The Highland Fling(29)

I glance down. “It has been slightly more difficult.”

“I can tell.” She sweetly rubs her hand over my shoulder. “It’s so nice that you were trying something new, though.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s something new.” I start to perk up. “Hey, look at me stepping out of my comfort zone.”

“I’m very proud of you.”

I rise to my feet and stare at the mess on the counter.

“You know, I think I’m going to make this my mission. I’m going to master the buttery while I’m here. And I’m going to bring it back to America and open a buttery food truck, with homemade currant jam. And people from all over the country are going to come to my food truck and ask me to butter their buttery, and then movie sets will catch wind of my butteries and hire my truck to come feed their team, and when the assholes who fired me come to the truck, I’ll tell them I just ran out and that maybe if they hadn’t been so rude to me, I would be able to find some extras in the back for them.”

“Wow, spent some time thinking about this?” Dakota chuckles.

“No, it all just flashed in front of me.”

“You’re ridiculous, but I love you.”

I go to my dough on the counter and poke it. “It just keeps melting and I don’t know why, but I’m going to figure it out. Who knows, maybe I can bring some to the picnic this Sunday. Surprise everyone.”

“I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling renewed. I can do this. I’ve got to channel my inner baking skills.

This time Sunday, I’m going to have quite the surprise for our new friends.



“How’s it coming?” Dakota asks, stepping out of her room, empty bowl in hand.

“Butteries can go to hell.”

“That well, huh?”

“No wonder the Scots call them the ‘roadkill pastry’—that’s where they belong, next to all the other lonely carcasses. I’m a failure.”

I stare down at my creation. Flat as a pancake, with butter oozing out the sides, it is very displeasing to the eyes.

“Don’t give up, Bonnie. I know you can do this.”

“Your enthusiasm is only irritating me.”

“Fine. You suck at life.”

I look up at my best friend, my brow furrowed. “Hey, now, that was just mean.”

“Tough love, baby.”



“Oh my God, Bonnie, is the cottage burning down?” Dakota says as she flies through the front door, still holding her keys from closing up the coffee shop. She waves a hand in front of her face, clearing out the smoke.

“No,” I groan, feeling defeated as I sit on the floor with my back against the fridge, an oven mitt on one hand. “Just the butteries going up in flames.”

She coughs and picks up a book, then tries to wave the smoke out of the cottage with it. “What happened?”

“I think too much lard. Something dripped and burned in the oven, and now it’s smoking me out. I think it’s a sign. Butter and lard don’t want me anywhere near them.”

“How did they come out?”

I stand and bring the baking sheet over to her. Congealed into one giant liquid mess, the “butteries” are once again melted and burned. They definitely look like roadkill, but not in the charming way I’m sure Lachlan and Leith meant.

“Huh . . . well, those don’t look appetizing.”

“Thank you for pointing out the obvious.”

“Keep trying.” She gives my shoulder a pat. “Make butteries your bitch.”

Hmm . . .

“Think they’d respond to some good old-fashioned tying up and whipping? Haven’t tried that yet.”

“You never know until you try,” Dakota says on a laugh.

“I’m about to become their madam. Safe word . . . ‘boaby stone.’”





CHAPTER EIGHT





ROWAN


Authors I can’t stand who are making me do this: One.

Looking forward to a much-needed break from the blonde tornado who spun into my life. Also, waiting desperately for Shona to restock Curly Wurlys at the market.



“What are we waiting for?” I ask, glancing around the group and adjusting the rucksack on my back. “Everyone’s here.”

Lachlan, Leith, and Isla exchange glances. Within a second, I know the Murdachs have planned something and they’re trying to decide who should break the news to me.

“Your turn,” Leith says to Lachlan. “I told him about Hamish and the electric outlet near the sink he needed to fix.”

Lachlan looks at Isla. “I told him about Fergus pooping in his shoes.”

“This wasn’t my idea,” Isla says, crossing her arms over her chest.

Leith grumbles and turns to Lachlan. “Rock, paper, scissors. Seven out of nine, loser tells him.”

“Seven out of nine? That’s absurd,” Isla says. “Do three out of five.”

“Do sudden death, or I kick all of your asses,” I say, growing irritated.

“Even mine?” Isla asks, innocence in her usually steely eyes.

“Aye, even you.”