Here’s a short extract from the seventh of my Highland romance books, which will be published later this year (2026), so long as life promises me it will behave itself and stop throwing obstacles in my path.
As the door to Lochalshie’s pharmacy opened, the bell above it rang. Mhari, engrossed in her TikTok stream, did not bother glancing up from her phone when the first customer of the day strolled in.
Five to five, and five minutes before the shop closed. FFS, as the saying went.
“May I help you?” she enquired, remembering to soften her consonants so she did not sound as if she was growling. Normally, she wouldn’t bother with politeness, but the Maitlyn Pharmacy Group, to which the tiny Lochalshie chemist shop belonged, had recently sent all its employees on a Zoom customer relations training course.
Smile and be pleasant all the time, the consultants urged. Maitlyn Pharmacy and your jobs depend on it.
Mhari straightened her posture, placing her phone off to one side—still open, of course—so she wouldn’t lose her place on the @CurlyGal updo tutorial. “Super-quick, super-easy,” the influencer had promised, ideal for the time-poor. She gave a little tug at the hem of her Maitlyn Pharmacy-issued tunic, navy with white piping. Not the most flattering outfit, but if you pulled it down and stuck your chest out, it did alright by your boobs.
“D’ye want anything?” she asked, eyeing him over the counter. His eyes—always his most expressive feature—flicked left, landing on the discreet display of condoms and lube. He leaned in closer, almost nose to nose with her, bringing with him a waft of apple shampoo.
“Thing is,” he said, lips twitching, “I’m so big. Not sure any of those’ll fit me…”
“Absolute rubbish!” The voice from behind startled them both.
Alison, the pharmacist and Mhari’s boss, had emerged from the back, where she spent most of her time dozing behind stacks of prescriptions she claimed to be categorising. She waddled over, unimpressed. Unlike Mhari, she wasn’t bound by the company uniform policy. Shame. The tunic might’ve done more for her than her usual get-up: skinny jeans, a red vest camisole, and a tired black cardigan with a blob of something that may or may not have been egg mayonnaise decorating the front.
She stomped to the shelf, grabbed a packet of condoms, and lobbed it at the mystery customer. Fair play to him. He caught it one-handed and didn’t even blush.
“There!” Alison grinned. “Universal fit. Problem solved. Anything else we can get you? Perfume for the lady, maybe?” She gestured grandly toward the Britney display. Mhari had drenched herself in the stuff when it first came in two weeks before Christmas. Even after two showers and a shampoo, the cloying sweetness had lingered. It could give Avon Skin So Soft a decent run as a midge repellent.
“Or,” Alison continued thoughtfully, returning to the pharmacy counter, “perhaps some haemorrhoid remedies? Or maybe,” she leant in with a gleam in her eye, “that cream you rub on genital warts. We’ve got plenty of those too.”
Mhari seized her phone. “The customer doesnae want anything after all! See ye tomorrow, Alison!” she called over her shoulder, voice light and breezy as she grabbed her coat from the hook behind the counter and bolted for the door. The mystery customer followed, still chuckling as he went.
Outside, darkness had already fallen. This far north, daylight had a short lease on life in February. You waved at it from inside all day and learned not to miss it after hours. A white van zipped past, and the driver gave them a friendly toot. Nothing followed. The closest Lochalshie ever came to rush hour was the day of the Highland Show when cars, motorhomes, motorbikes and Range Rovers towing caravans descended from miles around, turning the usually sleepy streets into a tartan-trimmed traffic jam.
The mystery customer, Lachlan, caught her hand in his, making her glance at it and him. He’d smartened up. Most of the time, he lived in tight jeans, trainers that were the exact opposite of box-fresh and fleece hoodies.
Today’s attire featured black denims underneath a petrol-blue padded jacket she didn’t recognise and cowboy boots. His dark curly hair lay closer to his skull, indicating that he had also visited the barber shop in Oban for what they jokingly referred to as the Forrester Senior approved army short back and sides cut. The overhead streetlight caught silver tips among the tapered fade at the side that Mhari hadn’t noticed before. When had that happened?
“What’s going on?” Mhari asked, lacing her question with suspicion. Surprises rarely ticked ‘the things I absolutely adore’ list in her book. Fine for other people, but hideous when applied to herself.
“Nothing!” Lachlan gave her a bland smile, triggering Mhari’s further suspicions. “Just thought I’d surprise my girlfriend with a wee visit. Got the night off, so I have.”
All well and good, but Mhari had planned her night throughout the too-dull Tuesday in the shop. First, try that @CurlyGal lassie’s trick with her hair to see if it worked. Second, pour boiling water on a packet of instant beef-flavoured noodles and grate an awfy big heap of cheese on top. Bung the bowl in the microwave until it reached the perfect level of gooey goodness. Third, sit on the sofa wi’ a furry blanket over her knees, bowl o’ noodles in one hand, remote control in the other, Bridgerton latest series streaming on the TV.
End of.
“I’ve got plans,” she announced.
Lachlan’s lips twitched. “Don’t tell me. Back to your flat, try out something you’ve seen on YouTube or TikTok, make yourself instant noodles with enough cheese to give you nightmares when you try to sleep for years to come, and then flick through the TV apps before settling on Netflix and binge-watching Bridgerton while WhatsApping Katya at the same time?”
Jeez-o. This was why Mhari warned her nieces and nephews—many of whom were in their early twenties—to avoid entanglements at all costs. Who wanted someone who knew you that well?
“Aye, very good,” she responded, stomping off towards her flat, half hoping Lachlan would and wouldn’t follow. When he did, she slowed so he could catch up.
“If ye’ve watched Bridgerton for real, dinnae tell me anything!”
Lachlan, his grin far too smug for Mhari’s liking, shook his head. “No, no! The Grand Duke of Whatsit can do whatever he likes to Lady Poshity and I won’t breathe a word. Brought my own refreshments anyway, I won’t need any of your noodles.”
He gave a victorious shake of the carrier bag in his hand. “Doritos. Cheese flavour. With sour cream dip. And a gigantic bar of fruit and nut chocolate. But you’re absolutely right. Folks shouldn’t share their food…”
After instant noodles lavishly coated with cheese shavings that melted into every coil, a night spent demolishing highly processed tortilla chips and industrial-sized chocolate bars ranked a very close second on Mhari Colquhoun’s personal list of fan-dabby-docious ways to spend an evening.
“How big’s the Dorito bag?” she asked, intrigued despite herself.
“A mahoosive two hundred and fifty grams. Nabbed it from the hotel stores.”
He meant the Lochside Welcome, where he worked in management. The hotel didn’t deal in normal quantities. Everything came in catering sizes, and its larders were packed with food items far larger than anything found in an ordinary supermarket.
Not that she’d admit it aloud, but Mhari found the idea of those bulk ingredients faintly magical. How long would it take to work through a cheese block the size of a doorstep? How many slices of toast, thick with peanut butter, could you make from one of those vast catering tubs?
“Far too much for one skinny wee skelf to eat all by himself,” Lachlan added, nudging her side again.
Well, he wasnae wrong there. Early on in their relationship, Mhari had made them both hop on the bathroom scales. When she lived with Katya, there were no such things allowed. Katya had swept them from the flat with a grand, lofty declaration that bathroom scales were tools of the patriarchy, designed solely to make women feel bad about themselves.
The moment Katya had flounced off to London, Mhari dug out the old scales from the cupboard under the stairs like they were contraband.
As a joke one morning, she’d dared Lachlan to weigh himself first thing, completely starkers. She’d listened to the number with growing dread. Then, with far less enthusiasm, she stepped on herself, after removing all ten earrings, the delicate silver chain from her wrist and even the bobble holding up her thick red hair before jumping on and then off in horror.
Weren’t lassies supposed to weigh less than the men they dated?
“So?” Lachlan had asked, lips twitching as if he already knew the answer.
“None o’ your bees’ wax!” she’d snapped, pausing for all of half a second to wonder if she ought to eat fewer cheesy-topped noodles and more boiled vegetables before dismissing the thought as entirely deranged.
To his credit, he never brought it up again. And now, here he was, dangling an outrageously oversized bag of the world’s best snack in front of her, like he hadn’t a care in the world.
They were at her front door, anyway. Lachlan leant on the pebble-dashed wall, merry eyed. If Mhari started a pros and cons list for the reasons to invite him in, the pros would far outweigh every disadvantage.
She fumbled around in her coat pocket, trying to locate the front door keys. The stack of them found, she waved them in front of her.
“Awright, c’mon up. Dinnae make a mess or scoff all the Doritos, or you’re dumped, okay?”
Lachlan gave a solemn nod. “Fair enough.”
Since she threatened him with that regularly, he probably didn’t take it seriously. The door swung open, and the staircase beckoned. At the top of the stairs, a long-haired black cat yowled. For years, Mhari had not considered herself an animal lover, but a brief spell of living with one changed her opinion and Dougie (everyone always said, whit? when she told them the cat’s name) reminded her of herself.
Loved his home, his routine, plenty of grub, sleeping and independence.
“Want me to feed Dougie?” Lachlan asked as they reached the top of the stairs. He didn’t wait for an answer and headed into the kitchen, opening the cupboard under the sink where Mhari kept the cat food.
Dougie, tail up, trotted after him. Cats, eh? Loyalty only to the person who fed them last.
The rented flat was a classic two-up two-down, built by the council sometime in the 60s or 70s when function was far favoured over fanciness: two bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen that had once been its own space until the wall was knocked through to create more room. There was a bathroom off the hall too. Cosy, since it sat on the first floor and her downstairs neighbour—deaf-as-a-post auld Mrs Gibson—kept her radiators on full blast all winter, which doubled as underfloor heating.
Mhari shrugged off her coat and hung it on the hook behind the door, then headed to the bedroom to peel off her tunic. Should she make an effort? Mebbes swap the grungy grey sweatshirt for the pink wraparound cardie? The sweatshirt bore the slogan Don’t mess with a girl who does burpees for fun.
(Ironically worn. Burpees were the invention of sadists.)
She went with the sweatshirt.
From the kitchen, she could hear Lachlan chatting away to Dougie. “Oh yes, what a good boy, such a very handsome lad. Does Sir fancy some lovely biscuits? Or maybe a bit of roast chicken, freshly nabbed from the hotel kitchen—”
“What!” Mhari strode through. Dougie was standing on his hind legs, one paw raised, stretching up Lachlan’s black-jeaned leg as Lachlan dangled a strip of chicken above his head.
Lachlan gave her a wide-eyed smile. “Thought he deserved a treat.”
A treat for the cat as well? What was he up to?
©Emma Baird 2026
