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This is madness. Surely Jamie isn’t going to make me walk back? Even through the deluge, I can tell where we are—it’s a ten minute walk back at most—but I am not dressed for a rainy hike. Surely any second now he’ll shout out, Maisie, I’m joking. Get back in! And even though I’ll want to throttle him for being such an arse and pulling such a mean prank, I’ll swallow my pride and climb back in. Because at least then I’d be dry.

But no such miracle comes.

Instead Jamie sits stiffly in his seat, staring straight ahead as though all this—the weather, me—isn’t worth sparing another glance for.

I slam the door shut—bang!—but Jamie doesn’t even flinch. He’s nothing but a shadow behind the wheel now, his profile illuminated by the cold glow of dashboard lights. I will him to look at me, to realise what an absolute dickhead he’s being, but he doesn’t. Instead he shifts into gear and—vruh-vrrroooomm!—the car lurches forward and speeds off, its taillights smearing red streaks through the curtain of rain and the stinging wetness in my eyes that is most definitely not tears.

“You bastard!” I yell, the words ripping from my chest like a half-sob, half-battle cry.

My whisky haze is gone—not just lifted but ripped away by pelting rain and the searing sting of humiliation. In its place, something raw and electric sparks to life: fury.

I march forward, my soaked trainers squelching with every step.

Forget my plan to come clean and tell Jamie tomorrow that I’m SassyLassie. There’s no bloody way that’s happening, not after this. It’s war now, and I’m not above fighting dirty.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

JAMIE

I collapse into my gaming chair, desperate to escape into Highland Legacy and forget about my day. The familiar loading screen illuminates my shadowy room, its soft glow soothing my frayed nerves. Gaming is my sanctuary, the perfect way to shut out the world. Tonight I need it more than ever.

After slogging through endless paperwork and mind-numbing budget spreadsheets for the beer garden—because apparently dreams come with a whole load of soul-sucking admin—the distillery event was meant to be a bit of light relief. A fun break. And it had been fun—at first. Maisie and I were on fire, locked in a ridiculous battle of whisky trivia, each trying to outdo the other with our knowledge. Then things took an interesting turn when we were leaving together and she fell, her arse somehow landing perfectly against my crotch in a way that made my brain short-circuit and my lungs forget how to function.

Wow, that had been hot. But things only got hotter. In the car, after that bump in the road, her hand landed square on my dick. Like, right on it. By accident . . . I think? No, definitely an accident. Her eyes went huge, her cheeks flushed pink, and her mouth made that tiny “o” of mortified shock. There’s no way she meant to do it. And yet . . . for whatever reason—maybe she was frozen in shock or something—she didn’t move her hand straight away. Nope. There were definitely a few seconds of hand-on-dick contact before she finally snatched it back.

Was it shock, I wonder. Or did she think to herself: well, seeing as my hand is here anyway, I may as well cop a wee feel. Because let’s be honest, if my hand had accidentally landed on her boob, I wouldn’t have been in any rush to move it either.

A rough breath escapes me. God, just thinking about it has me half-hard again. Brilliant. I scrub a hand over my face and try to pull myself out of the memory because this really isn’t helpful right now. Not given what happened next—me chucking her out into that storm like an absolute bastard.

Outside, the rain picks up again, lashing against my window like a hundred tiny fists demanding answers. Unease prickles in my chest, and I twist the dial on my headphones, cranking the volume higher—probably too high—until the game’s soundtrack drowns out the noise entirely.

Fucking rain.

I only wish I could drown out the guilt so easily. If I’d ever had even a fraction of a chance with Maisie—and let’s be honest, I probably didn’t—I’ve ruined it now. Completely bollocksed it up. What sort of man throws someone out of their car in a storm? Only a complete knobhead would do something like that. Not just a knobhead—a dickhead of the highest order. Top-tier arsehole energy right here. Well done, Jamie. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.

These waves of shame are, of course, the ultimate cold shower. The situation down there de-escalates in record time.

My avatar materialises on-screen: the kilt-clad hulking Highland warrior with muscles rippling beneath fur-lined armour. He stands in his usual battle-ready stance, unyielding gaze fixed ahead. LochNLoad, the epitome of rugged masculinity. If only I were half as put together as him in real life. Or even a quarter.

Right then. Time to lose myself in this world and forget everything else. For a little while, at least, I can be bold and indestructible.

I check my quest log. Rescue this. Slay that. Retrieve some lost heirloom for an NPC who couldn’t be arsed to keep track of their own belongings. Classic stuff. But tonight calls for something meatier—something distracting enough to drown out both guilt and accidental gropes.

Having spawned near the tavern in Torlannach, I make my way to the square, which is bustling with activity: townsfolk haggling at market stalls, children chasing chickens through the mud, and one particularly angry goat harassing a flustered blacksmith. The details never fail to impress me.

Near a well stands a crooked wooden noticeboard, plastered with yellowed parchments curling at the edges. I review them until one catches my attention: A forgotten village calls for vengeance! Clear out the bogborn horde plaguing its ruins.

Ah yes, the bogborn, Highland Legacy’s favourite swamp-dwelling nuisances. I can’t quite remember their lore—something about ancient curses and mud magic or whatever nonsense some overzealous developer cooked up at three in the morning. There’s even a cheeky handwritten scrawl at the bottom of the poster: Warning: they reek worse than yer da’s feet after a ceilidh.

Charming.

Venting my frustrations on some mucky monsters sounds like exactly what I need right now, so I open the map and fast travel to the quest location—because who has time to hike when you can teleport?

I appear at the edge of the ruins. Cottages that were once homes are now just piles of stone draped in ivy and moss. Thick mist swirls across the ground like something straight out of a cheesy horror film. Man, do the game devs love a bit of mist.

And then they shamble into view: the bogborn, mud-caked monstrosities with half-melted faces that drip black sludge from empty eye sockets. Their limbs end in claws that make Edward Scissorhands look amateur. Definitely not something you’d want sneaking up on you in the dark—or at all, really.

The closest bogborn lurches towards me with an ungodly gurgle, and I waste no time pulling out LochNLoad’s broadsword, its blade gleaming impossibly bright against all this murkiness.