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Her lips press into a tight line. “Oh, do you now?”

“Aye.” I grin, leaning casually against the arm of the couch. “Because I played Highland Legacy with you for months, remember? And during that time, you told me a lot about what you like and don’t like. Like your favourite biscuit—custard creams. A tragic choice, but it’s your life. I also know you like peppermint tea. Mint choc ice cream. Dark chocolate. Gaelic Fire . . . okay, maybe not Gaelic Fire today, but still⁠—”

“Look,” I say, softening my voice and crouching so we’re closer to eye level, “how about we call today a truce? No bickering, no competing. You don’t stress about videos, and I won’t plot ways to pack the snug even when it’s pouring buckets outside. Just one day where we both take a break and . . . chill.”

She studies me for a beat too long, those sharp green eyes looking for an ulterior motive that isn’t there.

“Okay,” she finally says with obvious reluctance before sinking back into the cushions with a little sigh of surrender. “That . . . might be nice.”

“Right then.” Rising to my feet, I pop her phone up on a high shelf, well out of reach. “I don’t want you touching that thing until I’m back. Just stay where you are and relax. Maybe put something on TV that’ll take your mind off things. I won’t be long.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

MAISIE

Jamie strides back into the flat, rain dripping from his jacket and shopping bags dangling from his hands. A soggy paper wrap pokes out from under his arm, and after setting the bags down with exaggerated care, he reveals with a flourish it’s a bouquet of flowers. Lupins stretch their spiky heads above softer clusters of sweet peas and peonies—annoyingly lovely for something that moments before was smashed against his armpit.

“A guy has to give his lass flowers on their first date, right?” His eyes sparkle with devilry.

I groan loudly, partly because of him and partly because my cramps feel like tiny goblins rioting in my uterus. “Ugh. That’s the exact same line you used as LochNLoad when I took you to that spot behind the waterfall. Did you think recycling it would make you seem charming?”

“I absolutely did,” he says with zero shame. “And I reckon it worked. Admit it—you liked the line then, and you like it now.”

“Wrong. And I can recycle lines too, you know, like this is not a date. It wasn’t then, and it isn’t now.”

“If you say so.” He crouches by the shopping bags and unpacks them with far too much enthusiasm for a man who’s just been soaked. “In any case, I brought snacks for whatever this is.”

Custard creams come out first, followed by dark chocolate, peppermint tea, a tub of mint choc chip ice cream, and a pot of fresh fruit salad.

“Right,” he says casually, as if he hasn’t just unloaded my entire comfort-food wish list onto the coffee table (with a bit of token fruit thrown in, possibly to help ward off guilt). “I’ll pop the ice cream in your freezer unless you want some now?”

I shake my head no—not because I don’t want it but because I’m too stubborn to give him the satisfaction of gratitude just yet. “Er . . . when you say ‘whatever this is’, you’re not planning to stick around, are you?”

“Of course I am!” he calls over his shoulder before disappearing into the kitchen like he owns the place. When he strolls back into the living room, he beams and says, “My last gift to you is the gift of my company.” Before I can retort that I’m not sure I want that gift, he adds, “Actually, come to think of it, that’s not the last gift. I got a few other things too. More . . . practical ones.”

He reaches into a bag that still has some items in it, and then . . . oh no. No, no, no, no, no⁠—

“So, I wasn’t sure exactly what sort of, er, supplies you might need for your current predicament.” One by one, Jamie pulls out an assortment of sanitary products and lines them up on the coffee table like he’s creating a display. Pads in all shapes and sizes. Tampons—some with applicators, some without—and a menstrual cup. It’s absurdly thorough, like he raided an entire chemist aisle without knowing where to stop.

A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, a proper belly laugh that sends another sharp jab through my abdomen but is worth it anyway.

“There!” Jamie points at me triumphantly. “A smile! See? My presence is already working wonders.”

“It’s not your presence, idiot,” I manage between giggles. “I mean, what even is that?” I wave at the shrine to period products. “You’ve got enough there to last a women’s football team a whole season!”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered by my criticism. “The specifics of how I made you smile aren’t important. The point is, you’re smiling.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter, shaking my head even as another reluctant smile tugs at my lips.

But then he drops to the carpet and lounges back against the sofa, settling near enough that I can sense the heat of him—close, but not scandalously so. Close enough that my fingers itch to tangle in his messy hair. Not that I’d actually do that, obviously.

It’s getting a bit too cosy here—cosy and dangerous—so I grab at the nearest distraction. “How much did all this cost?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jamie waves away the question like he’s swatting away a fly buzzing near his ear. “It’s on me.”

“No.” Indignation creeps in. “I’m paying you back. The last thing I want is to owe you anything.”

He glances over his shoulder at me, and his lips twitch into that infuriating smirk of his. “Seriously, it’s fine. I’ve actually got a bit of extra cash in my pocket right now. You see, I started this beer garden recently, and it’s been doing really well.”