The Highland Fling(82)

“Bonnie made classic butteries, tattie scones, and then cherry cake. On the table there is jam and butter, and the tea and coffee, whichever you prefer.”

“We hope to offer five varieties of tea and ten different coffee drinks,” I add. “We don’t want to do more than that. We’ll keep it simple, but with a little bit of flair.”

“Good choices,” Hamish says, looking over the little mock-up menu we have on each table as well. “These will work well for the tourists coming in and out. Now, you’re just sticking with these three baked goods?”

I nod. “Yes, we figured if they want more they can go to the bakeshop. We also didn’t want to step on Isla’s toes.”

“Aye,” Hamish says.

“Dig in,” Rowan says as he takes my hand and sits me down at one of the other tables, facing away from everyone. “Time to taste test, lass.” He hands me a plate, and I gaze down at all the hard work I put into today. Never in a million years would I have thought I’d be living in Scotland, baking traditional treats with a hunky Scotsman, but here I am, living out the wildest dream I never knew I had.

I’m about to pick up my buttery when a long, loud moan erupts from behind me. I turn around to see Leith slouched in his chair, buttery in one hand, his eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head. “Sweet Jesus, these are outstanding.” He takes another bite. “God bless America and Bonnie.”

I chuckle just as Lachlan has the same reaction. “Hell’s bells, these are phenomenal.” He takes a huge bite, nearly stuffing it all in his mouth.

The nerves I was feeling quickly vanish as pleased sounds fill the coffee shop. Rowan winks at me and takes a bite of his buttery. As he chews, a smile plays at his lips.

“Bonnie, these are really fucking good.”

“Yeah?”

He slowly nods. “Aye. They’re perfect, lass.”

They’re perfect, lass. I don’t believe anything I’ve ever done has been perfect. I’ve never found that something that has made me special. I’ve never uncovered a hidden talent that set me apart from everyone else. Never once have I exceeded expectations. I’ve been average. Average my entire life.

But to hear Rowan say something I created is perfect?

It brings tears to my eyes. For the first time in my adult life, I actually feel accomplished. I feel like I’m contributing to something bigger than myself, and I’m not just running errands and making sure there is a certain kind of candy in someone’s dressing room. I’m actually providing a service with my very own hands—and it makes people happy.

And even though this moment feels monumental to me, one person is missing, and I want her approval more than anything. I wish she could have seen Leith’s and Lachlan’s reactions, could have heard Shona’s kind words.

My best friend’s—the one opinion I truly care about.

I might have done a good job, but it feels bittersweet.

“Bonnie, you okay?” Rowan asks. “You haven’t taken a bite yet.”

“Oh, yeah . . . fine.” I try to push back my thoughts of my floundering relationship with Dakota and enjoy this moment. I lift up the buttery and smile. “Here goes nothing.”



I glance at the clock one more time.

Nine at night.

Where the hell are they?

I told Rowan I wanted to spend some time with Dakota when she got home from Inverness, so I skipped out on going to his place, even though I desperately wanted to. After the emotional drain of yesterday’s tasting, we both snuggled into his bed last night, and most of today, just holding each other. But now that I’m waiting for Dakota to show up, frustration washes over me—frustration that could easily be fixed by what Rowan hides under his kilt. I say that without ever having seen him in a kilt. Trust me, though, I have had fantasies of it.

Tapping my finger on the table, I stand from one of the red couches and start to pace the quaint living space.

I’m wearing one of Rowan’s shirts, and I can still smell his cologne on the fabric, the subtle scent occasionally calming my boiling anger.

Well, I’m not boiling—just simmering at this point.

Lights flash down the driveway, and I quickly run to the door and look out the window. Isla’s car moves down the gravel, and because I’ve reached a borderline psychotic level of “Is my friend dead or is she being rude and not letting me know her whereabouts?” I fling the door open and stand on the threshold.

Isla turns off the car, and the lights fade into the darkening evening. Dakota opens the passenger door and says, “Bonnie, is everything okay?”

Now, be calm. She might have a good explanation as to why she said she would be home around dinnertime and then shows up around bedtime.

There could be a very reasonable explanation. Whatever you do, do not snap at her—that will put her on the defensive.

“Where the hell have you been?” I ask, hands on my hips.

Good job, Bonnie.

She frowns and shuts the door to the car as Isla comes around with Dakota’s bag.

“I’ll, uh, leave you two alone.” Isla tilts Dakota’s face toward her and places a hand on her hip before leaning in and pressing a kiss to her lips. Like the angry voyeur I am, I stand there, staring at their sweet goodbye, not even bothering to look away and give them privacy. When they step apart, I hear Isla murmur, “Thank you for last night.”