The Highland Fling(47)

“No.”

“Please, a man with your kind of virility—I’m sure you must go on the prowl often.”

“I know everyone in town.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t have a little sidepiece around here.” She perks up and looks around while absentmindedly picking up a chip and stuffing it in her mouth. “What about Shona? Cougar, but still a looker.”

“Shona is my maw’s best friend. She changed my diapers.”

“So she’s familiar with your nakedness, then.”

My brow shoots up. “You realize how disturbing that is?”

“You know, when I said it out loud, it felt disturbing.” She looks around again. “Okay, what about that girl over there?” She points to a brunette wearing a bright-red shirt.

“That’s Alana.”

“Ohhh, Alana. She sounds lovely.”

“She’s also married to Alasdair, who owns the Admiral.”

“Hmm . . . are they interested in threesomes?”

I take another sip of my beer. “Want me to ask them for you? I’m sure they’d be open to a blonde joining their marriage.”

“Not for me, for you.”

Leaning back, I call out, “Alana, come here.”

“What are you doing?” Bonnie hisses as Alana approaches our table.

“All right, you two.” She holds her hand out to Bonnie. “I’m Alana. I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

“Alana, this is Bonnie. Bonnie, meet Alana.”

“Pleasure,” Bonnie says, tacking on a smile and shaking her hand. “Rowan here said you’re married to Alasdair.”

“Aye, we’ve known each other since we were wee ones. Parents swore we would get married one day, and we did.”

“Ah, that’s sweet,” Bonnie says, dreamy eyed.

But that look quickly vanishes when I open my mouth. “Bonnie here was wondering if you have room in your marriage for one more. She’s looking to hop on for a threesome.”

“Rowan!” Bonnie gasps. “No, I did not say that. There was no mention of threesomes at all.”

“You just said you wanted a threesome.”

“Rowan,” she says through clenched teeth, her eyes screaming murder.

“We’re taking applications,” Alana cuts in, always ready for a laugh. “We’re looking for someone adventurous. Would you say you’re adventurous, Bonnie?”

Her eyes widen, and she sits back, hands twisting her beer. “I, uh . . . I mean, I’ve dabbled in things here and there, but—”

“Have you ever kissed another woman?”

“Well, there was this one time I kissed Dakota, but that wasn’t really sexual.”

“Experience in the bedroom—how many years?”

Completely shell shocked, Bonnie fidgets nervously. “Uh . . .” She looks up in an apparent effort to calculate in her head. “Carry the five . . . I’m sorry, math is hard under pressure.”

“Have you ever used a feather? Alasdair likes a good feathering,” Alana says, and I nearly lose it.

“Not per se,” Bonnie says, really twisting her beer now. “But, you know, I could always—”

Alana and I both laugh out loud, and Bonnie stares, pressing her hand to her heart.

“What’s going on here?” she asks. “Are you . . . are you teasing me?”

Alana nods. “Aye, but I do enjoy that you dabble in things here and there.”

“So . . . you’re not looking for a third to your marriage?”

Alana shakes her head. “Does that disappoint you?”

“No, I mean . . . no.” She takes a deep breath and directs her attention to me. “I hate you.”

I chuckle and sip my beer as Alana pats me on the back and wishes me luck. Eyes trained on Bonnie, I wait for the onslaught of whatever she’s going to do to retaliate, but she stays silent instead, stewing.

Which, let’s be honest, is worse. Because she’s planning something vindictive—I can feel it.

She leans back, beer in hand. “Did you get a good chuckle out of that?”

“Aye.”

“I see.” She slowly stands, eyes still on me.

“What are you doing?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” With one hand on the picnic table, she hops up on her bench and faces the crowd congregated outside the pub. “Ahoy!” she yells, grabbing everyone’s attention. The crowd quiets down, all eyes trained on her. She clears her throat. “I would like it to be known that I kissed Rowan McGrumpyshire”—she points to me—“and he has cod lips. Dead cod lips. Worst kiss I’ve ever experienced in my life. Total and utter disaster. Be warned, all lasses . . . and lads, for that matter: if you’re looking to pucker up with the crotchety beast, be prepared to be disappointed. Dead . . . fish . . . lips.” She holds up her beer in a toast. “Slangevar.”

And just like the good Scottish people they are, they all hold their beers up and say, “Slangevar!” before taking a drink.

She sits down and smirks at me.

“Feel better?” I ask. She nods, looking completely and utterly happy with herself. “Good.” I stand as well and step up on the bench.