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“I saw this in the Otter’s Holt. It’s just a wee thing.”

I draw the box towards me and open it, revealing a delicate bracelet with a small silver pig charm.

“I hope it’s okay. I know pigs aren’t renowned for their beauty, but I thought it was kind of cute, and it reminded me of that time when I dared you to—”

“—set free Fergus Murray’s pigs,” I finish, smiling. It’s adorable, with tiny legs and a round belly. “I love it. Thank you.” I slip it on.

He beams, pleased. “So I’ve not been eliminated from the dating competition yet?”

“Not yet, but it could happen anytime. I’m going to be testing you all throughout this meal. Do you know Rudyard Kipling’s poem ‘If’?”

He nods.

“Well, I’m looking for someone who can walk with kings without losing the common touch. A bit like myself, I’d say. Yes, I enjoy smutty historical romances, but I can hold my own in discussions about current affairs or the latest innovations in veterinary science.”

Aye, I can, but generally, after a hard day’s work, all I want to do is let my hair down—not engage in anything highbrow. But I’m trying to challenge him here. And anyway, if I can’t put on airs somewhere like this, where can I?

“As for you,” I continue, glancing around then lowering my voice, “I’m aware you can send a dick pic on command, so that’s the second requirement ticked off. But can you walk with kings, Lewis McIntyre?”

He leans back, steepling his fingers. “I’d like to think so, but how do I prove that to you?”

“The other day, at the loch, I said that if you can’t laugh at a penis, you’re taking life too seriously. I stand by that comment, but I also acknowledge there’s a time and a place. And this”—I gesture around the posh restaurant—“is neither. This is a place for scintillating, clever conversation, and I need to know that you can take part in such exchanges. I’m not twenty-one anymore, and while I may still enjoy a dick joke, there are other facets to my personality. I want a partner who’s the same—someone who can make me laugh but also stimulate me intellectually.”

He scratches the back of his head. For the first time tonight, a flicker of doubt crosses his face. “Er . . . you know I never went to uni, Iona.”

Damn it, there’s something about this flash of vulnerability that melts my heart, just a wee bit. I’m trying to put him through his paces, not feel sorry for him. I warned him that dating me would be challenging.

Still, I soften my tone a little. “You manage a hotel, Lewis. I bet you know a lot about tourism and issues affecting the Highlands. You also help in the restaurant, and you’ve always liked baking. Plus, you’re keen on health and fitness. Engage me with fascinating facts. Entertain me with witty anecdotes. I don’t care that you didn’t go to uni—that’s not the point. With sex not on the cards for the foreseeable future”—I will absolutely not cave to his good looks anytime soon—“and with dick jokes off the table, prove to me that Lewis McIntyre, now aged twenty-seven, is still a fun and interesting person to be around.”

In a flash, his uncertainty is gone. A confident smirk lifts the corners of his mouth. “Oh, I can do that.”

And he does. Well, his stories are more entertaining than intellectually stimulating, but that works for me. I hadn’t really wanted an in-depth discussion about Scottish tourism—amusing tales about funny things guests have done or said are far better. But we keep it clean. We engage in wholesome conversation that wouldn’t make my maw blush, and I have a really good time.

When we were younger, we could talk for hours and hours, day after day. As the wine flows, we gradually slip back into the effortless rhythm we once had. Soon we’re chatting as freely and easily as we did in our youth.

I don’t make Lewis do all the talking. I amuse him with a few of what my brother, Aidan, calls my “Bridget Jones moments”. Like the episode where, as a newly qualified vet, I tripped and fell into a sheep’s water trough. I was so embarrassed I told the farmer I’d been head-butted into it by the ram.

For some reason I have a whole catalogue of such stories—I honestly don’t know how I get myself into these situations. As I work my way through them, Lewis grins and shakes his head, those dimples of his making an appearance.

The food, of course, is incredible. We both start with seared scallops—tender and succulent, with a buttery richness that melts in my mouth—then I have the truffle parmesan risotto, while he opts for the crispy orange duck breast. The risotto is a symphony of flavours, each mouthful a decadent experience.

After finishing our main courses, a somewhat mischievous idea comes to me. It’s not at all appropriate for this setting, nor in line with how I told Lewis tonight was going to go. But then I have to keep him on his toes, don’t I? I can’t let him get too comfortable.

Lifting my phone as though to check a message, I tap it a few times, bringing up a certain image. Then, after glancing around the restaurant to ensure no one is looking our way, I turn the screen to him, just for a second.

His eyes widen, and a deep crimson flush colours his cheeks. “Bloody hell, Iona!” he whispers, squirming in his chair. “Someone might have seen that.”

“Relax, I made sure no one was looking.” Leaning closer to him, I add, “I call that one Dick at Dawn.”

Despite being visibly flustered, he lets out a nervous laugh. “You named the pictures?” His mouth tugs upwards ever so slightly.

“Of course.”

I requested that image after I woke early one morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. He took a rather naughty snap by his bedroom window, and the hills and the sky are really quite beautiful in the background—almost pretty enough to draw the eye more than the main attraction. What frustrates and excites me most, though, is my curtains are visible in the picture. Had I thought to open them, I might have seen him take it. Instead, I was still lying in my bed when it came through.

Lewis inches closer to me, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “This whole thing is pretty cruel, you know. I mean, I have to get into a certain state to snap these pics, and then I’m all worked up afterwards, and I have to try and calm down again.”

“Don’t blame me for that. I never specified that the pictures had to be of you when you’re erect. You decided that yourself.”