The Highland Fling(37)

“You can design a new sign. Create a logo for the shop. Design all the shirts and merch. The menus—oh my God, this could be huge, Dakota.” I push at her shoulder. “Doesn’t this excite you?”

“Sure,” she says, so casually that it makes me want to scream.

“What do you mean, ‘sure’? Done right, we could capitalize on those tour buses and create something special here. And according to all the career assessments I’ve taken, organizational skills are my best attribute. This is right up my alley.”

Dakota smiles and opens her laptop back up. “I can see you really creating something special.”

“Really? Do you mean that?”

“Of course. I say go for it.”

“Yeah?” I ask, nearly bouncing up and down.

“Yeah, but whatever you do, you have to run it by Rowan first.”

Poof!

Did you see that splatter of hope? That was all my excitement drying up like a string bean in the desert.

Shriveled up and morphed into dust, only to be picked up by a gust of wind and carried off into the land where dreams don’t come true.

“What do you mean, run it by Rowan?”

“Did you not pay attention to a thing I told you our first night?”

“Oh, excuse me.” I hold up my hands. “I was jet-lagged, had a Scottish man try to speak to me while tapping his crotch, thought I was going to die on a roundabout in a MINI Cooper, was fed sheep intestines—and then quickly disposed of those intestines—only to be accosted by a grumpy Scot who found my broom wielding more comical than threatening. I apologize for not remembering the smallest of details.”

“Maybe that was why you were fired three times,” Dakota says with a huge smirk.

I point a finger at her. “You’re an asshole.”

We both laugh, and Dakota turns back to her screen. “Seriously, though, Finella said whatever we do, just to run it by him first.” She shrugs. “Seems fair. She doesn’t want two strangers coming in and destroying the integrity of their coffee shop.”

“But . . . I haven’t seen or spoken to him since he stormed off after the hike.”

“About that . . . according to Isla, it seemed like you really pissed him off—which is not the story you gave me.”

My eyes narrow. “What do you mean, according to Isla? When did you speak to her?”

“Yesterday.” The smallest of smirks pulls at the corners of Dakota’s mouth. “I was stocking up on your Dundee cake supply.”

“Oh, don’t you dare use me as an excuse to go into the bakeshop. We all know why you were there. And you didn’t even come home with Dundee cake. You came home with shortbread.”

“Which you ate all of.” She lifts a brow.

“Boredom eating is a real thing,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “But that’s beside the point. You were talking about me?”

“No,” Dakota sighs. “Isla asked how you were doing after being stuck up on the mountain with Rowan during the rainstorm. Ever since he lost his brother—”

“Wait, what?” I ask, sitting taller. “Rowan has a brother?”

“Had,” Dakota says quietly. “Isla didn’t get into it, and I didn’t pry. All I know is that he doesn’t like serious rainstorms. She wanted to make sure he wasn’t too harsh on you. Last time they were stuck on a mountain together when it was storming, Rowan apparently lost his mind. It took some time to calm him down.”

“Oh my God,” I just about whisper as I think back to our hike, how I carelessly disregarded his warnings and his persistent need to make it down the hill before the rain became too strong. The tension in his back every time I slipped, his stern grip as we walked through mud. His demeanor after we stepped off the trail.

Anger.

Distress.

Relief.

Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like an ass.

“I had no idea,” I say softly.

“Apparently he holds it all in—which explains why he’s so grumpy and standoffish. From what Isla alluded to, there seems to be some darkness in Rowan’s family. So yeah, even if you two aren’t getting along right now, maybe cut him some slack. Don’t go full Bonnie on him.”

“Too late.” I cringe.

Begging for forgiveness from Mother Nature over littering . . . yup, I went full Bonnie on him . . . while he was in the midst of panicking.

Really great, Bonnie. Just perfect.



“Hey, Shona,” I say, walking into the Mill Market.

The quaint shop can best be described as what would happen if someone blasted Target with a shrink gun and then redecorated with Scottish charm. Its baskets overflow with fruits and vegetables. Its wooden shelves are perfectly stocked. And its beautiful plank wood floors wave and roll with the earth beneath it. Just like Target, the Mill Market has almost everything you could need. Unlike Target, it all comes in small quantities.

“Hello, Dakota.”

“I’m Bonnie, actually,” I chuckle.

“Och. I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “Blame it on the old-lady brain.”

“Not a problem at all.”

“Anything I can help you find?”

I walk past a display of haggis and mushy peas and feel my bones shiver from the inside out. I know other countries probably balk at the idea of putting peanut butter and jelly on a sandwich, but at least it isn’t a can of harvested sheep innards.