The Highland Fling(36)
Days since last male-induced orgasm: Eighty-one.
Boredom: Massive amounts, too much to count.
Rainstorms since arrival to Scotland: Fourteen. No wonder it’s so green here.
Serving coffee to invisible humans is frankly borderline lunacy. At least Fergus is still showing up unannounced. Last time, he screamed so loud that I piddled. A goat made me piddle. But then I petted him, and now I think we’re starting to build a strong bond. This is my life now.
“Coffee? Yeah, you—I know you want coffee.” I wave a cup in the air. “It’s tasty—true Scottish flavors. Ever taste a kilt? We squeeze them right into the brew. We actually use kilts as coffee filters. Delivers the true essence of the land’s ancestors.” The tourist I’m verbally accosting puts his hand up over his face and walks right on by.
Sheesh, he’s rude.
“A simple ‘No, thank you’ would suffice!” I shout out before walking back into the shop.
“Why are you saying everything smells or tastes like a kilt?” Dakota asks. She’s standing behind the counter, hovering over her computer and drawing pad. “You know there’s so much more to Scotland than just kilts.”
I tap my chin and lean against the wall. “Think I should have said we stir each cup of coffee with bagpipes?”
“You’re losing it.”
“I am, Dakota,” I say as I walk over to the counter, where I hoist myself up, letting my feet dangle down. “What the hell are we doing here day in and day out? We’re wasting away.” I motion to her computer, which she’s been parked behind since we got here. “You’re at least doing something.” I squint at her screen. “Is that a soup can with an inspirational quote on it?” I wave my hand, dismissing the new freelance job she received from an up-and-coming influencer who specializes in dishing out “inspirational soup.” Dakota was telling me about it last night. I swear, marketing is getting cornier and cornier. “I’m so bored here. I’m just staring at the wall.”
“Then do something.”
“Okay, so what do you suppose I do? Play some music and come up with a tap dance routine that might bring in more customers?”
“Nooo,” she drags out and then motions to the space. “Fix things up.”
“Pardon?”
She sighs and lifts herself away from her computer. “If you want more customers, figure out how to get them. Catcalling them from the doorway about kilt-flavored coffee is not the way to do it. You want to keep busy, and, well, here’s a project sitting right in front of you. Take advantage of it.”
“You mean . . . fix up the coffee shop?”
“Why not? I told you Finella left us with her credit card when you were taking care of your haggis situation—remember? She told us to use it however we need to make the store shine.”
“I vaguely recall this.” I tap my chin and look over the space as ideas start to trickle into my mind. “You really think she meant it? To help make this place shine?”
“Yeah.” Dakota shrugs and goes back to work.
“Dakota.” I reach over and shut her laptop, something I know she hates, but I need her complete attention. “Do you think . . . do you think Finella was alluding to us actually making something of the coffee shop again? Like, did she hire us to bring it back to life?”
“Maybe. She did mention that she created the ad to bring some fun attention to the coffee shop. Wasn’t expecting it to bring two Americans to Corsekelly to run it, but she said Americans know their coffee houses, and maybe we could put our touch on it.”
“And you’re just telling me this now? After over a week of absolute boredom? What is wrong with you?”
“Why on earth would you try to fix something if you don’t have a baseline?” Dakota asks, and her simple reasoning is far too annoying to appreciate. “You can’t possibly fix something without finding out what’s wrong with it first.”
She’s right about that . . . unfortunately.
Just then, another tour bus pulls away. I glance at the time on my phone—they were here for half an hour. Half an hour in Corsekelly, and not one of them came into the coffee shop.
The only visitor was Fergus, and frankly that’s just sad. But we did have a riveting conversation about hooves. Even though his look like little vaginas, I told him not to be self-conscious—and if he really wanted to spice things up, I could paint them in a pretty plaid pattern with nail polish. He said he would consider it. Between you and me, I’m pretty sure he’s going to pass.
But Fergus as our lone visitor isn’t going to cut it.
“Do you know how much business we miss out on because we’re offering plain coffee and hot chocolate packets?” I ask. “This place has the potential for more—much more. We could offer so many other drinks, baked goods, specials that go hand in hand. Coffee and a buttery. We can have Penis Stone souvenirs. There aren’t many here in town. And what about Fergus? I mean, he’s a town treasure, and no one is selling anything Fergus themed. Think of all the money we could make for Finella and Stuart. We could jump-start this entire coffee shop and give it a new life.”
For the first time in I don’t know how long, excitement bubbles up inside me. My mind whirs with all the possibilities, all the potential the coffee house has.