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The cheek of it! Robbie left shortly after I got home. Had he stuck around, I’d have been very interested in his company. Exhausted from work or not, I’d have shown him a good time. But no, apparently he’d rather spend his Friday night getting chatted up by some tourist.

Well, one thing is for sure: I’m wide awake now. Funny how fast tiredness vanishes when you find out the bad boy you’ve been shamelessly flirting with for days might be going home with someone else.

I yank off my pyjama top and bottoms then reach for my jeans, but freeze when the bedroom mirror reflects a green-faced goblin back at me. Shit! The face mask!

A mad dash to the bathroom follows, where frantic scrubbing turns my face a blotchy pink, water splashing everywhere. Not exactly glamorous, but at least I’m no longer green.

Back in the bedroom, my phone pings again.

Maisie

She’s pretty. Tall, blonde, you know the type.

Oh, hell no.

Tossing my jeans aside, I pull out my pleated tartan mini skirt instead, the one that makes my legs look fantastic. Comfy briefs are swapped for blush-coloured French knickers. No harm in a girl being prepared, eh?

Humming away to Chappell Roan’s “Pink Pony Club”, I pair the skirt with a black vest top and my favourite red cardigan, the one with the zip and cute wee hood.

A quick brush through my auburn hair, some mascara, cherry chapstick, and I’m good to go.

Well, almost.

After some determined rummaging at the back of the wardrobe, I pull out the pièce de résistance, a pair of black knee-high boots with heels sharp enough to do damage. I put them on, enjoying the satisfying zrrrp of the zip.

I check my reflection in the mirror, grin, then tap out a quick message to the group.

Cat

On my way!

No sooner do I hit send than another message pops up.

Iona

Lewis and I have plans tonight

Then there are two more pings.

Iona

But I’ll expect a full debrief later, okay?

You’ve got this, McIntyre

I thumbs-up her message then pocket my phone and head into the kitchen. The makeshift drinks cabinet—a cardboard box with Booze scrawled across it in black marker—holds exactly what I need: Glen Garve Whisky. I twist off the cap and take a generous gulp straight from the bottle. Liquid courage in its rawest form. It burns like fire all the way down but leaves behind something bracingly warm.

I wipe my mouth, replace the cap, and stride to the front door.

Time to stake my claim.

* * *

The Pheasant is buzzing, the cosy stone-walled pub having drawn its usual Friday night mix of locals and tourists. I scan the room, soaking up the warmth and chatter, the scent of wood polish and beer thick in the air.

Then I see him. At a corner table, half-drunk pint in hand, leather jacket hanging on the chair behind him. And aye, he’s got company. Across from him sits a woman with honey-blonde hair that falls in perfect waves around her shoulders. Her skin has that sun-kissed glow that screams, “I live in a place with reliable sunshine.” She’s laughing at something he’s just said, her head tilted back to reveal a slender neck.

Shit. Robbie’s surly quips aren’t that funny. This lassie is seriously keen.