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“What are you talking about?” I ask, frustration flickering through me now.

“We’re rivals,” Maisie says, using that infuriatingly matter-of-fact tone again. “You with your shiny new beer garden; me with my da’s pub. That”—she waves a hand vaguely between us—“was just an opportunity for us both to get things out of our systems. Nothing more.”

I’m lost for words. Doesn’t what we just did mean anything? Change anything? Before I can find my voice, Maisie turns away from me and tidies up a few things on her desk—needlessly, I think. The message is clear as day: I’m to take the hint and leave.

Suddenly too aware of the fact that my lower half is still stark naked—and feeling like this conversation might go better without me being quite so exposed—I stand and pull on my boxers then reach for my jeans.

“Maisie—”

“I’ll admit it,” she barrels on as if I haven’t said anything at all. “The opening day of your beer garden was a bigger success than I was expecting. But my da and I aren’t going to go down without a fight.”

I pause before doing up the fly of my jeans and glance at her warily. There’s fire in her eyes again, a look I’m very familiar with by now.

“Oh,” she adds after a beat, as if remembering something important. “And in case it wasn’t already obvious, our days of playing Highland Legacy together are over.”

This leaves me floundering for something to say. “Maisie, you can’t just⁠—”

“Please leave,” she interrupts calmly but firmly.

I want to argue more, but something about the way she looks at me stops me in my tracks. Defeated, I do up my fly, fasten my belt, then make to go. But as I reach her door, some part of me rebels against walking away without saying anything more.

“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly over my shoulder, not quite meeting her eye but not avoiding it either, “I really am sorry for telling you to get out of my car that night.”

Maisie’s expression remains unchanged—cool and distant—but there’s something in her eyes that flickers briefly before disappearing again.

“Goodbye, Jamie,” she says simply.

And just like that, I’m dismissed.

I head downstairs feeling thoroughly disoriented—confused as hell and reeling from how quickly everything went sideways after . . . well . . . that. Part of me wonders if I somehow hallucinated the whole thing while part of me knows exactly how real those moments upstairs were—how very right they felt until they didn’t anymore.

But there’s no time for wallowing because just as I’m making a beeline for the exit in hopes of escaping unseen⁠—

“Well!” Bryce’s voice fills the space. He steps forward from behind the bar, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “Did you and Maisie sort things out?”

“Er . . .” I have no idea how to answer that. “Not exactly. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Bye, Bryce.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MAISIE

The Pheasant’s tables are empty, chairs still upside down on top of them, except for the one where Da and I sit. It’s late morning on a Monday—the perfect time for a meeting, I’d say, but judging by my father’s face, you’d think I’d dragged him here for a funeral.

“Right.” I pull out my notebook and click my pen. “Let’s talk about how we can make the Pheasant even better.”

Da raises an eyebrow, making no effort to hide his scepticism. “Even better? What’s wrong with the way things are?”

“Nothing’s wrong. But with Jamie’s beer garden now open⁠—”

“Och, here we go.”

“—we need to make sure we stay competitive,” I press on.

Da leans back, arms folded defiantly across his chest. “The Pheasant’s been here for decades, Maisie. Folk know us. Trust us. We’ve always done well.”

“And we want it to keep doing well. That might mean trying out some new ideas so people have more reasons to come here—not just because they always have, but because they choose to.”

He grunts, unconvinced but listening.