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“No promises!”

I push open the door to the locker room, grab my leather jacket, and shrug it on, even though I’m aware it’ll roast me alive out there. But sweat is preferable to peeling half my skin off if I skid on loose gravel.

Out in the car park, my Triumph Bonneville Speedmaster sits waiting for me, its black and chrome finish catching the sunlight. This bike has been through hell with me—through storms, breakdowns, miles of unforgiving roads—and it hasn’t failed me yet. That’s more than most people can boast about their relationships.

I pull on my helmet, then my gloves, the movements practised and precise. As always, there’s something oddly calming about the ritual. I swing my leg over, settle into the familiar contours of the seat, then kick up the stand. A turn of the key, a twist of the throttle, and the engine growls awake beneath me, sending vibrations buzzing through every nerve ending.

And just like that, freedom roars to life.

The bike eats up tarmac as I pull away from the resort—past manicured lawns trimmed within an inch of their lives, past carefully cultivated flowerbeds designed only to impress—and onto country roads that couldn’t be less polished if they tried.

The Highlands unfold around me: emerald hills patched with untamed forest, fields scattered with woolly sheep. Hot air rushes against me, carrying the scent of sun-baked heather and pine.

Out here, there are no entitled guests, no haughty colleagues. Out here, I’m free.

CHAPTER THREE

CAT

“This is my new home!” I announce with a dramatic flourish, throwing open the front door like I’m unveiling some grand Highland castle instead of a modest flat above the Otter’s Holt gift shop on Bannock’s Main Street.

My three older brothers file into the narrow hallway, their broad shoulders practically brushing the walls. When they spill into the living room, their combined bulk makes the already modest space feel decidedly cramped. Each of them has the same chestnut hair and imposing height, but Ally is the rock, Lewis the gentle giant, and Jamie the wildcard who keeps us all on our toes.

“Well?” I prompt, rolling back on my heels and struggling to contain my grin. “What do you think?”

Ally, the eldest, runs a hand over a long crack in the wall with a sceptical frown. Lewis narrows his eyes at the peeling floral wallpaper like it’s personally offended him. And Jamie, who at twenty-five is just one year my senior, prods at an ominous dark stain on the worn carpet with the toe of his trainer.

Okay, so maybe—just maybe—the fact I could afford this place has something to do with it being a bit of a fixer-upper.

Lewis is the first to speak. “Is the hotel really so bad that you’d rather live here?”

He’s referring to the Bannock Hotel, just down the road, where all four of us grew up. After Maw and Da died seven years ago, Ally took over the running of it, but his heart was never in it. Two years back, Lewis, who’s always loved the place, became manager instead, and it’s flourished under his care.

“Wow, Lewis, don’t try to spare my feelings or anything.” I fold my arms.

He shrugs unapologetically. “I’m just saying.”

“I was happy spending weekends at the hotel when I came back to visit, but now that I’ve moved back for good? I need my own space.”

I’ve been away for six years. Five of those were spent in Glasgow, soaking up city life while earning my English degree and doing my postgrad in teaching. Then came my probationary teaching year in Wick, a remote town clinging to the northern edge of the mainland. It’s a bonny enough spot, but let’s just say it’s not what you’d call buzzing. Not ideal for someone like me who thrives on a bit of excitement. Still, every cloud has a silver lining: without a whole lot there to spend my money on, I was able to save enough to put down a deposit on this place.

Moving back under the same roof as one of my brothers would have been suffocating, even if I do love all three of them (well, most of the time anyway). Besides, I’m young, single, and ready to mingle. The last thing I need is hotel guests overhearing my . . . extracurricular activities. Like Wick, Bannock is small, but at least it’s only a drive away from Inverness, the Highlands’ one and only city. Which means I’ll be looking to make up for lost time after a year of near celibacy.

“Is it just me,” Ally says, his nose wrinkling, “or is there a weird smell?”

Wow. That’s the first thing he says? Nothing about the original fireplace or the gorgeous cornicing?

“You’re right,” Jamie chimes in, straight-faced. “It is you, Ally. You do smell. Always have. Glad we’ve finally got that out in the open.”

Ally doesn’t even dignify this with a response. He just levels Jamie with one of his trademark glowers.

“It is a bit stale in here,” Lewis says, eyeing the carpet and the shabby sofa with suspicion.

“Och, it’s nothing a bit of airing won’t sort out,” I say breezily. “Let me give you the grand tour.”

In truth, it’s less of a grand tour and more of a single-file shuffle down the hallway. I show them the bathroom (functional but dated, with a dripping tap), the bedroom (yellowing wallpaper and faded curtains), and finally the kitchen, which hasn’t seen much love since the nineties.

Jamie flicks the light switch. The fluorescent tube buzzes and flickers like it’s communicating in Morse code. “I think this light is having a seizure.”