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“Preoccupied? The snug is dead: he should have been giving you his full attention. Was he pissing about on his laptop again?”

“Er . . .”

I realise I’ve made a mistake: I didn’t want to get Jamie into trouble. But my hesitation is the only answer Ally needs.

“Jamie, could you try and be a bit more helpful to our guests, please?” he calls into the snug. “I don’t ask a lot. I really don’t.”

Ally turns back to me. “Aye, so our restaurant is closed today, but there’s a pub down the road called the Pheasant that does nice meals. It might not be as fancy as you’re used to in London, but they use good-quality produce, a lot of it local.” He pauses and glances between me and the front door, thinking.

“I tell you what, I’ve not had dinner yet, so why don’t I come with you? Mondays and Tuesdays are relatively quiet in the hotel, so I may as well make the most of the peace and enjoy being waited on for a change. It sounds a lot more appealing than frozen pizza.”

Did he seriously just invite himself out to dinner with me? A part of me wants to call out his presumptuousness, but a bigger part is glad I won’t have to walk into a strange pub by myself. And, well, while the idea of a relationship with this guy is ridiculous, I can’t help but feel a little pleased he’d want to invite himself along with me.

“All right, let’s go grab dinner. It’s on me as a thank you for the rafting.”

He protests, but I dismiss his objections.

“I insist.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ALLY

When Emily and I walk into the Pheasant, all eyes turn to us. Of course they do. Ally McIntyre going out for dinner with a woman? We’ll be the talk of the town tomorrow.

At least it doesn’t bother me the way it did when I was younger. As a teenage lad in Bannock, it wasn’t easy taking a lassie to the pub for a drink. At times, it can be comforting to know everyone in your town, but when you crave a bit of privacy, it’s a nightmare.

I lead Emily through the pub, passing a table at which the Buchanan family are sitting.

Eilidh Buchanan turns to us. “Oh! You must be Emily, the guest who’s staying for a month at the Bannock Hotel. Morag in the bakery was telling me all about you earlier.”

“Was she now?” Emily raises her eyebrows at me.

I give her an apologetic smile back. “Emily isn’t used to the way word spreads in a small town,” I explain to Eilidh. “She’s hungry—she didn’t realise the restaurant at the hotel wasn’t open tonight—so if you’ll excuse us, I’ll get her to a table and order us some food. See you later.”

By avoiding eye contact with anyone else, and pretending not to hear old Hamish when he asks who “this bonny wee lass” is, I get us to an empty table without any further conversations. In Bannock, that’s nothing short of miraculous.

“Sorry, they can be a bit much,” I say once we’re seated.

“It’s fine. It’s nice, actually, that everyone here is so keen to start a conversation.”

“Aye, well, that’s just the way it is. A short drive—or even a short walk—and you’re in the middle of nowhere, far from anybody else. But head back into town, and you’ll always find someone eager to stop for a chat.”

“That’s lovely. Is it normal, though, that people know who I am, like I’m some sort of celebrity? I’m just a guest at your hotel.”

I chuckle and scratch at my stubble. “Aye, down in London, if someone stayed at a hotel for a month, that wouldn’t be hot gossip. Here, though? It’s practically front-page news. And in Bannock, the internet may be slow, but the gossip is fast. So don’t be surprised if most people already know who you are.”

She watches me, a twinkle in her gaze, her lips lifted in amusement, then she breaks eye contact to survey the pub. I’ve been here so many times I barely notice how it looks anymore, but I gaze around too and try and see it through Emily’s eyes.

It’s a busy place, with families at wooden tables enjoying their meals and friends at other tables drinking and joking, while a few older men sit at the bar, exchanging stories over pints. Whiskies feature prominently in the shelves of bottles behind the bar, and the day’s specials are scrawled on a blackboard. It’s noisy, with a lot of laughing and clinking of glasses, and in the background, Scottish folk music plays from speakers. I count three dogs—one sitting by the bar, two others lying by tables—and if anything, they’re the quietest and best behaved of all present.

The atmosphere is like night and day compared to the snug back at the hotel. To be fair, the snug does good business on the days the restaurant is open, with people coming in for a drink before their table is ready or retiring to the snug after their meal. It’s just Mondays and Tuesdays that are slow.

I turn back to Emily. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s perfect. A beautiful country pub.”

She leans in close, and I can’t stop myself from glancing down at her cleavage. Oh, sweet Jesus. I quickly force my gaze back up.