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Lewis grins. “Aye, well . . . anyway, when we were younger, ‘Comin’ thro’ the Rye’ used to be a theme song of sorts for me and Iona. We didn’t think it was anyone else’s business if we, er, kissed in the rye.”

He’s getting even cheekier! Stressing the word “kissed” like that in front of everyone? He really is being a naughty man today! We both know there’s an alternative version of the lyrics in which “kiss” is replaced by “fuck”, but other people might be aware of that too.

“Nowadays, I want everyone to know that I kiss you,” Lewis says, “and that only I get to kiss you.”

These words send a shiver down my spine. Is it kind of primitive and backwards for a man to lay his claim on a woman like this? Aye. But is it also kind of hot to hear Lewis do it in front of everyone? Absolutely.

“Finally, on our first formal date, which was at the Glen Garve Resort, you talked to me about being able to walk with kings without losing the common touch—words from Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’. I think they describe you perfectly, Iona.”

Faces light up at this. Maw—who’s squeezed her way to the front row—clutches her hands in front of her chest as though never before in her life has she heard anyone say something so sweet. It’s probably a good thing Lewis didn’t mention the context of that conversation. I’m pretty sure we were talking about smutty historical romance books and dick pics at the time.

“Anyway, the final clue brought you here, so without further ado, I’d like to present you with your treasure.” One of his hands still clasping mine, Lewis opens his sporran with his other. “And just to warn you, it’s . . . er, more of a symbolic kind of treasure, rather than a literal one.”

He pulls out an old brass key and holds it out to me. I take it, curious.

“That’s a key to the hotel. Not that you need one, really—you’ve always been welcome inside. Plus, this last month or so . . . well, you’ve slept in my room every night.”

Chuckles ripple through the crowd. Even the oldest and most conservative of Bannock’s residents are no longer shocked by the thought of sex before marriage.

“This, Iona, is about making it official, if you’d like to do that. I’m asking you to move in with me and to make the hotel your home. If you accept, I’ll move all your things over from your maw’s. No doubt I’ll need to put up a new bookcase—nah, let’s be realistic, several new bookcases—to house your extensive book collection, but I’m happy to make any changes you wish. You name it, and I’ll do it. I want you to feel it’s your home as much as it is mine.”

Warmth floods my entire being as I gaze down at the key in my hand. Clasping it tightly, I flash Lewis a smile then announce loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Of course I’ll move in with you.”

A roar of approval bursts from those assembled, and applause breaks out. Lewis’s eyes shine with delight.

I squeeze his hand and add, “This is where you’re meant to kiss me. What are you waiting for?”

As the crowd erupts with laughter, Lewis beams and presses his lips to mine, sparking a chorus of whistles and cheers.

EPILOGUE

LEWIS

“Hiya, boy. How are you doing?” I crouch beside the dog bed in which our black Labrador, Bruce, is curled up.

His tail thumps enthusiastically, and he yawns before affectionately licking my hand. At one stage, Iona and I had been thinking about getting a puppy, but then Iona heard about a six-year-old Lab whose elderly owner could no longer care for him, and our hearts melted.

Bruce is perfect—a great fit for the hotel. Gentle, friendly, and well-trained, we all love him, and guests do too. He especially likes to hang out here in the snug—it’s his spot.

He picks up his favourite toy—a Highland cow that squeaks—then drops it at my feet and looks up at me with those big soulful eyes that are impossible to resist.

Laughing, I scratch Bruce’s chin then pick up the toy and play a gentle game of tug-of-war. I adore this dog.

Guess who takes him on the most walks? Me.

Guess who fills up his dog bowl each mealtime and ensures he always has a fresh supply of water? Me.

Guess who he likes best? Iona.

It’s like Molly, my childhood cocker spaniel, all over again.

But . . . I can’t really blame him. Who wouldn’t love Iona?

At the bar, Jamie is tapping away on his laptop.

“The snug is empty,” I point out.

It’s just me, Jamie, and Bruce here—there are no customers in for a drink at the moment.