The Highland Fling(9)

A hell of a step up from our one-bedroom, window-barred, cracked-ceiling apartment in Los Angeles, that’s for damn sure.

“Hope you enjoy the space,” Finella says, pride puffing her chest.

“It’s lovely,” I say.

“Perfect,” Dakota adds.

“Now, there’s one bedroom on the ground floor and one upstairs. Bathroom around the corner. We keep a bucket next to the toilet, and if you go number two, we ask that you use the bucket to help flush it down.”

I glance at Dakota, whose eyes widen with humor. I hold back my snicker, not wanting to be rude. But come on . . . a toilet bucket?

Yup . . . lovely.

“The fridge has some food in it,” Finella continues. “Not too sure what ya girls like, but it has the basics. The Mill Market is down the street. Shona knows you’re coming, so she can help show you around and order you anything you might need.”

“Shona is the owner?” I ask.

“Aye.” Finella sits us both down at the table and ladles out food. Balls of fried something that must be the haggis—whatever that is—and two mashed-up-looking things. The tatties and neeps, I suppose. “Everyone in Corsekelly knows you’re coming. The town is quite welcoming to newcomers, and they’ve already promised me and Stuart they’ll take good care of you while we’re gone.”

“Thank you,” Dakota says, picking up a fork and digging right in. I pick up my fork as well but wait for her to taste the food first. When she doesn’t seem to balk, I give myself the green light to eat up. “This is delicious, Finella.” The tatties and neeps are mashed with a hint of nutmeg flavoring. Interesting but delightful. And the haggis has an oaty texture with a hint of pepper and a crumbly sausage feel.

I think I can get used to this.

“Thank ye. ’Tis an old family recipe. My Rowan’s favorite.”

Rowan. Is that someone’s name?

“You won’t see much of him,” Finella continues. “Quite busy being the handyman around town.”

So it is someone’s name.

“Is Rowan your son?” I ask.

“Aye, he is. Strapping lad, though a tad grumpy, and keeps to himself. He does fancy himself a blonde, though. Especially a bonny one.” She wiggles her brows, and I feel my face flush.

“Hear that, Bonnie? Strapping,” Dakota says with a smile.

“Are either of ya attached?” Finella asks.

“Both single,” Dakota answers.

“Is that so.” She smiles widely.

“I’m not ready to date, though,” Dakota quickly says. “I had a bad breakup with my girlfriend about a year ago. Still nursing those wounds.”

“Och, ya fancy the lasses? You should meet Isla Murdach—she runs Murdach’s Wee Bakeshop. I’d think she’d take kindly to you.”

Now it’s Dakota’s turn to blush. I nudge her under the table with my foot. “Hear that? She’d fancy you.”

“Not looking for a relationship,” she says.

“Me neither,” I say quickly. Who knows who this Rowan guy is—I’m almost certain I don’t want anything to do with him. The whole grumpy thing doesn’t work for me.

“So what brings you to the Highlands, then? On your application, you said adventure.” Finella studies us both. “But I see darkness in your pretty eyes. There’s more to it.”

“A break,” Dakota confesses. “A break from it all.” And I know exactly what she means. She needs a break from the memories, from the chance of running into her ex. She needs to clear her head.

Just like me.

“A moment to breathe,” I say. “To figure out what I’m doing with my life.”

Finella smiles and clasps her hands together. “Then Corsekelly is the perfect place for the both of you.”



Gravel crunches under our shoes as Dakota and I follow Finella down the tree-lined lane to the coffee house. A light sprinkle of rain starts up, and I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt.

“Nay, not to worry about the rain, lass,” Finella says. “It’s a given here in Scotland. Embrace it.”

Well, if that’s the case, I lower my hood and let the droplets of water scatter over my head and face. If I’m going to be here for six months, then I really should live like the locals.

“Here she is,” Finella says as we round the bend and approach the coffee shop. “She might not be pretty on the outside, but she’s warm on the inside.” She opens the door, and to my surprise, the shop is completely empty—no one working, not a single soul in the building.

Even more shocking: the place is practically barren.

Two tables, each with two chairs, sit haphazardly in the middle of the room, looking like they were carved by a ten-year-old. Nothing decorates the walls, and the old wooden floors are coated in dirt and goo. To the left is an empty pastry case, and behind the counter are two coffee thermoses.

No espresso machine.

No fancy menu.

Just . . . coffee.

Umm . . .

“We open at ten and close at four.”

“You open at ten?” How on earth do they open at ten when I was ordered to get coffee at six in the morning?

“Aye, not much activity in the area until ten. Most businesses around here open at nine and close no later than six, besides Fergie’s Castle, the pub. The Admiral, our local eatery, will close at six on the weekdays and seven on the weekends, so if you’re craving—what do you Americans call it, ‘dinner’?—be sure to plan ahead. Fergie’s will have some generic pub food, but it can get rowdy once the town shuts down and everyone gathers for a whisky.”