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“All good,” he replies, his tone easy, though a flicker of something unreadable passes across his face.

“All good? That’s all I’m getting? Come on, it’s not like you’re guarding state secrets over there.”

His lips curve into a grin that manages to be both irritating and stupidly attractive all at once. “Maybe I am.”

“Right.” I huff out a breath and lean back in my seat. “You know what? Forget I asked. You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly handsome,” he corrects, glancing my way and waggling his eyebrows.

“Impossibly delusional, more like. I suppose you’re not bad looking—if you squint a wee bit and have low standards.”

Lying through my teeth, obviously. The truth is, Jamie’s annoyingly good-looking. Those hazel eyes with that cheeky freckle at the corner of the left one? Absolute menace. And don’t get me started on that messy chestnut hair just begging to be messed up further.

I flick my gaze back to the road ahead before he can catch me staring, but my mind is less cooperative. Because now all I can think about is running my hands through that tousled hair until it’s a complete disaster. And maybe . . . just maybe . . . letting my hands wander elsewhere on his body too.

Didn’t I tell you to get a grip, Maisie Kerr? Well, get a grip!

“Low standards, eh?” Jamie says. “Ouch. And yet something tells me you don’t mind me nearly as much as you pretend to.”

Our gazes meet and he winks. Oh God.

Determined to wrestle back some control over whatever strange energy is swirling between us tonight, I decide to throw him off balance.

“You know, it’s good you’re going to the distillery tonight. Word around Bannock is your social life could use a wee boost. Remind me, apart from Bruce, who are your mates again?”

Jamie’s head jerks slightly, his eyes darting towards me and then back to the road, but not before I catch something—just a flicker—a shadow of vulnerability that vanishes almost as quickly as it appears.

Crap, was that too harsh, what I just said? I mean, I know he spends most of his free time on his laptop. But come on, it’s Jamie! He dishes it out constantly. Surely he can take a little teasing in return? Still, I can’t help wondering if that hit closer to home than I intended.

A pause stretches between us then he says, “There’s . . . someone. A gamer I play with online.”

My pulse skips.

“She just gets me, you know?” His voice is uncharacteristically soft—thoughtful—and it throws me completely off kilter.

Oh no. Oh no. He’s talking about me. SassyLassie. His gaming partner. Me . . . and yet not me.

“That’s the great thing about the internet,” Jamie continues, oblivious to the chaos crashing around inside my skull. “Before it, people could live their entire lives in a town without finding anyone who truly gets them. But now? I can chat with this gamer, even though . . . well, there’s no one in Bannock quite like her.”

His words are coated in unintentional irony so thick it makes my stomach squirm. It’s not like I’m technically lying to him, but withholding the truth isn’t exactly honest.

I glance out the window to steady myself, watching the golden light stretch long across the glen. It’s breathtakingly beautiful . . . and it does absolutely nothing to untangle the mess in my head.

“You’re quiet over there,” Jamie remarks after a beat.

“Aye, well . . . I’m just thinking how weird it is that there’s someone out there who actually tolerates your nonsense.”

God, why is this so complicated? It’s supposed to be a simple mission: find out what Jamie is up to with the snug and use that information to protect the Pheasant. End of story. And once I’ve done that? I’ll come clean. Of course I will.

But as I steal another look at Jamie—relaxed, disarmingly handsome, utterly infuriating—I realise there’s nothing simple about this anymore.

CHAPTER TWELVE

MAISIE

The unmistakable peaty aroma of whisky permeates the air as thirty-odd representatives from local pubs and hotels mill about the distillery’s event room. It’s a testosterone-heavy crowd, mostly men in crisp button-down shirts or branded polo shirts that scream “hospitality industry”. There’s a scattering of women too, though we’re definitely in the minority.

I’ve been here about five minutes, making small talk with a fifty-something chap from a pub in Inverness. I’m only half listening. My attention keeps drifting to Jamie, who’s not far from me, chatting to someone about beer kegs. Hardly edge-of-your-seat material, but you never know when he might let slip his plans for the Snug.