I almost immediately regret ordering the cullen skink as my starter. Don't get me wrong, the creamy traditional Scottish soup is always a winner for me - and don't even get me started on the fresh bread and butter that comes with it! - but my hands shake as I try to lift a spoonful to my lips in front of Owen, and I narrowly miss slopping bits of potato or fish over my dress on several occasions.
His black pudding fritter on sourdough, topped with a perfect poached egg, seems far less problematic to eat, and he consumes it neatly while fielding questions from the other girls about himself and his business.
He tells us he started Scots-2-Go just before we were all hit with the global pandemic that was Covid - "now that was a fun time," he adds with a sardonic laugh. Unable to run trips or holidays due to lockdown, he took on delivery work for a while, keeping himself busy with hillwalking on his downtime.
"Once everything opened back up again, business started booming," he tells us. "People were still too nervous to go abroad on holiday, and the Scottish Highlands just seems to be getting more and more popular thanks to shows like Outlander. A lot of folk want to see all the popular spots but are terrified to drive on some of the roads, so a bus tour is ideal for them." He grins modestly. "I've done alright for myself."
He certainly has. I can't help but feel grudging admiration as he explains he now has a fleet of five minibuses and employs several other full-time tour guides.
"Why Scotland, though?" I find myself blurting out after I've thankfully finished my soup and pushed it to one side. Here's hoping my venison stew will be slightly less terrifying to eat. "You were once as keen to escape as I was."
He tips his head thoughtfully to one side, his eyes narrowing adorably behind his glasses as he considers my question. "I was," he says eventually. "And, for a few years, I took every opportunity I could to travel, to get as far away as possible. But I started to miss Scotland - it seems I had to push it away before I could finally realise my place was actually here." Light brown eyes focus intently on my face, and I feel somehow exposed.
I can hear typical restaurant noise in the background, but it seems our whole table has gone silent. The tension isn't just between me and Owen anymore; it's enveloped the whole group now.
Nessa - bless her heart - clears her throat dramatically to cut a way through it, and the loaded atmosphere thankfully evaporates. "So, you're just trying to help other people fall in love with Scotland then?" She smiles at me. "You'll have a tough challenge with this girl, though."
"Oh, I think I'm up to the task," he says lightly. And even though he's not looking at me when he says it, I somehow feel another meaning to his words applying invisible pressure against my chest.
Much to my relief, the mains arrive then and the ensuing silence is now more about us stuffing our faces. My venison is perfect, accompanied by the mashed potato of dreams, and apparently I've stopped shaking now so I eat this far more gracefully.
"Where did you end up last night?" Owen eventually asks us, putting his fork down and taking a sip of his pint. He's still drinking the one he ordered at the bar before dinner, while the rest of us have sunk a bottle of rose between us and started on a second. "Seems like you had a bit of a mad one!"
"Some guy's house . . . I think his name was Dougal?" Vanessa tries to remember, her brow creasing. "Tall guy, kind of . . . Craggy looking?"
Owen grins. "That'll be Dougal McLeish. He's a bit of a local legend. Harmless. Albeit with a weird passion for strip poker."
Nessa laughs. "As you can probably guess, Mirren's bra was almost a casualty."
Thanks for that reminder, Nessa!
"She was clever about it though," my best friend continues, winking at me. "Took it out from underneath her top so no one got to see the goodies."
I'm relieved to hear that. But still mortified about the whole bra episode from this morning.
"So you live in Fort William then?" I ask Owen, in an attempt to get the topic away from my underwear, and "goodies". He nods, humour sparking in his eyes. He knows exactly what I'm doing.
"Yeah, I've been based there for about five years now."
"And do you live . . . Alone? Or with a flatmate? Or a girlfriend?" Michelle's going fishing. Happily in a relationship with her childhood sweetheart, she's the matchmaker of the group and has the misguided belief that no one is truly happy unless they've found The One.
She's clearly decided that Owen and I are fated to be together. I mean, I suppose I can see why she's came to that conclusion, what with the shared past and the . . . moments she's already witnessed since our reunion. But she doesn't know the full story.
Why, then, does my heart still stutter in my chest, as I wait for his response to her question? Why do I feel like I might struggle to conceal my feelings if it turns out he does have a girlfriend? Or - God forbid - a wife? My gaze drifts to his left hand, noting there's no wedding ring, no white line where one once might have been. I scoop up another fork full of buttery mash, determined to act like I'm more interested in potato than his answer.
Is he really taking an inordinate amount of time to reply, or has my brain just slowed down significantly? I suspect the answer might be yes to both.
"I live alone," he responds finally. "No significant other either. I've been single for . . . Oh, a good few years now."
I stuff the complex carbs in my mouth and eyeball my plate. Why am I struggling not to smile now? And why is it so difficult to stay mad at him?
"Is it hard to maintain a relationship if you're always on the road?" Michelle asks sympathetically.
"I haven't really tried, to be honest. But I'm sure I could make it work if I found someone I really liked."
I'm still having an intimate stare-off with my plate (not sure who's winning) but I can feel his eyes on me again.
"Should we get the bill?" I ask brightly. I'm the queen of evasive tactics today.
We've still got some wine left, but Owen makes his excuses after the money is settled, saying he's going to head to the shop across the road. We agree to meet in reception at 10am the following day. Debbie, a keen walker, has suggested we walk up to the Fyrish Monument, so that's our main plan for the day before we head towards our next hotel, which is a little further north.
But, in the meantime, I have three girls staring at me once again, ready and primed for gossip.
"Okay, that guy really fucking likes you," Nessa states.
"He'd probably really like to fuck you too," Debbie adds baldly. Nessa narrows her eyes at her.
"Seriously though, did you see the way he was looking at you?" She asks me.
I had. But he had looked at me like that once before too. I shake my head. "It doesn't matter. I'm not interested, girls."
"Oh, you so are," Nessa insists. "You're trying to be pissed off with him, but you can't seem to help interacting with him."
"You told me to be polite," I remind her.
"Polite is one thing," Michelle says. "That was something else entirely. It was like the two of you were in your own world sometimes with all the chemistry and the eye contact." She sighs. "I don't understand how something can be both magical and awkward to watch at the same time . . . But you somehow managed it!"
"Why can't you just let go for once?" Debbie asks, cutting to the chase as usual. "Not all guys are going to be like Donnie, you know!"
Sidenote: Donnie was my ex. I'm not ready to get into that disastrous relationship yet.
Anyway, it's not about Donnie.
And it's not about Owen either. Like I said before, I'm not looking for a holiday romance. Or any kind of romance for that matter. The way Owen looked at me, or smiled at me, or made me feel . . . seen tonight? It's totally irrelevant.
I need to protect myself.
Saying I need to catch up on my sleep, I take my turn to excuse myself and head up to my room. I can't get into this anymore tonight.
"Mirren." Owen is behind me as I start to ascend the stairs to the first floor. He bites his lip as I turn to face him, his expression tentative. "Do you think we could talk at some point? I'd really like to explain what happened back then."
"I'm . . . not sure." I'm still not certain I really want to know. So I don't need to look directly at him; I stare instead at the contents of the clear plastic bag he's holding: a bottle of water, a single can of IPA, a Mars Bar and newspaper. I didn't really think anyone actually read those anymore. I shift my gaze back to him, remembering again my vow to Nessa. "I'll think about it."
"Okay. That's as good as I can hope for." He bobs his head up and down, looking relieved. "I know you said I can't rewrite the past, and I get that," he adds softly. "But I'd still like to try and make it up to you, in whatever way I can."
I don't say anything else as he walks away, and I let myself in to my room. But the butterflies are back . . . And this time it seems they've brought extras.
Hope you're enjoying the story! 💜
In the next chapter, we'll be returning to the past and it will give a bit more information around what happened ten years ago.