Page 76 of The Highland Game

I reach out and flick his ear. His smirk morphs into a grin—frustratingly cute, as usual.

“After that comment, I’m definitely not paying you back. Anyway, I hear the beer garden isn’t doing quite so well today.”

“Touché,” Jamie retorts with a wink before his gaze drifts to the TV. The romcom I paused when I heard him coming in is frozen on the screen. “Interesting choice. Thought you’d be more of a You’ve Got Mail kind of girl.”

“You’re familiar with nineties romcoms?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

“I’ve seen You’ve Got Mail. It’s kind of eerie how similar it is to us, don’t you think?”

“Not really,” I counter. “It had a happy ending.”

“You’re right. I always thought it was kind of weird that Meg Ryan’s character fell for Tom Hanks’s character. For a good chunk of the film, he knows her identity but goes on chatting with her online anyway. That’s creepy as fuck, right? I mean, what sort of person would do that kind of thing?”

I make to flick his ear again, but this time Jamie dodges, spinning back to face me and pressing both hands over his chest in an exaggerated shot-to-the-heart gesture. “I opened up to you, Maisie! And yet you weren’t being honest with me!”

“Is this your grand plan to cheer me up?” I fold my arms. “Guilt-tripping me about withholding my identity when we were gaming? Because, you know what, I do feel guilty about that—but you’re really not making me feel any better about myself right now.” I pause deliberately before adding, “Also, I hear you’ve been telling people that I said it could never work between us unless you shut down the beer garden.”

“Well, you did say that,” he points out. “But you’re right, the aim here is to distract you from cramps, and I’ve got an idea guaranteed to take your mind off things.”

He reaches into one of the shopping bags still lingering by the sofa and pulls out a laptop sleeve. With exaggerated flair, he unzips it and withdraws his computer like a magician pulling a rabbit from his hat. “Despite your betrayal, I have been missing playing Highland Legacy with you, so I was thinking . . . you know . . .”

“I told you that the days of us gaming together were over,” I remind him.

“You did,” he concedes, “but c’mon, you know how immersive Highland Legacy is. It’ll distract you better than this romcom you’ve clearly seen twenty times already.” He sets his laptop on the coffee table beside the mountainous pile of tampons and opens it up. “And it’ll be fun playing in person for once.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“But irresistible too?”

“I never said that, but all right, we can play. But only because it’s better than stabbing myself repeatedly in the eye to distract myself from the pain in my uterus.”

“Fair enough.” Jamie claps his hands together as if sealing some sacred pact before standing abruptly and brushing imaginary dust from his jeans. “Right then, where’s your laptop? I’ll go fetch it.”

“It’s in my bedroom.”

“Great! I know where that is—on account of us having sex there the other day.” He shoots me a wickedly cheeky grin.

“Bloody hell. Did you really need to say that?”

“What?” He shrugs innocently as he steps towards the hallway. “I’m just stating facts here. Anyway, back in a mo.”

I hurl a cushion after him, but he’s already halfway down the hall, laughing like the devil he is.

Jamie and I sit side by side on the sofa, our laptops balanced on our knees as we explore a dense forest in the northern region of Highland Legacy’s map. Our shoulders brush occasionally as we play, and each time it happens, my stomach does this stupid little flip that has absolutely nothing to do with my cramps.

I catch him stealing glances at me when he thinks I’m focused on the screen to notice. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and against my better judgement, my gaze keeps wandering to his forearms. There’s something inexplicably hot about the way his muscles shift as his fingers dart over the keys.

“Tea?” Jamie asks, already reaching for my mug before I can answer.

“You don’t have to keep⁠—”

But he’s gone before I can finish speaking, apparently determined to top up my peppermint tea. Again. As though leaving me with an empty mug would be an unforgivable crime.

When he returns, he brings not just my mug but also a bowl of ice cream. I snatch it greedily from him.

“Your shoulders look tense,” he observes as I dig in with unrestrained enthusiasm. “Want me to⁠—”

“If you’re about to offer me a massage,” I interrupt sharply, pointing my spoon at him like a weapon, “don’t even think about it.”