The Highland Herald’s offices occupy a stone building that’s older than my entire London suburb, with windows that rattle when trucks pass and radiators that clank like Victorian ghosts. I’m already second-guessing my life choices as I settle into the editor’s desk—a magnificent piece of carved oak that’s worth more than everything else in the building combined.
“That’s been here since 1962,” Margaret, the office manager, informs me with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious relics. “Mr. MacInnes—the previous editor—insisted no one could work properly without a proper desk.”
Mr. MacInnes, who retired after forty years to fish and write poetry, leaving me—Grace Mitchell, formerly of The London Tribune’s investigative unit—to run a local paper that covers sheep prices and village fête announcements.
“What’s our best-performing content?” I ask, flipping through recent issues.
“Oh, that’s easy.” Margaret brightens considerably. “The Mountain Man.”
“The what?”
She slides across a folder stuffed with newspaper clippings, printed emails, and what appears to be fan mail. “Our advice columnist. Been writing for two years now, completely anonymous. Readership’s tripled since he started.”
I scan the latest column, expecting the usual drivel about communication and compromise. Instead, I find:
Dear Mountain Man,
My girlfriend says I’m not romantic enough. I bring her flowers, take her to dinner, but she says it feels routine. What am I missing?
—Confused in Cairngorm
Confused,
My gran used to say, “A woman doesn’t want the same flowers from the same shop on the same day each week. She wants you to see a wildflower on your walk and think of her smile.” Romance isn’t about the gesture, lad. It’s about showing her she’s in your thoughts when she’s not even there. Try this: next time you see something that reminds you of her—a book she’d love, a scarf in her favorite color, hell, even a funny-shaped cloud—take a picture, send it to her. Show her she lives in your mind rent-free. That’s romance.
—Mountain Man
I read it twice. There’s something about the voice—authentically Highland but unexpectedly sophisticated, traditionally masculine yet emotionally intelligent. This isn’t some old grandfather dispensing clichés or a romance novelist’s fantasy. This is someone who understands people, particularly women, in a way that’s both intuitive and learned through experience.
“Do we have any idea who he is?” I ask Margaret.
“None. Submissions come through an encrypted email service. Payment goes to a donation account for the local food bank.”
A Highland man who gives anonymously to charity while helping people with their love lives? This is a story. The kind of story that could put the Highland Herald on the map, maybe even get picked up nationally.
“I want to find him,” I announce.
Margaret laughs. “Good luck with that. Half the village has tried.”
***
By seven PM, I’m remembering why city living has its advantages. Specifically, furniture that doesn’t collapse when you lean on it. The kitchen table in my rental cottage—another piece of “authentic Highland craftsmanship”—has chosen this exact moment to give up its structural integrity, sending my laptop, dinner, and dignity crashing to the floor.
“Fucking hell!” The profanity echoes off the stone walls as red wine spreads across the wooden floor like a crime scene.
I call my landlord, Mrs. Patterson, who tsks sympathetically but unsympathetically. “I’ll send Hamish round. He’ll sort you out.”
“When?”
“Oh, he’ll be there within the hour. Hamish is very reliable.”
Hamish arrives in forty-five minutes, because apparently Highland time operates on its own mysterious system. When I open the door, I have to look up—and up—to meet his eyes.
He’s not what I expected.
For one thing, he’s young, maybe early thirties, with dark hair that’s a bit too long and a beard that’s definitely intentional rather than lazy. He’s wearing work clothes—heavy boots, worn jeans that fit him perfectly, and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that… well, forearms that make me reconsider my stance on lumberjack aesthetics.
“You’re Grace? Mrs. Patterson said you’ve had a wee accident with the table.”
His voice is deep, Highland-accented but soft, like he’s not used to talking much. He’s already looking past me at the table carnage, assessing the damage with intelligent hazel eyes.
“Yes, please come in. Sorry about the mess.”
He ducks through my doorway—actually ducks, the man must be six-foot-four—and approaches the table like a doctor examining a patient. Large, capable hands run along the broken joints, testing, measuring. There’s something unexpectedly graceful about the way he moves, careful and deliberate.
“Fixable,” he pronounces. “Though you might want to change while I work. You’ve got wine on your…”
He gestures vaguely at my skirt, then immediately looks away, a hint of color rising above his beard.
I glance down. The wine has indeed splattered across my thighs in a pattern that looks unfortunately suggestive. “Right. Yes. I’ll just… go change.”
When I return in jeans and a jumper, he’s already deep into the repair, tools spread across my floor in neat rows. He works with complete focus, and I find myself mesmerised by his hands. They’re huge but surprisingly delicate, coaxing broken wood back together with patience and skill.
“You made this?” I ask, recognizing the same craftsmanship I admired at the Herald offices.
“Aye. Few years back.”
“It’s beautiful work.”
He glances up at me, surprise flickering across his features. “You think?”
“The joinery is intricate. It’s art, really.”
His ears definitely turn red this time. “It’s just a table.”
“No, it’s not.” I move closer, drawn by my curiosity about this gentle giant who creates beautiful things and blushes at compliments. “Can I help?”
“Could you hold this piece while I reset the joint?”
I kneel beside him, holding the wood where he indicates. This close, I can smell sawdust and something like pine, clean and masculine. When he leans in to apply wood glue, his shoulder brushes mine, and I feel it like an electric shock.
“Sorry,” he mutters, but doesn’t pull away.
“It’s fine.”
We work in silence for a few minutes, but I’m hyperaware of every accidental touch, every shift of his body near mine. When I have to reach over him for a cloth, my breast brushes his arm, and I hear his sharp intake of breath.
“I need to… the ladder,” I say incoherently. “For tea. Would you like tea?”
“That’s kind.”
I practically flee to the kitchen, needing distance from whatever is happening here. Highland men aren’t supposed to affect me like this. I came here to escape complicated, to find simple. But watching him work, those careful hands creating something beautiful from something broken, is doing things to my long-dormant libido that are definitely not simple.
I climb the stepladder to reach the good tea from the top shelf, stretching for the tin. When I glance back, I catch Hamish looking—definitely looking—at where my jumper has ridden up to reveal the skin of my lower back. His eyes snap away immediately, but not before I see heat there, carefully controlled but undeniable.
Interesting. The shy craftsman has hidden depths.
“Earl Grey or builder’s?” I ask, like I haven’t just caught him checking me out.
“Builder’s, please.” His voice is rougher than before.
When I bring him the tea, our fingers brush on the mug handle. Neither of us pulls away immediately.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” I say.
“It’s no trouble. Tables are meant to stand proper. Like people, really. Need a solid foundation or everything else falls apart.”
There’s something almost philosophical in the way he says it, and I’m reminded suddenly of the Mountain Man’s column, the way he makes furniture metaphors for life. But that’s ridiculous. This shy giant who can barely make eye contact couldn’t possibly be the man writing those confident, knowing columns about love and relationships.
Could he?
“There,” he says, stepping back from the repaired table. “Should hold now. Maybe don’t dance on it, though.”
“Dancing on tables isn’t really my thing.”
“No?” There’s the tiniest hint of a smile. “What is your thing then?”
“Finding out the truth about things. People. Stories that matter.”
“Must be frustrating, being in the Highlands. Not much truth here that needs finding. We’re all pretty much what we seem.”
“Are you?”
The question hangs between us. He looks at me properly for the first time, those hazel eyes holding mine for a long moment that makes my stomach flip.
“I should go,” he says. “If you have any other furniture emergencies, Mrs. Patterson has my number.”
After he leaves, I stand in my cottage thinking about hidden depths and careful hands. About men who create beautiful things and fix broken ones. About the Mountain Man and his advice about paying attention to what really matters.
Maybe the Highlands have more secrets than I thought.
Maybe Hamish MacTavish is one of them.
