"So, if I went out with you, everybody would know my business in record time?"

Lachlan Forrester, five foot nine, wiry-bodied, dark-haired and eyed, and the man who'd taken up too much space in Mhari's mind for the last five years. He kept his eyes to the front and said the words like he meant them.

She hadn't suggested, "Lachlan, want tae Netflix and chill?" Or said the more honest bit. "Lachlan, I've spent the last few years wondering what you're like in the sack. Please let me find oot." All she'd done was get in a car with him so she could get a lift back from Oban to Lochalshie. She'd even turned her phone to silent in his honour, instinct warning her its ever-present beeps, pings and tings would annoy the crap out of him.

In the car, Lachlan asked her what radio station she wanted, nodding approvingly when she said, "Classic FM, if you can get it." No-one expected a twenty-something to opt for classical music. Mhari figured music without lyrics made conversation easier. When he ooh-ed and ah-ed at the strings section of Mahler's Symphony Number 2, she mouthed pretend appreciation too.

Even if you couldn't beat a good bit of Taylor Swift.

The landscape sped past them, hills and trees that showcased hundreds of forms of green. Lachlan drove as she'd expected—fast, but careful too. He didn't show off. All he wanted was to get from A to B as fast as possible, doing nothing that resulted in bunches of wilting flowers placed at sharp bends in the road to mark the tragic death of a young and inexperienced driver. Or awkward conversations with coppers who might remember his name from an intelligence briefing at some point and want to search the car.

"Who says I want tae go out wi' you!" Mhari said, the lie easy enough to say. "Nae smart woman would hitch hersel' to your star."

Loser, she said in her head. A silly denial, as if you could kid your heart into doing the opposite of what it wanted.

Lachlan, his face side on to hers, betrayed nothing when she made her grand statement. Or perhaps he thought he did. Mhari detected his mouth twitching. As if he wanted to... you know, smile.

The mini bus trundled behind them. The rest of Mhari's friends inside it. Part of her regretted not taking the bus back with them. Her flatmate had done something last night with the village's newcomer, Zac—a man Mhari wouldn't pee on if he was on fire. In the mini bus, she could have cosied up to the two of them, found out exactly what they did last night and told the news to all and sundry.

Instead, here she was in Lachlan's filthy Land Rover, panting dog in the back, and the man she'd fancied for three hundred years (felt like) no' in the least bit interested.

The clever bit of her was aware too many questions would bug him. You couldn't fight nature, though. Once a nosy cow, always a nosy cow. Lachlan had already accused her of being Lochalshie's loud mouth. A thumping great hint he wouldn't go out with her, so why not cash in and bombard him with questions, anyway?

"How come ye were able tae get Jack's mini-bus back that quick?"

Mhari knew fine. She and her friends had travelled to Oban yesterday in the minibus. At some point during the night, the bus had been stolen. Mhari's flatmate, Katya, had discovered the theft when she and Zac sneaked out of the house the group were staying in to... Aye, well, it didn't take a genius to work out what they planned.

The night of passion plans dashed, they had to rush back to the house and wake folks up with the news that someone had nicked the bus.

Jack, owner of said mini-bus, phoned Lachlan, and voila. The mini bus reappeared the next morning. Valeted, too.

Lachlan rolled his eyes. At least, that's what he seemed to do. He changed gears, all the better to tackle the steep hill the Land Rover was about to climb. The Oban to Lochalshie road was like that, twists and turns and a track that could take the unwitting driver by surprise.

"I phoned people," he said, white knuckles pressing down on the gear stick as the Land Rover slipped from three to two.

"And ye found it!" Mhari said. A sentence with lots of question marks. Where, how, who do you know... And also, how sexy was that? Who didn't find a man wi' mysterious power totes attractive?

His face swung, tilting towards her. "I did!"

The grin he gave her. So wide it about split his face in two.

"Mr Fixer, eh?" she said. "Course, some might argue ye're a dirty bastard and the cops shouldae locked ye up years ago."

See? That was the thing about someone sayin' you were a no-goer as a girlfriend. It gave you a licence to be truthful.

The Land Rover screamed to a halt; a passing place on the narrow B-road between Oban and Lochalshie. Luckily, traffic didn't bother itself with the road much at this time of year and they'd left the mini bus behind miles ago.

"Dirty bastard, eh?"

Lachlan's low growl tickled the hairs at the back of her neck. Up they rose. Cockiness was easy enough, but in a deserted wee place—snow-topped hills, craggy rocks and wild seas that crashed against them—it didn't look like the smart choice. Why had she put her phone in the glove box instead of her pocket?

He held out a hand. "C'mon."