The Highland Fling(12)

God, he’s . . . rude.

“I heard Scotsmen are quite hospitable—seems that’s not the case with you.”

“Never been one to conform.”

Irritated, I jab him with the broom again. “Unless you have anything else to say, you can leave now.”

Running his hand over his jaw again, he steps away from the broom and, without a word, strides out of the cottage. The door clicks shut behind him. I lower the broom and let out a deep breath, catching through the kitchen window his tall frame walking away.

Well, isn’t he what historical romances are made for?

The swoony Scot.

Hottie in the Highlands.

Killing Hearts in a Kilt.

Thankfully, according to Finella, he’s not around much.

Hopefully that’s the only interaction I’ll have with him for the next six months, because I couldn’t imagine dealing with that surly attitude for the duration of my visit. He was brimming with negativity—at least that’s what it felt like—and I’m on a new path, a search for purpose. I can’t be riddled with Scottish tempers.

Nope, this is the start of something new, and it won’t involve Mr. Rowan McMuscleMan.





CHAPTER FOUR





ROWAN


I don’t want to do this.

It’s glaikit.

You can’t force me.

You’ve got to be kidding me . . .

Fine.

Run-in with American: One.

Uncommunicative parents: Two.

Annoying author making me do pointless shite I don’t want to do: One.

There . . . happy?



You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

When were they planning on telling me they found people to look over the coffee house?

And what for?

I push my hand through my hair and round the bend where my parents’ house is tucked away up against a mountain. When the white stone building comes into view, I throw my pickup into park and stare at it.

What the hell were they thinking?

Hamish down at the pub was the one who asked about the advert my parents submitted and the worldwide attention it had received. The advert I had no idea about. That was embarrassing enough, but to not be told that they’d actually found two lasses to take over the coffee shop? That’s fucking ridiculous.

As anger settles over me, tensing my shoulders and neck, I push through the door of their quaint house. At the sound of my steps, both my parents startle on their black leather sofa in the living room, their bodies jostling against each other. The iPad they were holding tumbles to the floor with a thud.

“Jesus, Rowan, you startled us.” Maw presses one hand to her heart and one to my da’s thigh.

I slam the door shut. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?” Maw asks, feigning innocence, but I know her sweet whisky-brown eyes conceal some severe calculation.

“The two Americans.”

“Aye, did you meet them? Bonnie is quite the looker, isn’t she?”

“When were you going to tell me?” I say, ignoring her.

My da lowers his glasses on his nose, his usually strong body looking withered under his tartan shirt. The past few months have been alarming, to say the least. There has been a distinct decrease in Da’s muscle mass, in his energy levels and food consumption. Foods that he used to love he barely touches now. He even passed up some empire biscuits a few weeks ago, which first tipped me off that something might be going on. The other day I asked Maw if Da was okay, and she said he was fine, just eating healthy, which was why he’d lost so much weight. But he doesn’t look like he’s just lost weight—he looks frail.

“Tomorrow, when we leave,” he says in his authoritative voice.

I grew up with that voice, constantly chattering in my ear, molding me into the man he wanted me to become, a man he could be proud of.

Strong.

A man who takes care of his home.

A man who’s proud of his heritage and his family name.

And yes, I do take pride in where I’ve come from, my heritage and the family name, but I want so much more from this life. I need so much more from this life, and I haven’t been able to consider an alternate route from what my da has planned for me.

“You’re leaving tomorrow? So . . . what, you were just going to pack your bags and take off with barely a goodbye?”

“We were going to say goodbye,” Maw says, rising from the sofa and walking over to the entryway, where I’m still standing, my feet feeling like stone. She pats me on the cheek. “Did you eat?”

Is she kidding me right now? “Maw, I don’t even know why you’re leaving in the first place. You’re being so goddamn secretive.”

“No, we’re not. We’re going on holibags. That’s all you need to know.”

“No, I need to know where you’re going. What if there’s an emergency? Are you even going to take your phones with you, or are you going to go completely rogue?”

“Don’t be silly—of course we’ll bring our phones.” Maw moves to the kitchen, where she starts fixing me a plate.

I turn to my da. “Was this your plan, to keep it all a secret?”

It’s common knowledge in town that I don’t necessarily get on well with my da. We have our grievances, our differences, and ideas of what my future should be. I wanted to focus on my craft, leave Corsekelly, find my own life, my own future. And Da . . . well, he said he wanted nothing to do with me leaving and claimed abandonment of my family and the town that played a huge part in my life.