The Highland Fling(57)
And when anger vibrates through him—like it is now—every one of his muscles fires off. It’s quite the sight to behold.
“Are you going to say something?” I ask, feeling myself shrink in his presence, beneath his intimidating stare. “Because it’s rude to invite someone in but not talk. You have company, Rowan—be a good host.”
His jaw works side to side but remains clamped shut.
Well, this seems to have been a huge mistake.
Not in the mood for a blowup, I let out a heavy, defeated breath. I should probably leave—catch him on another day when he’s ready to be human, not a Neanderthal.
“Okay, well, this was a lovely visit. Thank you for the hospitality.”
I push past him, but he reaches out and gently takes my arm, halting me in place. We’re standing side by side—he faces one direction, and I face the other. “Coffee?” he quietly asks.
“Uh . . . sure.”
Slowly, he releases my arm, and his fingers trail over my skin like feathers, sending a shiver up my spine as he pulls away.
He strides to the kitchen, keeping his back toward me. I watch him prepare a simple pot of coffee and then pull two mugs from the hooks. While the coffee brews, he opens a cabinet that’s next to the fridge and pulls out a Tupperware container full of . . . oh dear God.
It’s cake.
Things are about to get embarrassing.
“Is that, uh . . . cake you’ve got over there?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Because if so, you know I would love a piece, big guy.”
He pulls two beautifully made plates off a shelf, the same style as the mugs. Then he cuts two pieces of cake, puts them on the plates with forks, and brings them to the coffee table, just as the coffee maker beeps.
He fills each mug. “Cream or sugar?”
“Both,” I answer, standing awkwardly in the middle of his cottage, unsure of what to do with my hands—or my body, for that matter. Do I sit down? Do I wait for him? Do I snag the cake and sprint out the door?
Option three is looking pretty promising—that is, until he turns around with two mugs and I catch sight of him once more.
Yeah, there’s no way I would be able to leave at this point. I’m dedicated to watching his pecs flex tonight.
He heads toward the couch, then takes a seat and sets everything down on the coffee table. When he looks up at me, he asks, “Are you going to sit down or stand there all night?”
“Well, you know, you’ve made things quite uncomfortable.” I move around the couch and take a seat. “I’m not sure I’m even allowed to breathe in your space.”
“You can breathe.”
“Oh, look at that, you can talk.” He slides a mug over to my side and then leans back on the couch, staring at me.
But he doesn’t just stare. He practically looks into my soul as his arm casually drapes along the back of the couch.
“So.” I pat my lap. “Are we just going to look at each other?” He doesn’t answer, and I can’t take it anymore. It’s probably some sort of Scottish intimidation tactic that I’m unaware of, but there’s only so much silence I can endure before I start to lose my mind.
I’ve hit that point.
I reach out and push against his leg. “What is wrong with you?” I scoot closer, poking him in the quad, determined to annoy him until he says something. “Talk to me. Say something—anything. Just stop sitting there in silence without a word or—”
“You look beautiful tonight, Bonnie.” And just like that, he steals my breath from me. He looks away, clenching his fist and opening it, as if he’s trying to control himself.
“Are you finally admitting you find me attractive?” I ask, hoping that lightens the mood.
The teasing falls short as he reaches out and lifts my chin. “Ye ken I do.”
Okay, then.
Glad we established that.
Annnd . . . why did I come here, again?
My mind draws a blank as my heart rate picks up. My desire escalates to a body-pounding level that I’ve never experienced in my life.
Please, Bonnie, don’t do something stupid.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROWAN
Americans making me talk way too much: One.
I knew she was going to be bad news the minute I saw her, but for some reason I’m holding on to that bad news and, apparently, trying to make it mine.
I’ve thought about her all day.
Ever since I left her cottage, I’ve thought about her.
The way her hand felt moving over my chest, her warm body tucked up against mine in the morning, the hug before I left, her admission . . .
Hell, my admission.
And then later, in the coffee shop, I was ready to blurt out my sordid history in the middle of the day, as if I’ve known this lass forever. It was a reality check.
I’ve lost my damn mind.
When have I ever talked about the past? Let alone to someone I barely know?
Never.
And yet, when I heard the gate creak a few moments ago, the sign of someone coming, I knew it was going to be her. I felt her presence. Seeing her, those eyes . . . fuck, I couldn’t turn her away if I wanted to, and all those emotions I felt in the coffee shop, all my confessions, came bubbling up again.