My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander (Highland Chaos #3)

Chapter 1

FINN

Welcome to Glenfield

(Or How to Get Blacklisted in Three Simple Lessons)

The little stone cottage seems to glare at me with the same suspicion as the villagers while I stand in front of Moira MacTavish’s gate, medical bag in hand.

The shutters are a faded green that probably looked cheerful twenty years ago.

Now they hang slightly crooked, like they’ve given up trying to make a good impression.

Exactly like me.

Scottish rain has this particularly unpleasant habit of never fully falling. It hovers. Creeps into everything. Slips through the smallest gap between my jacket collar and the back of my neck just to remind me I have no business being here.

I push open the gate, which groans in protest at my presence, and head up the dirt path. My shoes make a strange sucking sound in the wet ground.

I’ve only been in Glenfield a few weeks, but I already feel like an actor who forgot his lines halfway through a play no one ever handed him the script for.

I knock on the door. Two firm, professional knocks. The kind that say, I’m a doctor. I’m here to help. Please open the door. Or at least, that’s what I imagine they say.

Shuffling footsteps echo inside, followed by the sound of a chain being removed. The door cracks open a few inches, revealing a faded blue eye studying me with all the warmth usually reserved for vacuum salesmen.

“Mrs. MacTavish? I’m Dr. McLeod. We had an appointment for your blood pressure check.”

The door opens a little wider. Gray hair pulled into a severe bun, beige cardigan buttoned all the way to her throat, tartan slippers on her feet, the old woman stares at me with sharp suspicion.

Moira MacTavish can’t be more than five feet tall, but she has the kind of look that’s probably terrified generations of children in this village.

“I know who you are,” she replies in a voice about as welcoming as a January blizzard. “You’re late.”

I glance at my watch.

“It’s exactly two o’clock. Our appointment was scheduled for two.”

“Dr. McKinnon always arrived ten minutes early,” she shoots back, folding her arms. “Said it gave me time to finish my tea.”

Of course he did.

“I apologize for the... inconvenience,” I say carefully, forcing my tone to stay neutral. “May I come in?”

She steps aside reluctantly, and I walk into a living room that smells faintly of beeswax mixed with something else I can’t quite place.

Everything is immaculate. Lace doilies cover every flat surface.

An antique clock ticks steadily somewhere in the room, and for one brief moment, I think I’d rather face Vecna than deal with this woman.

Unfortunately for me, no Netflix monster is going to save me from doing my job.

I turn my attention back to Mrs. MacTavish.

“Have a seat,” she orders, pointing at an armchair covered in floral fabric that probably survived two world wars.

I sit down and open my medical bag. I pull out the blood pressure cuff with precise, practiced movements.

This is what I know how to do. What I’m good at.

Or at least... what I used to be good at.

I shove the thought away and focus on my patient.

“How have you been feeling since our last appointment?”

“You mean the appointment where you barely looked me in the eye while typing on your little computer?”

My head snaps up. She’s staring at me, lips pinched tight.

“I was taking notes for your medical chart, Mrs. MacTavish. That’s standard procedure.”

“Dr. McKinnon never needed a computer. He knew me. He knew I drink my tea at exactly four o’clock, that I hate pink pills, that my Arthur died five years ago and I’ve lived alone ever since. He knew everything.”

The guilt hits me like icy water.

I should say something. Apologize. Show empathy. That’s what they teach us in medical school—listen to the patient, not just the symptoms.

But the words lodge in my throat, same as always.

“I understand that this transition may be difficult,” I finally manage. “Dr. McKinnon was your physician for a long time. But I’m here now, and I can assure you you’ll receive the best care possible.”

She sniffs.

“The best care possible,” she repeats. “You young city doctors all sound the same. Everything’s ‘protocol’ and ‘procedure.’ But you don’t know how to actually see people.”

I clench my jaw and wrap the cuff around her arm, maybe a little more roughly than necessary.

“If you could remain quiet during the reading, please.”

The silence that follows is about as comfortable as hugging a cactus. I listen to her heartbeat through my stethoscope, counting silently.

One forty-five over ninety-two.

Too high.

“Your blood pressure is higher than it should be,” I say as I remove the cuff. “Are you taking your medication regularly?”

“Every morning with my porridge. Same as always.”

“We may need to adjust the dosage. I’m going to prescribe—”

“Dr. McKinnon said stress was what raised my blood pressure. He told me to drink chamomile tea, take evening walks, and avoid talking to people who irritate me.”

The look she gives me makes it very clear which category I belong in.

I close my eyes for a second. Count to three.

“Chamomile tea is excellent for relaxation,” I agree, “but it doesn’t replace antihypertensive medication. At these levels, your blood pressure puts you at serious risk for cardiac complications.”

“See? That’s exactly what I mean. You don’t see. All you see are numbers and risks. Dr. McKinnon saw me.”

Something inside me cracks.

Not violently. More like a fracture spreading slowly through glass.

“Mrs. MacTavish, I am not Dr. McKinnon. I will never be Dr. McKinnon. But I am a competent physician trying to do his job. If my presence bothers you that much, you’re free to see another doctor.”

The words come out sharper than I intended.

Moira MacTavish’s face hardens like stone.

“Oh, I can see exactly what kind of doctor you are, Dr. McLeod. The kind who has no business practicing in a village where people actually know and care about each other.”

She stands, trembling with either anger or outrage—I’m not sure which.

“I think this appointment is over.”

“Mrs. MacTavish—”

“I said it’s over. Get out of my house.”

I pack up my equipment with mechanical movements, neck stiff, jaw tight. I don’t look at her. I can’t.

If I look at her, I’ll say something I regret.

Or worse, I’ll apologize, and I don’t even know why I should apologize for being professional.

I head for the door, medical bag in hand.

“Your blood pressure is dangerously high,” I say without turning around. “I strongly advise you to schedule another appointment in the next few days. With me or another physician.”

“Get out.”

The door closes behind me.

Not violently. Not with some dramatic movie-worthy slam. No. Worse than that.

Firm. Final. Absolute.

The kind of closing that says: You are not welcome here. And you never will be.

I stay frozen on the porch while the rain intensifies around me.

Of course it does.

Because Scottish weather apparently has a flair for melodrama.

My hair starts sticking to my forehead. Water seeps into my new shoes, which are definitely not made for muddy Highland roads. I should move. Head back to the clinic. Fill out my notes. See the next patient.

But I stay there, rooted in place with that familiar feeling eating away at my insides.

The one I know far too well from Edinburgh.

You’re not good enough.

You never will be.

Movement catches my attention.

Across the street, a woman in her fifties is watering her flowers despite the rain. She’s staring at me. I hold her gaze for one second. Two.

She looks away first and hurries back inside.

Fantastic.

News travels fast in a village this small. By tonight, all of Glenfield will know the new doctor got thrown out of Moira MacTavish’s house. By tomorrow, half my patients will probably cancel their appointments.

I walk down the path, push through the squeaking gate, and head toward the car parked three houses away. An old Land Rover Nate loaned me until I buy one of my own.

“You can’t drive a city-boy sedan in the Highlands, Finn. You’ll wreck it in a week.”

My cousin was right.

Only the car isn’t the problem.

I slide behind the wheel and sit there watching rain stream down the windshield. My phone buzzes in my pocket. A message from the clinic receptionist.

“Mrs. Campbell canceled her 3 p.m. appointment. Family emergency apparently.”

Of course she did.

I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and start the engine. The wipers struggle against the downpour. The road cutting through Glenfield is deserted, the villagers barricaded inside their warm homes, surrounded by people who’ve known them their entire lives.

Meanwhile, I’m driving toward an empty clinic in a village that hates me, trying to outrun a past that still chases me into my dreams.

Welcome to the Highlands, Dr. McLeod.

The sign reading GLENFIELD MEDICAL CLINIC appears through the curtain of rain. I park in front of the small building, cut the engine, and remain sitting in the silence broken only by the drumming rain on the roof.

Coming here isn’t a fresh start.

It’s just another way to run.