"So, he jumped in on this Dexter guy when he stamped on your foot?" Katya wants me to go over again what happened when Jack met Dexter. We've mulled over the explanation between us, Katya muttering darkly that domestic abuse is no laughing matter. I agree and try to hold back from jumping in quickly with a 'what-a-hero-for-sticking-up-for-women' comment. I'm reminded once more that I am supposed to be on the Convince Jack Kirsty is His Ideal Woman mission.

When I tell Katya this, she bursts out laughing. "Seriously? You fell for that?

She stops laughing, however, when I tell her about Donnie the picture man who offered thousands of pounds for that picture of Kirsty that Jack turned down.

"Mmm," she says, and I'm disappointed when she comes up with nothing else, such as a plausible reason he keeps the picture because it matches his decor. "They deserve each other, stampy foot incident aside. Mean and moody meets whatever she is. I mean, last week she—"

She coughs. "Never mind," and I puzzle at it. What did Kirsty do last week and what does my friend know about it? Still, if she has some weird secret to keep, so do I.

I'm holding something back from my friend, unsure of the reasons for my reticence. After leaving Jack, Dexter and I walked to the Lochside Welcome, where Ashley the manager was all too keen to discuss possible could-not-be-named events that might take place on August 15. He listed off all the spirits they stocked, eager to prove their cocktail range could compete with any London venue. And if Caitlin's sophisticated crowd needed champagne, he had vintage loads of the stuff. No-one ever drank it in Lochalshie so the bottles ended up ancient by default. As for folks who needed to update their Instagram accounts, the Wi-Fi reception in the Lochside Welcome was perfect, thanks to a wee cash handout no questions asked with the mast folks.

"Sorry about that, Gaby," he said as I stared at him. I'm in the property right next to the Lochside Welcome and they get perfect signal/Wi-Fi connection, whereas Kirsty's house is a blackout zone. Dexter nodded along to everything, throwing in the usual 'awesomes' amazings' and 'fantastics' before insisting on a guided tour of the whole place. He took lots of photos and issued a steady stream of commands I realised sounded so familiar because I was so used to them. The public bar area was 'beyond beautiful atmospheric'. If, teeny-tiny suggestion here, Ashley cleared out all the old furniture and order in new stuff in colours that matched Blissful Beauty branding. The bar with its modern gin and vodka optics were so authentic they made Dexter want to stand in front of it for hours and stare at its brilliance, but Ashley might want to consider spirits and whiskies that used this particular colour palette so it matched Blissful Beauty, and replace the lot? 

By the end, Ashley wore the same glazed expression I recognised from my first meeting with Dexter. I whispered, "remember the money" in his ear, and when Dexter asked how much he needed to put down as a deposit at the end, Ashley glanced at me, swallowed hard and said, "You get the hotel exclusively for the day and night. £25,000 upfront. Another £50,000 the day before the event takes place and £25,000 afterwards. Not including the two glasses of champagne per guest and the handmade pizzas."

"Okay," Dexter said, and Ashley's panicked look told me he regretted not asking for more. Still, if he added twenty-five percent to all his bar charges, he'd soon make it up. Even with that mark-up, it was still half the price of what Londoners handed over for a drink without a quibble.

Dexter then insisted on buying us both lunch though Ashley greeted his request for a vegan pizza with raised eyebrows. He managed it though, decorating the cheese-free dish with a sprig of rocket, olives and artichoke hearts, and serving the accompanying chips with a home-made tomato ketchup instead of garlic dip. He was about to tuck in when I remembered what it said on the menu—Chips cooked the proper way in beef dripping! 

"Sorry," I said, whisking the bowl away from him. "You can't eat them because Ashley fries them in animal fat." Hashtag sorrynotsorry. The Lochside Welcome's chips were something else, though I suspected Dexter wouldn't appreciate the spectacle of me cramming handfuls in my mouth the way Jack had. Nevertheless, his eyes as he watched me dip them into the garlic mayo had a mesmerised quality to them. I swear he kept an eye on my throat too, keeping track of every chip as it moved from plate to fingers to my stomach.

Meal finished and further orders issued to Ashley about all the things he needed to do to make his "super-cute hotel" even cuter, I offered to drive Dexter back to Ardlui crossing my fingers behind my back he'd say no. He shook his head. "I'll get a taxi. I've got a business account with Uber." I hadn't reckoned he'd find one nearby, but his app showed there were two cars in the vicinity. Ten minutes later, we heard the driver sound his horn outside.

"Gaby, this has been incredible. The launch will have people talking about it for months it's so out there. Thanks for the idea."

I nodded modestly, and hoped Melissa would be so pleased with me, she'd award me a bonus or a hefty pay rise. A Volvo estate pulled up beside the hotel and the driver wound his window down.

"Are you ready to go, pal? If I can get you back to Ardlui by two, I can nab all the jobs in the east before Joe Alexander gets anywhere near the area."

To my astonishment, Dexter threw his arms around me. "I'm gonna be kinda busy the next few months, but I'd love to take you out properly and feed you more fries when this is all over. What do you say?"

Thankfully, he couldn't see my face as it was muffled up against his armpit. My expression was aghast rather than flattered. The next bit took me by surprise too, as he let me go and swooped in before I could stop him, planting a kiss on my lips.

"See ya!" And with that, he was in the back of the car, giving me a cheery wave as it headed south east towards Ardlui.

Stunned, I turned away, planning to head back along the road to Jack's house where I planned to carry on with my dual jobs of designing Blissful Beauty's website and bringing the Lochalshie village one up to scratch.

"Gaby, Gaby!"

Argh and double argh. Across the street, her face the perfect picture of curiosity mingled with delight she now had yet another thing to be the first to tell the WhatsApp group about was Mhari, dressed in her pharmacy uniform. She must have been on her lunch hour and it was my bad luck that the end of it had coincided with Dexter and I leaving the hotel.

"Who's he, Gaby? That your new boyfriend then? American too. D'ye suppose he'll move up here too?"

I passed it off as natural Yankee friendliness. Hugging and kissing people they barely know was standard, and they could teach we closed-off Brits a thing or two.

"Aye, aye?" Mhari asked, her eyes widening and mouth rounding into an 'o'. "Looked awfy friendly to me."

I heard the familiar ping ping sound of WhatsApp messages going back and forth, no doubt three hundred villagers contributing their opinions to the latest developments in my life. Jack's mini-bus passed us, Mhari raising a hand to wave at him and then staring after it, her face creased up in a frown.

"Well, that wasnae very friendly. Didnae even wave back. What d'ye think's the matter with him?"

I turned to watch the bus make its way out of the village. "Got out of bed the wrong side. Again."

I say goodbye to Katya now, reflecting how right she was about Jack's mean and moodiness, and wonder afresh why I've said nothing about the Dexter Incident as I've taken to calling it in my mind. As the day went on, I imagined how a 'date' might go, but still unable to shake the feeling that personal Dexter would be too like work Dexter.

 I'd turn up for our 'date'—and I knew it would be in some hipster venue so achingly cool it was bound to make me feel uncomfortable—dressed in my best gear courtesy of the Dating Guru's recommendations for first date outfits. He'd take one look at me, tell me I looked beyond awesome amazing, and then suggest next time I try a different pair of shoes. And what about jeans that were black not blue, and so on and so forth until he'd recommended a complete outfit change. My wretched mind then played with the scenario. Instead of Dexter waiting for me in a hipster bar, Jack picked me up in his mini-bus, drove us to a tiny hotel miles away, lifted me in his arms and carried me across the threshold, not bothering to check us in and whisking me upstairs where he...

Oof. Not only cliched, Gaby, Katya barked at my overactive imagination. But you've made the bloke super human too. In your world, are there many men who can manage to carry someone for so long? I squeaked back at her that the first photo we'd ever seen of him was one where he'd just won the tossing the caber competition, which made him a contender for such feats. And although I was still to find out what that tossing a caber was, it must equal strength, right? In defiance, my mind returned to the fantasy adding a log fire in the hotel's bedroom and a sheepskin rug where we were just about to discover if it was as soft and comfortable as it looked when the man himself walks in, stony-faced once more.

I hastily compose my features from dreamy to work face. "Jack! Don't usually see you at this time of the day?"

True, The mini-bus tour days meant he was rarely back before 9pm, and I'd assumed when I'd seen him earlier he'd been on his way to Glasgow or Edinburgh to pick up another bus load of tourists.

"Emergency," he says, scrolling through his phone. "My tour guide's sick so I've got no-one to talk to tomorrow's tour."

Jack designed the tours and drove people about, but he didn't do the commentary as it was considered too dangerous. A driver needed to keep all his attention on the road. His usual guide was an old guy called Sam who knew every single thing there was to know about Scotland and considered it his duty to ensure anyone who wasn't Scottish knew its history inside out. Beautiful as Scottish scenery is, without Sam's running commentary a tour wouldn't be half as entertaining.

Jack's forehead creases as he looks at his phone. He goes into the kitchen and I hear him telling someone not to worry, he hadn't expected them to be able to cover it at such short notice. When he returns, he's running his hand back and forth over his head in a gesture I recognise as stressed.

"What about Stewart? He likes to talk, and he knows a lot of stuff."

He looks up at that, one eyebrow doing its best sardonic wiggle thing. "What do you guess that will do for my TripAdvisor ratings, Gaby?"

Fair enough. Inflicting Stewart on a captive audience would turn the visitors' trip into the holiday from hell.

"Mhari?" I try, and he smiles, the upturn to his lips lifting the heaviness from his eyes.

"Mhari thinks Bonnie Prince Charlie is a pub in the next village. The people who come on my trips are looking for someone who knows a bit more about Scottish history."

"Me," I say, taken aback by how confident I sound. "I'm a fast learner and history was my favourite subject at school after art. If you give me a book or point me to the right pages on Wikipedia, I'll cram up on it tonight and you can fill in any gaps tomorrow."

Another instance of volunteering before my brain engages. Spending time with Jack—and the precious two hours we'll have in the bus alone before we pick up and drop off the visitors—was too hard to resist. That I'll need to spend my evening learning eight hundred years or so of history seems a small price to pay. And there's the unofficial day of work, though excellent customer services rendered to distressed American clients ought to mean I can do anything, right?

Jack says nothing and I do my best to make myself appear knowledgeable and capable. It must work as a few seconds later, he nods. "Okay. If you're sure. That would help me a lot. We're off to Doune Castle tomorrow and I've got a book on it."

He disappears upstairs and returns with it. To my relief, it isn't that thick a tome.

I'll pick you up tomorrow morning at seven am outside your house?" he adds, and leans across to ruffle my hair, warm hands encountering what I hope is still clean hair.

"Thanks Gaby."