"You're working late. I don't usually see you at this time."

It's nine pm at night and I'm still at Jack's. Once I'd finished dealing with Dexter's demands—I'm on the fifth lot of templates for the product pages, a batch that looks remarkably like the second set of designs I presented him with and he rejected—I decided to make a start on the Lochalshie website. It is charming, but the design is a mish-mash and there's no consistent use of font, styles or pictures.

"Bitten off. Chew. More than you can," I told myself. "Rearrange these words, Gaby, so they form a popular saying. And then promise yourself you will never do it again."

Luckily for me, Jolene is nothing like Dexter. When I emailed her my first suggestions, she rang me back straight away. "Gaby, these are so beautiful." I sucked my cheeks in waiting for her to tell me to make them stand-out awesome by changing them completely, but no. Her 'beautiful' means just that. "I can't wait to run a social media campaign when the new website is up and running. It'll make everyone come here!" 

Nothing like a bit of pressure eh? I hope the villagers don't blame me when visitors don't flock to the games because a few carnival rides and Psychic Josie doesn't do it for them. Even if she isn't a demanding client, it doesn't change the fact the website needs a complete overhaul. It's got hundreds of pages too. Who knew that one tiny little village had so much to tell the world? Seeing as I had access to the site, I did a little editing on the video of me rescuing Scottie. It's too hard to whiten teeth and eyes on a moving image, but I blurred my face and hair a little and the wardrobe malfunction is no longer visible. I'd rather not be remembered for my nipples.

When I heard the door open and Jack come in, my heart did its treacherous soar to the ceiling, despite me telling it to stay right where it was. Off-limits, remember. Belongs to Kirsty or about to do so again.

I swing around in my seat. "So are you. Working late, that is." He looks tired, I decide. Not that it does anything to distract from his appearance. Jack's got the looks that carry off tiredness beautifully—light shadows under his eyes that only emphasise their size and a droop to his shoulders that begs a girl to throw her arms around him. I'm almost out of my seat involuntarily, ready to do so.

"It's always like this in the summer. But I don't work October through to April, so it's bearable."

Aprrrill. Bearrrable. Jack's voice suits his cosy home. The words swirl comfortably in the air.

"Where were you today?" I ask, as he dumps a rucksack full of water bottles and Avon Skin So Soft on the sofa.

"Clava Cairns—the standing stones just north of Inverness. Everyone wanted to touch them to see if they vibrated. I've no idea why."

I'm about jump in and tell him when I realise he's being ironic. Clava Cairns is meant to be the place where Claire Randall travels through time from the 1900s to the 1700s in the first Outlander book. If you can feel the thrumming of stones, it means you're a time traveller like her. Imagine the explaining he would need to do for that when he took his tour party back to their hotel minus two people who'd inadvertently ended up in the 18th century.

"I bet they all asked to get their picture taken with you standing next to the stones," I say and am rewarded when he smiles at me, the upturn of his mouth banishing the shadows and lighting up his eyes.

"Want to take a guess how many photos they took?"

I'll bet. He's dressed in the black kilt and tee shirt that seems to be the standard tour guide uniform. He's paired the kilt with long socks and a pair of Doc Martens to make it more modern and less tartan shortbread tin. I sneak another look at his knees. I'm not sure why I'm so fascinated by them. Not many other women would say, "It was his knees, m'lud!" when they stood in front of a judge, accused of a ferocious crush on a man. There's a tiny smudge of dirt on one and I long to lean over and wipe it off. I resist. Doing that to a stranger would count as assault, surely.

Jack stretches an arm out so he can look at his watch. The move makes the tee shirt rise a little and I catch a glimpse of a flat, muscular stomach. I knew it! My imagination, when it conjured up that half-naked dressed in only a white towel picture, wasn't far wrong. And now I've got actual, real flesh to pad my fantasy out. The sun catches a dusting of coppery hair there too. I blink a few times and turn back to my computer system before he sees the look on my face. I'm sure wanton desire is signalled there almost as much as it would if my tongue was hanging out.

"Do you still need to finish stuff off?" Jack asks. "I was going to grab some food at the Lochside Welcome. Do you want to come, the hotel being next door it means you won't have far to stumble home."

OOOHHHH. A date, a date, a date. Those words finish in my head and others start up. But Kirsty's plans. She wants him back so badly. And that stuff about her dad dying and wanting someone who was as good as him. I'd worked out how young she'd been when her father died. She was still a teenager. Tough. It would take a heartless, cruel and horrible person not to be on her side.

"I'll see if Jolene and Stewart are around too," Jack adds, and my helium-balloon floating on the ceiling status deflates. Not a date after all. Just as well perhaps.

"Do you want to get changed or anything?" he asks. I shake my head, then wonder if I should have said 'yes'. Kirsty is very glamorous and that's what he is used to. In all her YouTube videos she is super made-up and dressed in glittery things most of the time, whereas I'm a jeans and hoodie person although at least today's version isn't too faded. And there are no holes in my top.

Jack tells me he's going to change out of his kilt—shame—and heads upstairs. Sartorial slobbiness aside, I take the opportunity to whip my make-up kit out of my bag for a subtle touch-up. I put highlighter on my cheekbones to add emphasis, top up my mascara and apply more lipstick, shoving it all back in my bag quickly when I hear him coming back down the stairs.

He's changed into a pair of faded jeans and a woollen tank top over a black tee shirt which sounds as if it shouldn't work but does.

"Stewart's in the pub already," he says. "Though that's his second home so no surprises there. Jolene says she'll be there in five minutes. You coming?"

"Five hundred," I say when we're out on the street, heading towards the Lochside Welcome. "That's how many photos they tried to take of you."

He shakes his head. "Not quite. But four hundred or so wouldn't be far off. It's a good job I have the patience of a saint."

I get another of those glorious winks. In hotel rooms not that far from here, visitors to Scotland scroll through the pictures they've taken today flicking back heather-topped mountains and shaggy-haired cattle with impressive horns and lingering far too long on the photos of a red-haired man in a kilt. Should I get in touch with them myself and ask if they could send one on?

It isn't warm, but at least it's not raining this evening. Clouds roll in from the top of the hills above the loch dark and velvety now that the sun is setting. We pass the odd dog walker and hellos are exchanged. I see at least one raise of eyebrows and wonder how long it will take for the news that Jack and I have been seen together in public to reach Mhari and from there to be all around the village via WhatsApp.

This is the first time I've been in the pub and the interior is both expected and unexpected. The surroundings are dark wooden panels and a stag's head has pride of place above the bar. There's even an open fire too, but the musician in the corner isn't singing in Gaelic, instead mumbling his way through Emo's greatest hits, and the corner bar isn't horse brasses and old optics, sleek polished chrome instead, draft craft beers and the biggest selection of gins I've ever seen.

Stewart is sat on one of the high seats at the bar. There's a sign on the back with his name on it. Jack wasn't exaggerating then when he said this place was Stewart's second home. There are two empty glasses in front of him and the third one he holds is about to empty too.

"Jack, Gaby!" he throws his arms wide and the seat wobbles. The barmaid sticks out her hand and yanks him by his shirt, pulling him straight again. It looks like a well-practised move.

Jack doesn't bother with a menu but he hands me one. My mouth waters. It's a long time since lunch and this place does brick oven fired pizzas. I'm delighted they don't bother with all the stuff you often get down south, all rocket this and smashed avocado that. Here, I have three choices—Marguerita, pepperoni or three cheese. When I say 'three cheese', Jack nods approvingly and says he'll share a twelve-inch with me and I try very hard not to read any innuendo into his last remark.

"Make that two!" Jolene says, appearing behind us and flashing me her big smile. "Stewart and I can share one too."

There's a muffled bark and I see Scottie resting underneath Stewart's chair.

"And Scottie gets none of it, Stewart," Jolene adds. "The vet said he's obese."

I can testify to that. That dog was no small bundle to drag back to the shores.

Drinks and food ordered, we settle on a table as far from the Emo singer as possible, seeing as he is determined to put a downer on everyone's mood. Jolene sings my praises and it's gratifying. I try not to watch Jack too obviously, wondering how he is responding to someone else's endorsement of me. When the pizza arrives, I'm not sure what to do. Should I eat it with my fingers or a knife and fork, or do we just dig in and rip it apart with our fingers? Ryan was funny about sharing food. He hated me taking chips from his plate and if I ever asked for a taste of anything he was eating, he would sigh, spear up a tiny bit of it with his fork and dump it on my plate. The pizza comes with chips wrapped in fake newspaper and a garlic dip.

"You go first, Gaby," Jack says, and I pretend lady-likeness. My mum once told me when she was a teenager, girls weren't meant to eat very much and especially not in front of men. Jack watches me spear a chip with my fork. He shakes his head and tips half of them onto my plate, dolloping spoonfuls of garlic dip on top and handing me the slice of pizza that is most generously covered in melted cheese. Oh heck. This is doing nothing for the campaign I wage where I persuade him Kirsty's his one true love. I count up the chips he tipped on my plate and realise it's not half the portion, more like two thirds.

He gave me two thirds of his chips, Katya. My best friend gets it straight away. Jeez, Gaby. He's a keeper.

Stewart and Jolene finish their pizza in double-quick time, all to the backdrop of further tales of coding from Stewart. Thankfully, Jolene chips in so it's not the kind of chat you zone out of after two words. She stands up as soon as the pizza is eaten and holds out a hand.

"Stewart, we need to go. Before you lose two more friends by boring them to death."

"Now!" she snaps when he looks as if he's about to object.

Goodbyes exchanged, I find my blood fizzing once more with excitement. I'm on my own with Jack, if you don't count twenty or so other folks in little groups around us. The Emo singer is having a break—thank heavens—and cheery chat fills the air instead. There's one slice of pizza, three chips and a ramekin dish full of garlic dip left. I sneak a two fingers forward, destination final pizza slice, and Jack's hand clamps on top of them.

"Oh no you don't."

Funny how a vice-like grip doesn't bother me. He holds my hand above the plate and grins at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the barmaid alternating between gawping at us and shifting her focus so she can move her thumb lightning speed over a phone. Looks like I've just spotted yet another member of the Lochalshie WhatsApp group. When Jack uses his other hand to pull the last bit of pizza towards him, I marvel at myself. Once upon a time, Gaby of Great Yarmouth would have told you no-one kept this girl from her last slice of three-cheese pizza. Or they did so on peril of death. Now, it looks as if I might relinquish that perfectly-cooked, thinly sliced bit of dough topped with herb-rich tomato sauce, Parmesan, Gorgonzola and Mozzarella that melts together into a puddle of cheesy perfection without a squeak.

He takes the pizza slice, opens his mouth wide and bites off a third of it. My hand still hovers in the air above us and I feel the vibration of every chew. He waves the half-eaten bit in front of my mouth.

"Want some?"

Oh goodness, gracious yes. I was wise enough not to make the mistake of ordering anything alcoholic when we came in here. I stuck to diet coke. But the pizza waving, hand in the air stuff has gone to my head. Alcohol lowers your inhibitions, my mum always warned. I'm drunk on whatever knows else and just about to do something I might regret in the morning, like bite the blasted pizza slice suggestively, and forget everything I'm supposed to do to make Jack weigh up his options and decide Kirsty is his best bet.

I jerk back my hand. Jack stares at me, as does the barmaid. No doubt this is update number two to the WhatsApp group.

"You eat it," I say, and his eyes narrow and widen again. He does that taking you literally thing men love to do and wolfs the whole blasted slice in three bites. As he reaches for the chips I stir myself, grabbing the plate and moving it to one side. It's not my prettiest move, but I grasp the three of them, use them to scoop up a ginormous blob of garlic dip, open my mouth as wide as I can and cram the lot in. I think this counts as a nil-nil draw. Jack shakes his head, but his face wears an amused turn to it.

"Jack!" The man who stands in front of our table slaps him on the back so hard, he flies forward, the plate in front of him shooting straight across to me. Jack straightens and regards the back slapper warily.

"Donnie. What can I do for you?"

Donnie fits the width and breadth of the table we're at. He wears a leather trench coat—and even I'm not that cold in Scotland—along with a waxed hat pulled low over his forehead. He plants fat fingers on the table. My razor-sharp detection skills tells me this is the infamous Big Donnie, he of the money to throw around fame.

"I want that picture. Five thousand pounds."

Unlike me, Jack has been drinking. He lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a hefty swig before answering the man.

"It's no' for sale."

My mind has goes haywire, thoughts firing off left, right and centre. I've walked my imaginary self back to Jack's house and in there, I've looked round the living room, taken myself into the hallway and perused the upstairs. What picture do I think he means? And ninety percent of me is sure I know the painting he has in mind. The other ten percent crosses its fingers, toes and offers all kinds of promises to deities etcetera that Mr Serious By the Looks of It Doesn't Want Golden-Haired, Beautifully-Skinned Woman.

"You're a hard man, Jack. Five and a half and that's my final offer. You could do a lot with that money. Plus, I'll double the prize money for the Highland Games."

Silence. I've got had it to Jack. He does mean and moody magnificently. I'd have cracked by now.

Jack gets to his feet. "Sorry Donnie. Thanks for the offer, but as I said it's no' for sale. C'mon Gaby. I'll walk you home."

Outside, the streets are silent. All the dog walkers have retired for the night and the clear skies mean it's colder than it was earlier today. I've only got ten metres or so and I'll be outside my front door. The evening has slipped away from me. At certain stages, it looked so promising. When he asked me out and when we competed to see who could finish off the pizza in the greediest way, and now that air of fun and expectation has slipped away. You're still meant to be persuading him Kirsty is the love of his life. If I make the voice stern in my head perhaps my disobedient and unruly imagination will come round.

"What painting was he after" I ask, hoping I sound mildly curious and not desperate to know.

"The one of Kirsty," he replies, pushing my gate open for me. "Night, Gaby. Sleep well."

I treat myself to the luxury of watching him retreat, noting the hands thrust deep into pockets and how his head dips down wards.

There is no point continuing this unrequited crush, is there? If someone is offered five and a half thousands pounds for a painting of their old girlfriend and says no, he's definitely not over her. I don't need to do any convincing on Kirsty's behalf. When I tell her this, she'll be delighted.