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“What?” I splutter. “You let go of it! I grabbed it first.”

“Nope, pretty sure I did.”

It’s like Jamie has a special talent for pushing my buttons. I’ve barely said two words to him and already my blood is simmering.

“Ever heard of chivalry?” I huff. “How about being a gentleman and letting the woman have it?”

“Ever heard of you snooze, you lose?” he shoots back. “You were standing texting—you’ve only got yourself to blame. Now, I’ve got places to be, so if you don’t mind.” He nods at the can. “Hands off.”

“Places to be? Like where? The Bannock Hotel’s snug? Wouldn’t want to keep all those empty barstools waiting, right?”

I swear Jamie McIntyre brings out the worst in me. Working in the Pheasant, I talk to people day in, day out—locals, tourists, sweet old ladies, lively lads on stag dos, you name it. I get on with everyone: I can always find some common ground for a conversation. But Jamie? No. He’s like a scratchy label in my favourite jumper—forever rubbing me the wrong way.

“Ouch.” With his free hand, Jamie clutches his chest in mock offence. “That cuts deep, Maisie. But you’re right: the snug is always dead. That’s why I need the energy drink. Without it, I’m at risk of dozing off. But the Pheasant? It’s always lively in there, so there’s no risk of you falling asleep.”

“You could argue,” I say through gritted teeth, “that since the Pheasant actually has customers—and I have to, you know, work—I’m the one who could do with the caffeine boost.”

“An interesting perspective. Anyway, as fun as this exchange has been, I’d say possession is nine-tenths of the law, so . . .” With a mischievous smirk, he yanks the can right out of my hand. “Better luck next time.”

I gape at him, too stunned to respond. He winks at me then saunters off with the Gaelic Fire, whistling a jaunty tune. He is unbelievable.

There’s absolutely no way that Jamie McIntyre, the utter arsehole, is the witty, considerate, and supportive gamer I’ve been playing with these last few months. LochNLoad wouldn’t dream of snatching something from a woman’s grasp. He’s a gentleman, not an overgrown child.

But then again . . . Gaelic Fire is LochNLoad’s drink of choice, and apparently Jamie’s too. Bloody hell. I want to write this off as a coincidence, but the universe seems hellbent on forcing me to face facts. Sure, Bannock’s small, but what are the chances of both of us being here at the same time, same place, and reaching for the same energy drink—the very day after Iona dropped the bombshell about Jamie’s username? It’s like some higher power is saying to me: You can’t go on denying it. It’s him and, deep down, you know it is. No amount of wishful thinking is going to change that.

Apparently, Jamie only came in for the can of Gaelic Fire. In the time I’ve been standing here, silently seething, he’s already paid for it and is now strolling for the door. Right before he leaves, he meets my eye and gives me a smug, triumphant wave goodbye.

The bastard. Please, universe, let this be some colossal misunderstanding. Don’t let him be LochNLoad. I don’t think I could stand it.

Although, at this stage, I reckon I need to know one way or another. I could hurry down the street after him and ask him to his face. Or . . . I could take the coward’s approach.

I opt for the second option.

I move closer to the shop window, so I can keep Jamie in my line of sight as he strolls along the street, then pull out my phone. The plan is simple. I’ll send Lochie a message via the app we use to organise gaming sessions and chat outside of the game. Then, as I await his usually speedy reply, I’ll watch Jamie like a hawk. If a response comes in from Lochie while Jamie’s hands aren’t anywhere near his phone, I can breathe a sigh of relief.

SassyLassie

Feel like venturing into giant territory tonight? It’d give you a chance to swing about that big sword of yours.

No sooner have I hit send than Jamie slows to a stop, fishes something out of his pocket, and glances down at it. Seconds later a reply comes in from Lochie.

LochNLoad

You’re on! And I’ll bring along the Claymore of the Clan Chiefs too.

Well, shit.

The pieces click into place with brutal finality. There can be no more denying it. LochNLoad—my ally, my friend—and Jamie McIntyre are one and the same.

Of all the gamers in all the world, I had to befriend him.

CHAPTER FOUR

MAISIE

I push open my bedroom door, the familiar creak a welcome sound after the long day. With a groan, I flop onto my bed, the springs protesting as I sink into the mattress. It’s not time for sleep yet—I’m still dressed and haven’t brushed my teeth—but . . . I just need a moment.

What an absolutely shite day.