The Highland Fling(4)

I glance at Dakota as she quietly mouths, “Please.”

Damn it.

Damn it all to hell.

We might not even be picked—there’s no guarantee.

Smiling, I say, “I’m in.”



And that’s how I ended up in Scotland for six months. Fun story, huh?

Well, thanks for stopping by, hope—

What’s that?

Leans in

What about the hot Scot?

And the Castration Stone?

And this Fergus fellow?

I mean, if you really want to know, then I guess I can tell the rest of the story. But prepare your hearts, because this is one hell of an adventure.





CHAPTER TWO





BONNIE


Cake consumed today: None, and frankly, I don’t think I can function properly.

Job offers accepted: One, and I have little to no experience for it.

Days since last male-induced orgasm: Seventy, and I wiped a cobweb from my lady area this morning.

Current residence: Scotland, apparently.

This is what they call making a decision on a whim. Let’s hope it doesn’t bite me in the butt.



“No way am I driving that,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “This was your grand idea—you drive it.”

Surrounded by stone buildings that look like they’ve been plucked straight from Mary Poppins, Dakota and I stand in front of our rental car, four large bags by our side and a rope in hand. Cars speed right by us, filling up Inverness’s charming, if narrow, city streets. There isn’t a tree in sight, just wall-to-wall cement and stone, but the spectacular architecture is making my mouth water—and I’ve never thought twice about architecture until this moment.

But even though we are surrounded by magnificence, it doesn’t negate the predicament parked right in front of us.

A MINI Cooper.

Our form of transportation.

An itty-bitty green MINI Cooper.

Such a petite vehicle normally wouldn’t be an issue—they’re adorable—but when you have to cart six months’ worth of luggage two hundred miles into the mountains, it doesn’t scream “practical.”

But don’t worry. The rental company provided twine to secure our bags on top of the roof.

Oh, and in case you weren’t aware, the Scots also drive on the other side of the road . . . and the other side of the car.

“Please, Bonnie, I can barely hold it together.”

My beautiful best friend who thought of this brilliant idea—traveling across the world to sell coffee to strangers—forgot one minor detail: she suffers from horrible motion sickness. She spent our entire flight with her head in a bag while I rubbed her back and prayed to Jesus she wouldn’t throw up on my leg.

“Can’t we call an Uber or something?” I ask.

“No, this is the car Finella and Stuart arranged for us. Plus, I don’t think Ubers drive out to Corsekelly. The town is really small.”

“Dakota, that is a clown car.” I point to it. “And you expect me to drive it through twisty, windy roads with two hundred pounds of luggage while navigating the opposite side of the road?”

“You’re never one to back away from a challenge.” She tries to smile, but it’s pained. “They’re expecting us in a few hours.”

I sigh and move around the car. “The hospitable thing to do would have been to pick us up.” I fold down the back seats and shove a suitcase in the rear. I lift up another suitcase and shove that one in as well. When I realize that’s all that’s going to fit, a light sweat breaks out over the back of my neck. Oh shit. I turn to Dakota. “Uh, so now we have to use the rope?”

She glances down at the thick woven cable in her hand. “I’m thinking . . . maybe?”

“Fine, I don’t care. Let’s just get them loaded up.”

Together, we lift the first suitcase up top and then the second. How on earth are we going to—?

“Awright, lasses, dae yi’ll need some hulp?” a deep voice says from behind me.

Ehhh . . . what?

I spin around to find a tall man with bright-red hair on top of his head and framing his face from ear to chin. He’s wearing a charming smile and a tempting kilt. What I wouldn’t give for a touch of Marilyn Monroe wind right about now.

“Umm . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t quite understand you.”

“Och, y’er American. Dinna fash yirsel, y’er in guid hauns.”

Blinks

Mentally cleans out ears

Blinks again

“You told me they speak English here,” I hiss at Dakota.

“They do.” She looks as stiff as I do.

Snagging the rope from my hand, the rental car guy moves around the car like a ninja, strapping down the suitcases and securing them better than I ever could have. If I did it, Dakota would have to spend her first week in Scotland nude.

Dusting off his hands, he surveys his work and then turns to us. “That shuid dae it. Whaur ye aff tae?”

Oh God, I can’t understand a damn thing he’s saying. I want to say he’s speaking English. I can recognize some words. They’re in there, and he’s acting like we should know what he’s saying, but it’s not translating.

Sweat creeps up my neck.