The Highland Fling(41)

“You grow up,” he shoots back.

“Gah.” I point at him. “You grow up.”

“You’re the one kissing random people. You grow up.”

“Maybe you both should grow up,” Dakota says, jogging up the driveway.

Rowan rolls his eyes in response and takes off jogging himself. Wait, no. He can’t jog off—we have things to discuss. Chasing after this man does not sit well with me, but . . .

“Hey!” I call out to him. “I need to talk to you.” No response. “You can’t run from me—I’ll find you!” I shout. And then he’s gone, disappearing past the trees. “Damn it,” I mutter.

I walk back into the cottage, where Dakota is stretching. “What was that all about?”

“I kissed him.”

“What?” she asks, the shock clear in her voice as I make my way toward the shower.

“Don’t worry, he kissed me back with his codfish mouth. I think I would have found more of a love connection with Fergus.”

“Why did you kiss him?”

“Read the room, Dakota,” I say, slamming the bathroom door shut.



Why the hell did I kiss him?

I tap my pen on my empty notebook paper, chin propped in hand as I lean over the coffee shop counter. Dakota ran to get us lunch at the Admiral—there’s a scotch beefsteak sandwich they serve there that is kisses fingers to die for.

While Dakota has been working on her soup-can images—the current one features a dancing chicken on the top waving a flag; I don’t ask, I just smile and say it looks nice—I’ve been trying to drum up ideas for the shop. But I keep falling short, because all I can think about is this morning.

Honestly, I’m hosting a bunch of emotions right now, and I’m ready to kick some of them out.

Anger because he’s infuriating. That one will probably stay—not going anywhere soon.

Embarrassment because I kissed him, hoping it would calm him down—but he acted as if I was a hairy coo lapping at his lips. Positively disgusted. Yup, humiliation will probably hang out for a bit too.

And then I have these . . . how do I put it . . . uh, adoration-type feelings. I adore his thick pecs, his furious green eyes, his bristly voice, and the repartee we have. I like it maybe a little too much. So . . . looks like those feelings will stay as well.

Ugh.

I’m lifting up and pressing my palm to my eye just as Dakota walks into the coffee shop with a bagful of the goods.

Okay, there is one thing that will distract me, and that’s food.

Especially that steak sandwich.

“Are the tatties hot?” I ask, clapping my hands as I meet Dakota at one of the tables.

“Fresh, still steaming.”

“God, my mouth is a-gusher right now.”

“Attractive,” Dakota says, laughing. “Ran into Rowan, by the way.”

“Is that so?” I ask coyly, popping open the to-go containers and letting the delicious onion and garlic smells fill me with joy.

“Yup, told me to tell you that when he got home, he washed his face with bleach.”

My eyes snap to hers. “He did not.”

Dakota chuckles and takes a seat, a salmon sandwich in front of her. “That’s what he said; just relaying the message.”

What an ass.

As if I would feel bad now.

Oh no . . . he’d better watch out because I very well might kiss him again. Except this time, I’ll use tongue.



“Was the Penis Stone everything you imagined?”

“Boaby Stone,” Meredith, a tourist in a bright-green shirt that reads MAKING SCOTLAND MY BITCH, says.

“Ah, yes, sorry. The slang word around here is ‘penis.’” Not true at all, but whatever. She’s from the States—she doesn’t know any better. “So, the Boaby Stone, was it everything you dreamed of?”

We’re standing outside the entrance to the Boaby Stone cave, a pack of tourists filtering in and out, either completely satisfied or vastly disappointed by the sight before them. I’ve spent all morning pulling tourists to the side before they hop back on their buses to conduct a little survey I put together.

“It was beautiful. I really felt the Iron Crowns energy in there, and I swear I could hear Sir Armaden’s screams when his penis was cut off.”

Oh-kay, not a real thing that happened, lady, but whatever. She’s making Scotland her bitch, so I’m going with it.

“Fascinating.” I pretend to write something down. “Did you take a picture in front of it?”

“Oh yes. I’m here with a group of my friends, and we pretended to chop each other’s boobs off.”

How . . . pleasant.

“You guys are a gas,” I say, pushing her arm playfully. “Wish I got in on that action.”

“We can go back if you want. Add you to the group picture.”

“Oh no, no, that’s okay. You don’t want a stranger in those memories, anyway.” I clear my throat and add, “Did you get a chance to walk through town? Corsekelly is quite lovely.”

“We did,” she says. “We petted Fergus and took a few pictures with him.”

“Did he scream for you?” I ask.

“No, does he do that?”