Whisky Business

Whisky BusinessElliot Fletcher Copyright © 2023 Elliot FletcherAll rights reservedThe characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.Cover design by: Sam EliasEditor: Britt Tayler This book is dedicated to my anxiety.Maybe one day we won't need each other. PlaylistCaledonia – Dougie MacLeanBad Blood – Taylor SwiftThis Is Me Trying – Taylor SwiftHome – Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic ZerosBeach Baby – Bon IverInvisible String – Taylor SwiftSunlight – HozierSparks – ColdplaySNAP – Rosa LinnPretty Lips – WinehouseDeath By A Thousand Cuts – Taylor SwiftMardy Bum – Arctic MonkeysLike Real People Do – HozierWant Want – Maggie Rogers.I Wanna Be Yours – Arctic MonkeysCherry Wine – HozierUs – James BayLove Like This – KodalineLove Song – Lana Del ReySimply The Best – BilianneOh Caroline – The 1975Feel Me – Aeris RovesLove Me Harder – Ariana GrandeGeorgia – Vance JoyLavender Haze – Taylor SwiftDelilah – Aeris RovesPerfect Places – LordeBelter – Gerry CinnamonDaylight – Taylor SwiftSweet Nothing – Taylor SwiftRoots – Grace DaviesSomething in the Orange – Zach BryanFeels Like – Gracie AbramsI GUESS I’M IN LOVE – Clinton KaneCalm – Vistas AUTHORS NOTEWhile Whisky Business is primarily a lighthearted read, it features content that might be triggering for some. These include: Anxiety disorder, Mention of online trolling with comments referencing weight and sexual acts, Mention of a close family member death from cancer, Mention of a previous controlling relationship, Mention of family member with Alzheimer’s. Open door romance with multiple on page sexual encounters. 1APRILCaledonia – Dougie MacLeanLook forward, wee birdie. Obsession with the past is for failures. Winners keep their eye on the prize. My fingers tightened on the steering wheel as memories of my grandfather’s favourite motto filtered through the cramped interior of my Mini Cooper. As a self-indulgent seven-year-old whose singular joy in life was locating the next occasion that would put me centre stage, I’d wholeheartedly agreed with him. Looking back was for failures. “The irony.” I chuckled to myself now as I watched the minutes tick away slowly, my fingers drumming steadily on the dashboard. The elderly man who held every ounce of my attention, stooped as he was, raised a frail hand and urged my vehicle one car closer. Eager to take the cue, I pulled forward to the bobbing ramp at the stern of the ferry that made the twice-daily connection between the Isle of Skye and the Scottish mainland. One car closer to freedom. The rented motorhome ahead of me—I knew it was rented because I’d spent the last forty minutes staring at a bumper sticker that read “Highland motorhomes: the adventure starts here!”—pulled alongside him. The old man appeared, the sides of his too-big anorak whipping like the wings of a tiny bird caught in a storm. Still, he grinned toothily as he stamped their tickets and gestured to the obstructed mountainous island over his shoulder. With the rain came the mist, blocking out the shock of green with ghostly hands and rolling so low you only had to reach out to touch it. I could practically read the words on his weathered lips; Skye in Gaelic actually translates to mist, how appropriate! His large knuckled hands twisted this way and that before he finally pulled a creased map from his pocket. Laminated, of course—a man who worked outside knew the challenges of Scottish weather like he knew his own face in the mirror. Believe it or not, we’d had bright sunlight only fifteen minutes before. Dudley, my wire-haired Dachshund, gave an irritated whine from the backseat where I’d strapped his carrier. “Almost there, buddy. I mean it this time.” His answering huff called me the liar I was proving to be. I could have wept as the motorhome’s engine revved, pulling away. “See,” I said, glancing at his little face in the mirror.“Hullo, lass.” The man’s sunny voice greeted me the moment I lowered my window, pressing a hand to the roof of my car. “Ah, hope yer have a ticket or ye’ll be swimmin’ back tae the mainland.” I offered a tired little chuckle at the joke. I would bet all the money in my bank account (less than you’d think) he’d repeated it to every person he saw this week. Smiling best I could, I handed him my one-way ferry ticket, ignoring the rain soaking into my sleeve. He didn’t take it. Instead, he peered into the back of my compact car, noting the stack of boxes and bin liners I’d hastily slung my clothes into. “What brings yer tae Skye?”“Just visiting.”“Family, ay?”“Something like that,” I answered, purposely vague. He looked delighted. “Anyone ah ken?”“Probably not.” He tapped a finger to his lips, scanning me again from beneath his hood, entirely unperturbed by the raindrops cascading down his long nose. “A’m sure ah ken ye fae somewhere, lass.”That I couldn’t deal with right now. “I doubt it.” I extended the ticket further, rain soaking up to my elbow until he finally understood my meaning. Giving the ticket a discontented stamp, he motioned for me to drive on.“Welcome tae Skye.” His tone was decidedly less sunny.Pulling away, I felt terrible. He was a talker and as a fellow talker, I understood the sting of that kind of brush-off. The man was my people. But it turned out, even the sunniest of personalities could be dimmed after a twelve-hour car journey from London. Throw in the white-knuckled driving of a human who’d forgotten what it was like to drive on the winding roads of the Scottish Highlands? I hadn’t burnt the candle on both ends, I’d set the entire bloody thing alight. The only thing I was fit for was food and a bed.The entrance to Skye was delivered