The Highland Fling(10)
“Wow, okay. Good to know,” I say, just as my stomach does a weird somersault at the mention of food. Oof. That didn’t feel good.
“We’re closed on Sundays—almost the whole town is. The tour buses don’t drive through here on Sundays, so we all take the day off, besides the pub. Hamish always has the pub open.”
“Tour buses come through here?” I ask as Dakota walks around the small space, arms crossed, surveying our new job. There’s no doubt she’ll be able to keep up with her graphic design work while we’re here. From the looks of the two coffee thermoses, it seems like I might have some spare time on my hands as well.
“Aye. For the Boaby Stone. We are quite proud of it, actually. Shona down at the market screen prints Boaby Stone Tshirts. ‘I kissed the Boaby Stone,’ they say. Quite clever. Stuart and I have a matching set.”
Yeah, I’m going to need one of those. “I love a good penis shirt.” Dakota elbows me in the side. I glance at her and shrug. “What? I do.”
“Have you watched Iron Crowns?” Finella asks.
I’m about to answer when my intestines gurgle. An instant sweat breaks out on the back of my neck.
Uh, that doesn’t feel right.
Not at all.
We might have a situation brewing.
“I have,” Dakota says. “Haven’t gotten to the Boaby Stone part yet. Can’t wait for it.”
“Thrilling. They show his actual boaby, ya know. The actor didn’t have a standin. Sir Richard MacLain is quite endowed, I must say. Such a shame they pretended to castrate him.” Finella sighs and goes to the counter. “Really simple here. Dark roast and decaf. We also have some hot chocolate packets if the kids want any. We haven’t had food here in a while. Stuart used to bake, but he’s slowed down a bit.” Finella grows quiet just as my gut churns, the sound deafening in the small coffee shop.
Both Dakota and Finella turn to me, brows raised.
I smile uncomfortably. “You know, I don’t think something is settling right.”
“Don’t sound like it.” Finella eyes me up and down. “Are ya allergic to sheep lungs?”
“Uh . . . not that I know of.”
“Heart? Liver? Stomach?”
“No . . . why?” I swallow hard, fear itching up the back of my neck.
“Och, that’s haggis, lass.”
Bile rises in my throat, and I pray I don’t lose it all right here, in the middle of this dirty, unswept floor.
“Sheep stomach?” I ask, quietly.
“Aye, and liver, heart, and lungs. Quite good.”
Oh GOD.
Smiling politely, I take a step back. “You know, I think I’m going to head back to the cottage and, um—” I burp and I pray to the holy heavens I can keep it together. “I’m going to go take a shower. Wash the airplane off.”
Finella sees right through me.
“Aye, remember to use the water bucket.” She gives me a wink.
“Dakota, learn the ropes,” I say, wafting my finger around the room before taking off at a brisk power walk to the cottage.
“Ask what’s in it before you eat it from now on,” I say to myself in the mirror.
I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say I’ve made my mark here in Scotland.
Jet-lagged, freshly showered, and ready for a pillow, I brush out my long blonde hair and run some wave serum through the strands to capture my natural curl. After brushing my teeth—twice—I’ve wrapped the plain white towel provided in the bathroom around my chest and have taken a deep breath just as the front door opens and closes.
Dakota.
She’s in big trouble.
She’s the one who did all the research—she should have warned me about the haggis.
With what little fight I have left in me, I toss the bathroom door open and stomp into the kitchen, only to find a towering man leaning against the sink, eating one of the haggis balls.
“Oh my God!” I shout, securing my towel even tighter around my torso. From the corner of my eye, I spot a broom and snatch it up, pointing the brush end at him. “Don’t you dare come any closer.”
He’s unfazed.
Still leaning against the counter, haggis ball in hand, he stares me down. “Who the hell are you?”
Well, kick me in the crotch and lay me down to rest. He has to have the most delicious voice I’ve ever heard.
Full of timbre, with rolling r’s and a heavy dose of masculinity. It’s odd to say, but his voice basically says, I work with my hands and know how to use them as well.
I’m tempted to rest my head against his chest and ask him to speak, just so I can feel the rumble of his voice over my body, but realize that’s the exhaustion talking.
I snap myself out of my Scot-induced daydream and hold up the broom. “That’s none of your concern. You’re trespassing. If you don’t leave in three seconds, I’m calling Finella.”
“Aye, when you do, tell her the haggis is dry.” He pops the rest of his ball in his mouth and chews. No smile, no humor in his face, just overall surliness.
“That’s awfully rude.”
“’Tis the truth.” He dusts off his hands. “You a tourist?”
“Like I said, that’s none of your concern. I suggest you leave before I put this broom to good use.”