CHAPTER NINE
BONNIE
Cake consumed today: Three slices of Dundee cake.
Days since last male-induced orgasm: Eighty-one.
Boredom: Massive amounts, too much to count.
Rainstorms since arrival to Scotland: Fourteen. No wonder it’s so green here.
Serving coffee to invisible humans is frankly borderline lunacy. At least Fergus is still showing up unannounced. Last time, he screamed so loud that I piddled. A goat made me piddle. But then I petted him, and now I think we’re starting to build a strong bond. This is my life now.
“Coffee? Yeah, you—I know you want coffee.” I wave a cup in the air. “It’s tasty—true Scottish flavors. Ever taste a kilt? We squeeze them right into the brew. We actually use kilts as coffee filters. Delivers the true essence of the land’s ancestors.” The tourist I’m verbally accosting puts his hand up over his face and walks right on by.
Sheesh, he’s rude.
“A simple ‘No, thank you’ would suffice!” I shout out before walking back into the shop.
“Why are you saying everything smells or tastes like a kilt?” Dakota asks. She’s standing behind the counter, hovering over her computer and drawing pad. “You know there’s so much more to Scotland than just kilts.”
I tap my chin and lean against the wall. “Think I should have said we stir each cup of coffee with bagpipes?”
“You’re losing it.”
“I am, Dakota,” I say as I walk over to the counter, where I hoist myself up, letting my feet dangle down. “What the hell are we doing here day in and day out? We’re wasting away.” I motion to her computer, which she’s been parked behind since we got here. “You’re at least doing something.” I squint at her screen. “Is that a soup can with an inspirational quote on it?” I wave my hand, dismissing the new freelance job she received from an up-and-coming influencer who specializes in dishing out “inspirational soup.” Dakota was telling me about it last night. I swear, marketing is getting cornier and cornier. “I’m so bored here. I’m just staring at the wall.”
“Then do something.”
“Okay, so what do you suppose I do? Play some music and come up with a tap dance routine that might bring in more customers?”
“Nooo,” she drags out and then motions to the space. “Fix things up.”
“Pardon?”
She sighs and lifts herself away from her computer. “If you want more customers, figure out how to get them. Catcalling them from the doorway about kilt-flavored coffee is not the way to do it. You want to keep busy, and, well, here’s a project sitting right in front of you. Take advantage of it.”
“You mean . . . fix up the coffee shop?”
“Why not? I told you Finella left us with her credit card when you were taking care of your haggis situation—remember? She told us to use it however we need to make the store shine.”
“I vaguely recall this.” I tap my chin and look over the space as ideas start to trickle into my mind. “You really think she meant it? To help make this place shine?”
“Yeah.” Dakota shrugs and goes back to work.
“Dakota.” I reach over and shut her laptop, something I know she hates, but I need her complete attention. “Do you think . . . do you think Finella was alluding to us actually making something of the coffee shop again? Like, did she hire us to bring it back to life?”
“Maybe. She did mention that she created the ad to bring some fun attention to the coffee shop. Wasn’t expecting it to bring two Americans to Corsekelly to run it, but she said Americans know their coffee houses, and maybe we could put our touch on it.”
“And you’re just telling me this now? After over a week of absolute boredom? What is wrong with you?”
“Why on earth would you try to fix something if you don’t have a baseline?” Dakota asks, and her simple reasoning is far too annoying to appreciate. “You can’t possibly fix something without finding out what’s wrong with it first.”
She’s right about that . . . unfortunately.
Just then, another tour bus pulls away. I glance at the time on my phone—they were here for half an hour. Half an hour in Corsekelly, and not one of them came into the coffee shop.
The only visitor was Fergus, and frankly that’s just sad. But we did have a riveting conversation about hooves. Even though his look like little vaginas, I told him not to be self-conscious—and if he really wanted to spice things up, I could paint them in a pretty plaid pattern with nail polish. He said he would consider it. Between you and me, I’m pretty sure he’s going to pass.
But Fergus as our lone visitor isn’t going to cut it.
“Do you know how much business we miss out on because we’re offering plain coffee and hot chocolate packets?” I ask. “This place has the potential for more—much more. We could offer so many other drinks, baked goods, specials that go hand in hand. Coffee and a buttery. We can have Penis Stone souvenirs. There aren’t many here in town. And what about Fergus? I mean, he’s a town treasure, and no one is selling anything Fergus themed. Think of all the money we could make for Finella and Stuart. We could jump-start this entire coffee shop and give it a new life.”
For the first time in I don’t know how long, excitement bubbles up inside me. My mind whirs with all the possibilities, all the potential the coffee house has.
“You can design a new sign. Create a logo for the shop. Design all the shirts and merch. The menus—oh my God, this could be huge, Dakota.” I push at her shoulder. “Doesn’t this excite you?”
“Sure,” she says, so casually that it makes me want to scream.
“What do you mean, ‘sure’? Done right, we could capitalize on those tour buses and create something special here. And according to all the career assessments I’ve taken, organizational skills are my best attribute. This is right up my alley.”
Dakota smiles and opens her laptop back up. “I can see you really creating something special.”
“Really? Do you mean that?”
“Of course. I say go for it.”
“Yeah?” I ask, nearly bouncing up and down.
“Yeah, but whatever you do, you have to run it by Rowan first.”
Poof!
Did you see that splatter of hope? That was all my excitement drying up like a string bean in the desert.
Shriveled up and morphed into dust, only to be picked up by a gust of wind and carried off into the land where dreams don’t come true.
“What do you mean, run it by Rowan?”
“Did you not pay attention to a thing I told you our first night?”
“Oh, excuse me.” I hold up my hands. “I was jet-lagged, had a Scottish man try to speak to me while tapping his crotch, thought I was going to die on a roundabout in a MINI Cooper, was fed sheep intestines—and then quickly disposed of those intestines—only to be accosted by a grumpy Scot who found my broom wielding more comical than threatening. I apologize for not remembering the smallest of details.”
“Maybe that was why you were fired three times,” Dakota says with a huge smirk.
I point a finger at her. “You’re an asshole.”
We both laugh, and Dakota turns back to her screen. “Seriously, though, Finella said whatever we do, just to run it by him first.” She shrugs. “Seems fair. She doesn’t want two strangers coming in and destroying the integrity of their coffee shop.”
“But . . . I haven’t seen or spoken to him since he stormed off after the hike.”
“About that . . . according to Isla, it seemed like you really pissed him off—which is not the story you gave me.”
My eyes narrow. “What do you mean, according to Isla? When did you speak to her?”
“Yesterday.” The smallest of smirks pulls at the corners of Dakota’s mouth. “I was stocking up on your Dundee cake supply.”
“Oh, don’t you dare use me as an excuse to go into the bakeshop. We all know why you were there. And you didn’t even come home with Dundee cake. You came home with shortbread.”
“Which you ate all of.” She lifts a brow.
“Boredom eating is a real thing,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “But that’s beside the point. You were talking about me?”
“No,” Dakota sighs. “Isla asked how you were doing after being stuck up on the mountain with Rowan during the rainstorm. Ever since he lost his brother—”
“Wait, what?” I ask, sitting taller. “Rowan has a brother?”
“Had,” Dakota says quietly. “Isla didn’t get into it, and I didn’t pry. All I know is that he doesn’t like serious rainstorms. She wanted to make sure he wasn’t too harsh on you. Last time they were stuck on a mountain together when it was storming, Rowan apparently lost his mind. It took some time to calm him down.”
“Oh my God,” I just about whisper as I think back to our hike, how I carelessly disregarded his warnings and his persistent need to make it down the hill before the rain became too strong. The tension in his back every time I slipped, his stern grip as we walked through mud. His demeanor after we stepped off the trail.
Anger.
Distress.
Relief.
Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like an ass.
“I had no idea,” I say softly.
“Apparently he holds it all in—which explains why he’s so grumpy and standoffish. From what Isla alluded to, there seems to be some darkness in Rowan’s family. So yeah, even if you two aren’t getting along right now, maybe cut him some slack. Don’t go full Bonnie on him.”
“Too late.” I cringe.
Begging for forgiveness from Mother Nature over littering . . . yup, I went full Bonnie on him . . . while he was in the midst of panicking.
Really great, Bonnie. Just perfect.
“Hey, Shona,” I say, walking into the Mill Market.
The quaint shop can best be described as what would happen if someone blasted Target with a shrink gun and then redecorated with Scottish charm. Its baskets overflow with fruits and vegetables. Its wooden shelves are perfectly stocked. And its beautiful plank wood floors wave and roll with the earth beneath it. Just like Target, the Mill Market has almost everything you could need. Unlike Target, it all comes in small quantities.
“Hello, Dakota.”
“I’m Bonnie, actually,” I chuckle.
“Och. I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “Blame it on the old-lady brain.”
“Not a problem at all.”
“Anything I can help you find?”
I walk past a display of haggis and mushy peas and feel my bones shiver from the inside out. I know other countries probably balk at the idea of putting peanut butter and jelly on a sandwich, but at least it isn’t a can of harvested sheep innards.
“Looking for a notepad and fun pens.”
“Aye, right this way.”
She walks out from behind the counter and guides me down a small aisle, past the fruits and vegetables, past the meat and dairy cases, and into a small section stocked full of household items.
Pots, pans, kitchen utensils, greeting cards, wrapping paper, toys, and school supplies.
“Here ya go, lass. We have a few notebooks that might tickle yer fancy.” She lifts one up from the little stack on the shelf. “This has a goat on it—reminds me of Fergie, the old man. Take this one—it will bring good luck.”
“Okay,” I say, glancing at the others and noticing they all have goats on them. Gives me something to share with Fergus. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.
“And fun pens . . . well, all we have are these Flair pens. A pack of black, red, and blue. I can put in an order for some other ones if you’d like.”
I take the familiar pens along with the notebook. “These will be just fine, thank you.”
“Of course. Do you need anything else? We just got a fresh shipment of Curly Wurlys, and they’re quite divine, if you’ve never tried one before.”
“Is that a pig’s tail?” I ask, the only thing coming to mind at those words.
She chuckles and shakes her head. “Nay, it’s Cadbury chocolate with caramel. Everyone in town loves them, so I always stock up. Best you get some now before those Murdach boys find them. And MacGregor too—he’s been known to buy a handful at a time.”
“Rowan likes them?”
“Aye. How those boys all stay in shape despite their massive Curly Wurly intake is beyond me. Here.” She pulls me up to the sugar shelf and grabs a few long, white-and-purple-wrapped treats and sets them in my hand. “You won’t be sorry.”
“Okay, yeah.” I stare down at the candy. “I’m going to have to start running if I keep eating the way I have since I’ve been here.”
“Isla’s shortbread?” she asks as we head to the counter.
“That and the Dundee cake. Although I ate a dozen shortbread cookies without even realizing—so I think that’s more dangerous than the cake. At least that I know how to pace.”
“’Tis all right to indulge, just keep up on your fitness. Take the Hairy Coo Footpath every morn. That’ll do ye just fine.”
“The Hairy Coo Footpath?” I ask. What an adorable name.
She rings up my purchases and puts it all on my tab. Thank God. I still don’t have the hang of the whole foreign-money thing yet.
“No one tell you about the hairy coos? They’re our Highland cattle. They roam about the grasslands. Cute fellas, if you ask me. There’s a two-mile path that loops around their feeding area. A few years ago we laid down a dirt path to help with tourism. Give visitors more to see than just Fergus and the Boaby Stone.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea. Do a lot of people hike it?”
She shakes her head. “Only locals. Not many people know about it.”
“Oh, well, that’s a shame.” Another potential attraction for tourists that’s not living up to its potential. There is so much charm in this town, and it’s all overshadowed by a penis rock.
“’Tis pretty, though, and a bonny morning walk. The path starts right past the Boaby Stone entrance, tucked into the hills. Can’t miss it. Marked well too.”
“Thank you. I’ll walk it tomorrow morning.”
“Enjoy.” She hands me a paper bag of my items and gives me a small wave.
I came in for a notepad and some pens. I’m leaving with a bribery tool—the Curly Wurlys—and a new way to curb all the calories. A successful trip to the Mill Market, indeed.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Dakota asks as she jogs in place in front of me.
Yes, Dakota has been running every day since she got here. She found a challenging trail she really enjoys and has been tracking her times to watch for improvement. Besides her brilliantly creative mind, she’s also very math oriented. She loves data and solving problems. So this behavior doesn’t surprise me in the least. I’m also not surprised that her slowest time so far happened on the day we shared half a Dundee cake.
I was also sluggish that day, but I wasn’t sorry about it.
“Positive. You go train for the Olympics, while I take a leisurely walk with the cows.”
“Okay, have fun. You remember where the trail is, right?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you have your cow-poop barometer ready?”
I nod. “Yup. Going to sniff it out to see if it’s a suitable running trail for you.”
“You’re the best. Meet you back at the cottage.” She takes off, and I watch her set the time on her watch before she heads into a run.
I walk up to the entrance and marvel at the stick arch that marks the start of the footpath. It reminds me of what you see at the end of a driveway in Texas, welcoming you to a ranch. Straight ahead are rolling green hills spotted with heather and gray slate rocks. Behind the hills are even taller mountains, jagged and peaked to points, which I heard from a local the other day usually have snow on the caps during the winter. Unfortunately, no snow for this walk, but it’s still breathtaking.
I’m already excited about the possibility of this being my morning routine. Water in hand, shoes tied tight, I walk through the arch and down the trail. The dirt crunches under my shoes while early birds chirp off in the distance.
Yes, I could get very used to this.
The greenery, the crystal-clear brook that runs by the trail and into the loch, the soothing sound of trickling water, and oh look, a hairy coo.
Isn’t he adorable.
Picture a cow with a seventies hairstyle. Long brown locks sweep over his face, and massive horns come out the side of his head. Isn’t he darling? I could just stare at him all—
SMACK.
My cheek connects with what feels like a stone wall, and I fall back on my ass with a thump.
What on earth?
“Ah hell.” A deep, accented voice rolls through my entire body.
Blinking and trying to get ahold of my bearings, I slowly take in the wall before me. Except it’s not a wall. Toned, tanned legs, running shorts . . . bulge . . . deep, muscular V, followed by defined abs, massive pecs . . . oh sweet Jesus, those nipples. So proportionate and pretty. My eyes keep running, following a path of dark, twisted ink that stains one pec and travels over his shoulder and down his arm.
And then his face comes into view as he squats down. Dark scruff, wet lips, mossy-green eyes.
“What the hell are you doing?” Rowan asks, pulling me to my feet.
I blink some more, my face level with his beautifully sculpted chest.
My oh my, do they breed them well in Scotland.
“Hello? Are you okay?”
“You’re shirtless.”
He glances down at his wet, glistening chest. “Aye. And you have a shirt on.”
I glance down at my chest and nod. “Aye.”
The smallest of smirks appears on his lips before it disappears. “Glad we established who’s wearing a shirt and who’s not.”
“’Tis quite the accomplishment this fine morn,” I say in a horrible Scottish accent. Maybe that knock did something to my brain.
“Okay, well . . .” He frowns. “If you’re not concussed, I’m going to take off.”
“I don’t think I’m concussed. Although I don’t know what a concussion feels like.”
“Are you dizzy?”
I do feel slightly dizzy, but I’m not sure if it’s from being knocked down or from the combination of my lack of male-induced orgasms and seeing Rowan with his shirt off.
“Maybe?”
His brow knits together. “Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”
I didn’t eat breakfast, so that could be why I’m feeling slightly faint.
“Maybe?”
“Jesus.” He drags his hand down his face and exhales heavily. Taking me by my upper arm, he spins me around and starts walking me back toward town.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Taking you to your cottage.”
“But I planned on seeing more hairy coos.”
“Not if you’re feeling dizzy and nauseous,” he grumbles. “We didn’t even run into each other that hard.”
“Says the guy built like a rock wall.” I swat at his hand. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t manhandle me like this. I am a lady, after all.”
“I’m holding you up so you don’t fall again.”
I swat at him a second time, but he doesn’t budge. Sheesh, he’s strong. “I’m more than capable of walking—” I trip over a tree root and nearly fall forward, but Mr. Muscles pulls me back.
Muscles McGrumpyshire.
“You were saying?” he asks drily.
“That was an unfortunate coincidence.”
He silently walks me all the way back to the cottage, his grip tight, unwavering.
“Mornin’, Rowan,” a man calls out, tipping his pageboy hat in our direction.
“Mornin’, Alasdair,” Rowan says, his voice sounding chipper, so different from when he speaks with me.
“Morning,” I shout, waiving obnoxiously.
Alasdair chuckles. “Morning, lass. Good luck with the beast—he looks like he’s on a war path.”
“Oh, you know, just a caveman trying to control every aspect of my life,” I shout back as Rowan walks us away. Have never spoken to the man in my life, but I like his jolly smile. Can you guess? Rowan doesn’t appreciate my tiny conversation with Alasdair. He indicated this by tightening his grip. Impossible man.
“You know,” I say as he marches me down the gravel driveway to the cottage, “I think I can make it from here.”
Nothing.
Not a single word.
When we reach the cottage, he pushes through the door and walks me to the couch. While I sit down, he goes to the kitchen and digs through a drawer before pulling out a flashlight. Striding back over, he squats in front of me and flashes it in front of my eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure your pupils aren’t dilated. That’s a sign of concussion.”
“Are they?”
“No.” He turns off the flashlight and heads back to the kitchen, where he puts it back in the drawer and fills up a glass of water. He stalks back and hands it over. Planting his hands on his hips, he stares down at me.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
His strong jaw twitches as his chest rises. “Drink the water.”
“Why? Did you bewitch it with special healing powers?”
“Jesus . . . fuck.” He pushes both hands through his hair. “Fine, do whatever ye want.” He turns on his heel and storms toward the door.
“Wait. I think . . . uh, can you get me a bowl? I think I might throw up.”
With lightning speed, he grabs the kitchen trash can and brings it to me before sitting on the arm of the couch and placing his hand on my back. I lean my face over the trash can for a grand total of five seconds. Then I turn my head toward him and smile.
“Just kidding.”
Annnd ohhh boy, if I thought that storm was bad the other day, the one that’s brewing right in front of me might be even worse. Yes, maybe I should take it a little easy on him after what I learned about his brother, but there’s something about the clench in his jaw that makes me want to keep pushing his buttons.
Before he can erupt, I place my hand on his thigh. “Settle down, Grumps. I’m fine.”
He tears the trash can away and shoves it back in the kitchen. “Good to know.” With that, he charges to the front door, rips it open, and strides outside.
Yikes. Someone doesn’t like to joke in the morning.
Feeling guilty and remembering why I need to be nice to this guy, I chase after him. When I move past the front door of the cottage, I spot him, both hands on the back of his head, his back tensing with anger.
I’m about to say something when he turns around. His eyes widen in surprise as they meet mine, but that surprise is short lived, and he closes the distance between us.
Body vibrating with fury, he gets right in my face. “Don’t joke about being injured. Got it?”
“Rowan, you can’t be serious. I was knocked down, and you’re acting like I cracked my head open.”
His eyes darken, and his jaw clenches so tightly that I’m afraid he might break a tooth. His eyes search mine, and I can feel him wanting to say something. But he doesn’t open his mouth—instead he just stares at me. I wonder what he’s holding back.
Does this have anything to do with his brother? This innate need to constantly protect, to make sure everyone is okay? I think back to what Dakota said about Rowan and rainstorms, the way he tensed every time I slipped. Was that . . . ?
I take stock of the situation: his breathing is heavy, his fists are clenched at his sides. So much anger. So much hurt. It’s all bottled up, ready to be released, and if I don’t defuse the situation, it’s going to blow up right on me.
And then . . . get ready for it, ladies . . .
His eyes fall to my lips.
Yup. They fall right to my lips, which means we have clearance for the one thing that I know will defuse any situation with a man this angry.
Might not be smart.
Might be a little on the dangerous side.
But it’s guaranteed to work . . .
In one swift motion, I grip both his cheeks, pull him down, and crash my lips against his.
Just like that.
Kissing the beast in front of the cottage.
And boy oh boy is it the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Butterflies do not erupt.
There is no sign of hearts flying out of my head.
Nor is there a distant harpist playing romantic background music.
The only things present during this torturous moment are his stiff lips and flailing arms, as if his lips got stuck in a bear trap and he doesn’t quite comprehend how to release himself.
Dramatic much, Rowan?
Deciding to end his apparent misery, I release him, and he quickly steps back, putting distance between us. He runs the back of his hand over his lips while staring at me . . . appalled.
I set my hands on my hips. “Did you just wipe my kiss away?” I can’t help but feel a tad insulted.
“What the hell was that?”
“I asked you a question.” I stand taller.
“What did it look like?” he asks, giving his lips one more wipe while looking me dead in the eyes.
The bastard.
“I’ll have you know, I’m a lovely kisser.” He doesn’t say anything. “And you looked at my lips. I saw it. That’s the universal sign for ‘trespassers welcome.’ And if you didn’t approach me with cod mouth, I could have demonstrated that, but there is only so much a person can do when your lips are puckered up like an ass—”
“Don’t be fucking kissing me,” he says, taking another step back.
“I’m not diseased.”
“Don’t kiss me,” he repeats.
“Why? Do you have a girlfriend? A wife?”
“Nay.” Another step back, his eyes still on mine.
“Do you not find me attractive?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Sure does,” I say, pressing him. “Now you opened up a box you shouldn’t have opened. Why don’t you want to kiss me? I brushed my teeth this morning.”
“Because I don’t want to. There doesn’t need to be a reason other than that.”
“Well, it’s rude.”
He scoffs. “It’s rude to kiss someone when they don’t want to be kissed.”
“Oh my God, it’s not like I licked the side of your face and then shoved the tip of my tongue up your nose. I kissed you. Grow up.”
“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?”
“I guess only for the lucky souls,” I answer. Even though Fergus and I have started a little love affair, he still screams to make himself known. Not sure I’ll ever get over it. “So, did you visit any places of business?”
“Stopped into the Mill Market for a boaby shirt and got a funny-looking candy. Curly Wurly—never heard of it.”
“Oh, they’re good,” I say, knowing full well I have only one left. I purchased them as a bribery tool for Rowan, but somehow they ended up in my belly. Jury is still out on how that exactly happened.
“Can’t wait to try them.”
“So that’s it? No other places?”
“Nope, that’s it.”
“Uh-huh, no . . . coffee?”
“Oh, well, we were craving some coffee, and this would be a great time for a pick-me-up, but from the reviews online, we knew this wasn’t the place to get it. So we’re waiting for two more stops.”
“On-online?” I stutter, trying not to blow my cover.
“Yes, the bus company has a forum for tourists where we can review places on the route and talk about all the musts to stop into. The Mill Market was one of them. So was Murdach’s Wee Bakeshop. My friend Kacee grabbed us some haggis pies for the road.” Meredith points to her chest. “Making Ireland our bitch.”
“Scotland.”
“What?” she asks.
“Scotland.” I motion to her shirt. “You’re making Scotland your bitch.”
“What did I say?”
“Ireland.”
“Ohh.” She laughs. “That’s next.”
The bus driver honks the horn, and she looks back at her friends, who are waving for her to join them.
“Well, I’d best be going.”
“Yes, don’t want to miss out on any of the other stops. Thank you so much for your time. I really appreciate it.”
“Of course.” She gives me an awkward high five and then takes off.
I tap my pen against my chin as I watch the bus pull away. Once it’s out of sight, I make a beeline for the coffee shop.
I need to see this online forum.
“Not worth your time. Barely any seating, coffee leaves much to be desired. Nice owners, but horrible selection, there is none at all. What’s with the chairs? Were they made in the 1800s? I was served a hot chocolate packet, and I had to stir it on my own.” I look up from Dakota’s computer. “These are all comments on the tour bus forum, clear as day, right under the Corsekelly stop. No wonder no one comes in here. And this is just one tour bus company. How many others do you think are like this?”
Dakota is sitting in the chair across from me, legs crossed. “Uh-huh.” She stares off into the distance.
“Hello,” I say, snapping my fingers in front of her face. “Did you hear me? These reviews are awful.”
“What? Oh yeah, they’re bad. Totally killing business.”
“Were you even paying attention?”
“For the first ten minutes of reviews, I was.”
“Dakota, what the hell? You’ve been drifting off all freaking day. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she says, her cheeks reddening.
“Uh . . . I don’t buy it.”
I look over at the coffee counter and notice a familiar box. My head snaps back to her. “Oh my God, you went to the bakeshop again.”
“You were out of shortbread.”
“Because I have no ability to control myself, which means you need to be the one cutting me off, not feeding into the madness.”
“I’m a good friend.”
“No, you’re using me as an excuse to go see Isla.”
She grins. “Maybe.”
I push the computer away and fold my arms over my chest. “Okay, tell me what happened.”
“Well, she said hi.”
“Oh yes, wow. Be still my heart, a greeting,” I deadpan. Dakota flicks her pen at me in response.
Chuckling, I say, “What else happened?”
“We talked a little about the weather, simple things, and then, when I was leaving, she asked what I was doing Friday night.”
“What?” I sit up. “Uh, this is something you should have told me the minute I walked into the coffee shop. She asked you out?”
“You were all hyped up on the research you conducted—I was letting you have your moment.”
“Moment had, now tell me about yours.”
She’s smiling so hard that my cheeks actually hurt for her. “Well, it might be a little lame, but I consider it a step in the right direction. She asked what I was doing Friday, and when I said nothing, she said I should bring you and meet up at the pub, to hang out and have some drinks.”
“Ohhh, she did ask you out.”
“And you,” Dakota says, a little defeated.
“I’m just a buffer for you. She did that to be nice.”
“Maybe. So . . . will you go?”
“Of course. I’m one hell of a wing-woman. I got you—boo.” I wink. “God, how exciting.”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
I give her a side-eye. “You should already know I’m going to make it a thing.”
“I’m asking you, please . . . don’t make it a thing.”
“But I love making it a thing.”
“Please, Bonnie.”
“Ugh,” I groan. “This is painful.”
“Bonnie . . .”
“Fine.” I lean back in my chair. “I won’t make it a thing.”
“Thank you. So, about the reviews—”
“Oh my God, you’re going on a date.” I clap my hands excitedly.
Dakota puts her head in her hand. “You’re making it a thing . . .”