Chapter 11
FINN
Operation Grumpy Sheep
(Or How to Improve Your Acting Skills)
So far, my day can be summed up in three words: catastrophe, disaster, and humiliation.
Nine a.m. appointment: canceled via voicemail at 8:55. Sorry, Doctor, I don’t actually feel that bad anymore.
Ten-thirty appointment: the patient showed up, stared at me for thirty seconds, then announced he’d rather wait for McKinnon to come back. I pointed out that McKinnon wasn’t coming back. He looked at me like I’d personally run over his dog and left without another word.
Two p.m. appointment: Old Angus came in complaining about “knee pain that comes and goes.” I examined him for twenty minutes. He had absolutely nothing wrong with him. Eventually, he admitted he’d mostly wanted to “check if I was any better today.”
Verdict: still disappointingly inferior to McKinnon.
By four o’clock, I give up and decide to close the clinic. Not because it’s time. Just because sitting alone in an empty office staring at the wall becomes deeply depressing after a while.
As I cross the main street toward my Land Rover, I run into Moira MacTavish.
She sees me... and immediately crosses the street to avoid me.
“Seriously, Mrs. MacTavish?”
But the woman just stares at her feet and walks faster.
I climb into my car and sit there with my hands gripping the steering wheel, wondering for the hundredth time why I accepted this position in the Highlands.
My phone buzzing drags me out of my thoughts.
MARY
Meet me at the Grumpy Sheep at seven. We’re starting tonight.
I stare at the message, my attention snagging on We’re starting tonight.
She means the fake dating operation. The absurd plan we came up with at three in the morning over warm milk and dark chocolate cookies. The plan that had seemed oddly reasonable in the haze of sleep deprivation and now feels completely insane in broad daylight.
And yet, I type back:
FINN
Okay.
Then I start the engine and drive back to the guesthouse, fully aware that in a few hours, I’m going to have to perform for the entire village.
“Fantastic. Truly fantastic,” I mutter.
At exactly seven p.m., I push open the door to the Grumpy Sheep.
The smell of fried food and beer hits me instantly. The pub is half full, which in Glenfield basically means there are fifteen people inside.
Fifteen people who are all going to talk about whatever they see tonight.
No pressure.
Mary is already there, seated at a table in the middle of the room. Not tucked away in some discreet corner. No, she’s planted directly in the center, strategically positioned where everyone can see her.
She waves at me with an easy smile that seems to say, Relax. This is going to be fine.
I am anything but relaxed.
I walk across the pub under a dozen curious stares. Duncan Fraser is there, naturally. Ewan’s behind the bar. And three women I don’t recognize are openly staring at me with undisguised interest from a nearby table.
I sit across from Mary.
“Hey,” she says lightly.
“Hey.”
“You look tense.”
“I’m not tense.”
“Your jaw’s clenched so hard I can practically hear your teeth grinding from here.”
I loosen my jaw.
Mary leans slightly closer and lowers her voice.
“Here’s the plan: we get to know each other in public. Two coworkers-slash-roommates having a drink together. Nothing dramatic. Just be... natural.”
“Natural,” I repeat skeptically.
“Exactly. We talk. We laugh. We look like two normal people enjoying each other’s company.”
“I’m not particularly good at looking like I’m enjoying myself.”
She bites her lip, her eyes sparkling like she’s trying not to laugh.
“I noticed. But you’re going to have to make an effort tonight if you want this to work.”
Ewan approaches our table with a smile that’s slightly too wide.
“Well, well. Look at you two. Didn’t know you knew each other…”
I’m about to answer when a sharp kick to my shin makes me grunt.
Mary gives Ewan an innocent smile.
“As it turns out, by a strange twist of fate, we happen to share the same guesthouse at the castle.”
“Oh really? How’d that happen?”
But I can already tell he knows perfectly well.
Mary waves a dismissive hand.
“We’ve had a series of unfortunate incidents,” she says vaguely.
“I see,” Ewan replies, visibly disappointed by the lack of dramatic revelations. “What can I get you?”
“Tennent’s and fish and chips for me,” Mary says.
Ewan looks at me.
“Same for me,” I add.
He writes it down and walks away, though I catch him glancing back at us every thirty seconds.
Mary leans toward me again.
“Now we have to talk. Real stuff. So this feels authentic.”
“Real stuff?”
“Yes. Like…”
She pauses to think, a little crease forming between her brows.
Against my will, I find myself studying her.
Most of the time, there’s something mischievous and bright in her expression—when she’s not furious like she was on the side of the road the other day.
Her full lips always seem one second away from curving into a smile that reveals the tiniest dimple in her left cheek. Her ponytail sways with every movement.
“Why did you become a doctor?”
The question is loud enough for Duncan Fraser—sitting three tables away—to hear it clearly.
“You really want to know?” I ask, surprised.
“No, I’m asking purely for appearances,” she says dryly. “Of course I want to know. We’re supposed to be getting to know each other, remember?”
Remember that everything is strategic.
I think for a second before deciding to play along.
“My father was a doctor. My grandfather too. I guess it was expected.”
“So, family tradition.”
“More like family pressure.”
Mary raises an eyebrow.
“Do you regret it?”
The question is more direct than I expected.
And more sincere.
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
Because I screwed up. Because I don’t trust myself anymore. Because every patient who walks through my door reminds me I’m capable of making mistakes.
But I can’t say that.
Not here.
Not now.
Not to her.
“It’s complicated,” I say instead.
Mary watches me for a long moment, like she’s reading between the lines.
Then she nods.
“Okay. We’ll talk about it another time.”
Ewan returns with our beers. We clink glasses. The beer is cold and bitter.
Exactly what I need.
“And you?” I ask. “Why’d you become a vet? Don’t tell me it’s family tradition.”
Mary smiles.
“Because animals don’t judge you. They don’t care whether you’re as good as the previous vet. They just need you to help them.”
I stare at her, caught off guard by the honesty of her answer.
“That must be nice.”
“It is. Most of the time.”
“And the rest of the time?”
“The rest of the time, you end up with Ragnar hating you for mysterious reasons and Hamish stealing everything that isn’t nailed down.”
I suppress a smile.
“Ragnar doesn’t hate you.”
“He charged at me. Twice.”
“He was just... startled.”
“Finn, he looked me dead in the eyes and decided I was public enemy number one. That’s not fear. That’s personal.”
This time, I can’t stop myself from smiling.
A real smile.
And Mary notices immediately.
“Am I hallucinating? So you can smile. I was beginning to wonder whether your facial muscles still functioned.”
“Very funny,” I mutter, instantly returning to my neutral expression.
“I’m serious. You smiled. This is a historic moment. I should take a picture for future generations.”
She pretends to reach for her phone inside her jacket pocket.
“Don’t.”
“Too late. The image is permanently burned into my memory.”
We keep talking.
At first, it’s forced.
But little by little, something shifts between us.
The questions become easier. The answers more honest.
Mary tells me about her abandoned plans to travel across Europe before taking over the clinic. I tell her about Edinburgh while carefully avoiding dangerous subjects. She asks whether I like the Highlands.
I answer that they’re... different.
She bursts out laughing.
“That is the most diplomatic way I’ve ever heard someone say I hate this place.”
“I never said I hated the Highlands.”
“You didn’t deny it either.”
Ewan brings our fish and chips. The fish is crispy, the fries perfectly golden and salty.
We eat quietly for a few minutes.
It’s a strangely comfortable silence.
Eventually, Duncan Fraser wanders over to our table with a pint in hand.
“You two seem to be getting along nicely.”
His beer sloshes dangerously as he gestures between us.
Mary doesn’t even look up from her plate.
“Finn’s more interesting than he looks.”
I glance at her, surprised.
She gives me a discreet wink.
Duncan grins broadly.
“That’s always a good sign.”
Then he turns to me, jerking his chin toward Mary.
“McKinnon used to say she was too direct for him.”
“McKinnon was probably intimidated by women with functioning brains,” Mary replies lightly.
Duncan laughs loudly before heading back to his table, clearly satisfied with the gossip material he’s collected for the evening.
Once he’s gone, Mary murmurs:
“See? No need to hold hands or make out in front of everyone. We just have to look like we enjoy spending time together.”
She’s right.
And that’s exactly what bothers me.
Because I wasn’t entirely pretending tonight.
We finish our meal. Ewan refuses to let me pay, announcing the dinner is “to celebrate.”
Celebrate what exactly, he doesn’t specify.
Outside, night has fallen. The air is cool and damp, typical Highlands weather this time of year.
Mary zips up her jacket.
“That went well, right?”
“Apparently.”
“Duncan’s going to tell the whole village we had dinner together.”
“I know.”
“By tomorrow afternoon, all of Glenfield will think we’re dating.”
“Probably.”
Mary studies me with a crooked smile.
“You panicking?”
“No.”
“Liar. You have the exact same expression you had when my grandmother asked why you left your previous job.”
“I wasn’t panicking. I was just... surprised.”
“You were absolutely panicking.”
We walk side by side toward the small parking lot. The streets of Glenfield are empty at this hour. Just the two of us and the sound of our footsteps on wet pavement.
“Same time tomorrow?” Mary asks casually.
I stop walking.
“What?”
“If we want this to work, people need to see us together regularly. So. Same time tomorrow?”
I should say no.
I should say this is too much, too fast, too intense.
Instead, I hear myself say:
“Okay.”
Mary smiles.
“Perfect. And next time, try smiling a little more. You looked less constipated by the end of the evening.”
“I did not look constipated at any point.”
“You absolutely did. But it improved. Very encouraging progress.”
We reach her car. Mary stops and looks up at me, and something inside me reacts.
A part of myself I haven’t let exist in a very long time.
“Good night, Finn,” she says softly.
“Good night, Mary.”
She climbs into her car and drives away.
I stay standing there with my hands shoved into my pockets, watching her taillights disappear down the road while trying to process what the hell just happened.
Finally, I shake myself out of it and head for my own vehicle before driving to my cousin Nate’s place. I’d promised I’d stop by, but ironically enough, I almost want to cancel and go back to the guesthouse...
Back to Mary.
As I drive, I replay the evening in my head.
I spent two hours in a crowded pub pretending to get to know Mary McGregor.
Except I wasn’t pretending.
I learned things about her.
I genuinely listened to her.
I genuinely laughed.
I genuinely enjoyed being with her.
And that’s a problem.
Just as I pull into Nate’s driveway, my phone vibrates.
Mary
I think we pulled that off really well. Thanks for playing along.
I stare at the message for a long minute.
Then I type:
FINN
You’re welcome.
Since when do I agree so easily to spend time with someone? Since when do I smile in public?
I let out a long breath.
Tomorrow. Same time. Same place.
And with deeply unsettling certainty, I realize I’m already looking forward to it.
Which is exactly the kind of dangerous thought that should have me running in the opposite direction.
Apparently, though, my brain never got the memo.