mean by ‘Free Willy’?
A Scottish underwear company has even chimed in uninvited, tagging the post with some clever bit of marketing about why their boxer briefs are an essential investment for Highland Games competitors everywhere. Honestly? Fair play to their social media manager—that was quick work.
I scroll faster, expecting outrage or complaints buried somewhere in the flood of hysterics, but... there’s nothing. Not one hint of public fury or even a sniff of controversy. No accusations of indecency or cries to cancel me—or Jamie, for that matter. If anything, everyone seems delighted by how ridiculous and utterly human it all was. They’re laughing with him, not at him, and everyone seems to understand that my broadcasting of the moment was entirely accidental.
This revelation puts a dent in my panic—not enough to completely calm me, but enough for me to start believing that I might just survive this.
There’s only one sensible thing left to do: delete the video before anyone else has time to share it—or worse, download it for posterity.
My finger hovers over the delete button... and stops.
Is it bad if... maybe... just quickly... I give it a watch? It’s not like I properly registered what was going on at the time—I was too busy careening headfirst into sheer panic. And now that everyone else has seen it anyway...
I tap play before my brain can talk me out of it.
The video starts innocently enough—crowds cheering as competitors hurtle down the hill. Jamie, Lewis, and Ally lead the pack. But then Lewis is grabbing Jamie’s kilt, Jamie is loosening it, and...
Oh God. His bits. The flapping is almost hypnotic, and yet he charges on, utterly undeterred.
A snort escapes me before I can stop it, followed by another, and soon I’m laughing so hard my ribs ache. Because honestly? It’s absurdly funny watching someone so committed that they barrel through social norms with reckless abandon. There’s something utterly ridiculous yet weirdly admirable about it—about him.
And suddenly I see it: Jamie being exactly who he is in this moment—bold to the point of reckless, too stubborn to quit even when he probably should have, and somehow managing to laugh at the chaos of it all without breaking stride. Only Jamie could make utter humiliation look this damn charming.
And, what’s more, he did it! He won the bloody race, against all odds and after everything he’s endured.
Thinking back to how I acted afterwards, shame washes over me. He held out his arms to me for a congratulatory hug, but I didn’t give it to him. Instead I snapped at him, wiping the proud grin right off his face. It was his moment, but I made it all about me and my stupid social media account. Why couldn’t I just have laughed along with everyone else? Thrown my arms around him and told him how bloody incredible he is?
God, I’m such an idiot.
My finger once again hovers over the delete button. Part of me doesn’t want to press it, not because of what’s in the video but because of what it represents: Jamie being so unapologetically Jamie. That maddening streak in him that drives me up the wall but also makes me ache with something I’m not quite ready to name yet.
But this clip shouldn’t live on the internet for all eternity, and Jamie deserves a bit of his modesty back. I hit delete then lay my phone down on the grass beside me.
I should really head back soon and help Da finish tidying up, but later today I have got my work cut out. First: damage control. My followers might think the whole fiasco was comedy gold—and fair enough, it was—but I’ll need to post a new video to get things back on track. I don’t want anyone expecting more of that type of content from me.
Second, and far more importantly, I owe Jamie an apology. Because if the man is willing to win a race for me—with his bits out, no less—then maybe it’s time I stop focusing on why we wouldn’t work and start thinking about why we could .
Aye, his beer garden rubs me the wrong way. But am I really going to let a business grudge keep me from someone who might just be my shot at happiness?
No. Not anymore.
It’s time to stop being too scared—or too proud—to admit how I actually feel.
And maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to deal with my followers and my feelings in one bold move. Because in every romcom film, it all boils down to the grand gesture, right?
If Jamie can bare it all—literally—for me, then surely I can muster the courage to bare my heart for him.
It’s evening and I’m back on Ben Garve. After the chaos of earlier, the hill feels eerily still, save for the occasional bleat of a sheep and the soft whisper of the breeze through the grass. No racers or spectators now—just me, the heathery slopes, and an increasingly ominous grey sky.
A fat droplet of rain splashes onto my head. Brilliant. So much for the perfect weather we had earlier. I glance upwards as more droplets begin to fall, speckling my hoodie. Hopefully it won’t turn into a full-on downpour.
All right. Here goes nothing.
I pull out my phone, run a hand through my hair—useless, it’s already curling in the damp air—then tap the Go Live button before I can second-guess myself. Viewers join quickly, one after another. I wave at the screen, a nervous smile tugging at my lips.
“Hi, everyone! Thanks for joining,” I say cheerily, watching the numbers rise. My stomach performs nervous little somersaults as names flood in, usernames I recognise popping up alongside new ones. But there’s only one name I’m looking for—and it’s not here yet.
The rain thickens, turning into a proper drizzle. I shield my phone with one hand and force a laugh. “Ah, Scotland in summer,” I quip. “If you were watching earlier today, you saw how gloriously sunny it was. It’s amazing how quickly the weather can change.”
At this, the comments come flooding in faster than the rain:
I was watching earlier
Sunny? Didn’t notice. Was too distracted by other... things.
#TheHighlandFlash 4eva!
I bite back a groan and keep my expression light-hearted even as heat creeps up my neck at all the innuendo.
The longer I wait for him to appear in the viewers list, the harder it is not to get discouraged. Maybe he doesn’t want to watch this nonsense—maybe he’s avoiding me altogether after how I snapped at him earlier.
No. Stop spiralling, Maisie. You’re here for a reason.
Clearing my throat, I press on. “So... aye... there are some things we need to talk about. Like a certain unexpected event that occurred during today’s race.”
Predictably, the comments explode with laughing emojis.
Where’s the guy who won? Asking for a friend.
That guy had balls... literally AND figuratively!
When is next year’s kilt run? Because I NEED tickets.
Can we get a slow-mo replay please?
My eyes catch on that last comment, and suddenly my brain is unhelpfully obliging, flashing me a crystal-clear mental image of slow-motion Jamie: arms and legs pumping, bits bouncing like some wildly inappropriate sports highlight. A laugh slips out before I can stop it, a high-pitched giggle that I quickly smother with a cough. Oh God. Get it together, Maisie. Focus.
And then I see it: LochNLoad. My pulse stutters as his name appears in the list of viewers.
Right. This is it. No turning back.
“So,” I say, louder now to combat both rising nerves and rising rain, the latter of which is steadily soaking through my clothes and threatening to turn my phone into an expensive paperweight any moment now. “First off, thank you to everyone who tuned in earlier for having such a good sense of humour about... well, everything. I had no idea the race would feature full-frontal male nudity—that was a bit of a surprise! And while I’m glad the video gave many of you a good laugh, I want to make one thing absolutely clear: it was an accident and you won’t be getting any more content like that from me.”
The comments come fast and furious:
Booooo! Bring back #TheHighlandFlash
SassyLassie blushing while talking about nudity—she’s so pure!
Did you really delete it, though? Or is there a secret archive somewhere?
No more nudity? Unfollowing immediately. (joke!)
Girl, you could have charged ￡5 per view for that video and retired tomorrow.
I can’t stop my lips from twitching at some of them—God help me, the internet is relentless—but I push on. “There’s something else I want to say... something important. And, believe it or not, it involves the man you all saw today... saw rather a lot of, in fact.”
My heart thuds against my ribs as I glance again at his username in the viewer list. He’s watching. He’s actually watching this. And, oh God, the comments keep rolling in—playful, cheeky, some downright naughty.
Suddenly it occurs to me that choosing this moment to declare my feelings—when strangers on social media are making jokes about his very public private parts parade—might not be my finest idea. Maybe this was a mistake. And, anyway, what if he doesn’t feel the same way about me?
Maybe I should just stop this right now. Laugh it off like I was only joking—pivot into something safer before this spirals out of control. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time I bottled up what I really wanted to say because it felt easier than taking a risk.
But no. After everything that’s happened today—Jamie’s boldness, his utter determination—I can’t chicken out. This is about taking my own leap.
It’s at this point that the rain goes from drizzle to torrential downpour in about two seconds flat. It drips off my nose and speckles the phone screen even as I shield it with one hand.
“Jesus!” I yelp with a laugh. “Is this nature’s way of telling me this is a bad idea? Because, if so, tough luck—I’m not listening! There’s something I need to say and I can’t hold it in anymore!”
The viewers are eating this up:
Spill already!
Go on, SassyLassie. Don’t leave us hanging!
I pull my hood up as much as possible and start walking—for no reason other than nerves making me unable to keep still. The hillside stretches out around me in misty greens and purples as the rain somehow turns even heavier.
“That man you all saw today—the winner of the hill race—is someone I know very well,” I say carefully. “He runs a small bar just down the road from where I work at the Pheasant. He recently opened a beer garden there, and that has been the bane of my existence recently.” My steps quicken as adrenaline surges through me.
“There’s been plenty of rivalry between us these past few months, but also something else.” My voice catches.
Comments come in, people excitedly guessing where this might be going.
“Anyway, I have a confession to make. After the race, I wasn’t happy with him—with Jamie. That’s his name, by the way. Jamie. I’m not proud of myself for this, but I lost my temper with him. And now, well, I feel bloody terrible about that. So, Jamie, if you’re watching this”—my eyes flick to the viewer list, confirming LochNLoad is indeed still there—“I want to say I’m sorry. From the very bottom of my heart.”
My fingers tighten on my phone, nervous energy propelling me further along the hillside, my trainers squelching against the sodden grass. “Jamie, I also want—no, need —to say something else to you. Something... bigger.”
But before I can get the words out, my foot betrays me. It slides on a patch of slick, traitorous grass like a cartoon banana peel and sends me pitching forward with a yelp. I catch myself before I faceplant—and at the same time the ground ahead catches my attention. And not in a good way.
“Holy shit,” I whisper. Because just a few inches beyond my toes is a very steep drop.
That was close. Too close.
“Right,” I say to the camera, aiming for calm and perhaps overshooting into manic cheerfulness. “Quick tip for all you lovely viewers out there: when livestreaming your romantic confessions from an extremely wet hillside, please do watch where you’re going. Don’t do what I just did and?—”
Something snaps beneath me with a loud crack . The next thing I know I’m lurching forward, my arms flailing wildly, my phone flying out of my hand?—