Highland Fling - A Funny Chick Lit Romance (COMPLETE)

You Lost Him at Hello...

Even as an outsider, I know this isn't good.

"What's the prize?" I say, and I'm met with blank stares (most of the committee) and glares (Jack).

Jolene rustles the papers in her hands. "First prize in the Highland Games is a wee dod o' shortbread".

It kills me to do this, but my first reaction is say 'big wow'. "Shortbread?" I say. "Jack makes the best shortbread I've ever tasted." Nod to the gentleman to the right, whose face doesn't flicker. "But is it enough of an incentive?" My mind registers hundreds of possibilities. People come to the games for... Big Men. Big Muscles. Strength. Whisked away on a Highland Tour... now, my brain does cartwheels, flourishing pictures and images online of all of the above. Presented neatly on a website that makes FOMO obligatory. Come to the Lochalshie Highland Games or forever miss out. I tell the committee the ideas. Why not install a plug-in where people can view themselves in their family tartan kilt, or could they re-enact the Battle of Stirling Bridge, on the winning side of course.

Nods start around the table. Phones or tablets emerge—this must be one of the fabled hot spots—and I sense the beginnings of a hashtag. I look around me for Jack, doing the usual allowance for a person having needed to go to the loo. But the absence stretches out too long, an aching silence I long to fill. The doctor leaps in, anxious to restart our discussion on the best advice for women looking for love. I flick back to the first meeting I had with Jack. Turning up two and a half hours late ensured I lost him at hello. And if I really was snoring when he looked in on me again post dog rescue, Jess McCann and Christina the Dating Guru shake their heads in sorrow. I am a lost cause.

The pipe band major clears his throat. "We could ask Big Donnie for a money prize for the games. That would attract competitors. He can spare a hundred pounds."

Jolene agrees. "Can you ask him, Jack?" I turn and see Jack return to his seat. My heart does its flutter once more and my head attempts telepathy, trying to work out if he saw me snoring. A big fat nothing comes back to me. Why didn't I make an effort for this evening, or at least shower? It's a good job I'm not sitting next to him as I suspect I don't smell flowery and fragrant as the Dating Guru advises her clients to do to attract the man of their dreams.

"No," he shakes his head. "I don't think a money prize will make any difference. The guys who compete in the games aren't motivated by filthy lucre."

Oof. That seems aimed at me, and I flare up forgetting for the time being that the Dating Guru promotes agreeing with a guy all the time will make him like you. "You think?" I say. "Shall we vote on it? I'm willing to bet a big sign on the website saying first prize £1,000"—Big Donnie sounds just like the kind of guy who'd have a spare grand lying around—"the entries would fly in."

Six of the eight people around the table raise their hand in agreement, even Dr McLatchie though her son sends her a filthy look. "Sorry, Jack son," she says. "But the lassie's right. And she's fae the big city too so she knows how these things work."

The woman's thought processes astonish me. Great Yarmouth is nowhere near city size and I'm not sure me being from a city, accurate or not, gives me added insight into how competitions work. It's common sense, isn't it? Jolene agrees she'll approach Big Donnie, who is apparently something of a lady's man and far more likely to agree to the request if it comes from a woman.

"Now, Psychic Josie! You're our contact, Doctor. Has she said yes?"

The doctor nods. "Aye, she can make it. Here's her contract." She takes a folded sheet of paper out of her bag and slides it across the table. Jolene studies it, her expression changing to disbelief. "That's her fee?" she asks. "It's more than the proposed Highland Games prize. And she'll be charging people on the day. She'll make a killing."

The doctor shrugs. "Have ye seen how popular she is? Every time she does an event in Glasgow or Edinburgh, it's sold out months in advance. Ye'll make your money in the numbers who come through the park. The games are not free are they?"

Jack whisks the paper from Jolene's hands and studies it too. "No fee," he says firmly. "Tell your contact, Mum, that Psychic Josie can keep all her takings from the customers she gets and we won't charge her a stall fee the way we're doing with everyone else."

"But—"

"Mum!"

"Oh alright then," the doctor says, taking back the contract. "Mebbe she might no' be as keen."

Blast it. That little show of authority sent my treacherous, ever-moving emotions back in the direction of passion and want. Who doesn't love a bit of of firmness?

The rest of the meeting is taken up by a discussion of the various stalls and speculation if the Lochalshie Highland Games budget stretches to weather modification so that the sun shines on the day or that at least it doesn't rain. When someone mentions how much the Soviets were once rumoured to have spent on making the sun shine on a military parade, the idea is quickly dropped. The budget wouldn't cover a minute of modified sunshine, never mind four hours.

Jolene declares the meeting over at nine pm. I'm about to sneak over to the new book stall and pick up that copy of You Lost Him at Hello, which sounds more promising that the Amazon one I ordered How to Make Him Love You when Jack makes his way over and I have to grip hold of the table to stop my trembling legs giving way underneath me. Pathetic that such things excite me so much.

"How are you?" he asks. "After your dip in the loch the other week? Not experiencing any of those side effects Mum mentioned?"

He cares, he cares! My brain shouts. "Um, fine," I say. "No side effects, sorry to disappoint your mother."

At that, he cracks a smile. It does seem that way, a slip in that usual facade and the sight of it joyful. My mission in life might turn out to be making Jack McAllan beam with joy as often as I can.

"Good," he says. "You're probably right about the prize. Shortbread isn't much of a reward for spending your afternoon flexing your muscles and panting hard."

STOP IT, Gaby! When he said 'panting' my imagination ran away with itself. Dear oh dear oh dear—it planted the lovely idea of Jack McAllan, pupils dilated, mouth open and his breaths coming in ragged gasps. I was in the room too, if you get my meaning.

"See you next week then," he says, a question I take to heart. That signals he's looking forward to it, doesn't it? I nod agreement and we let ourselves out of the library, Jack heading in one direction and me in the opposite. When I open the door, Mena comes running. "You'll never guess what, Mena!" I say as she yowls encouragement. 

"Jack said I was right about something. That's got to count as a positive, don't you think? And also, unlike earlier when I indicated going to a village meeting in the library was no-one's idea of FOMO, my evening turned out very well indeed."

AUTHOR'S NOTE - hands up who likes shortbread? Rich, crumbly, not too sweet and perfect, right?!