CHAPTER TEN
ROWAN
Curly Wurlys consumed: Seven.
Curly Wurlys left in stash: One.
Awkward, unexpected kisses: One.
Missed opportunity to kiss back: One.
A certain blonde has pushed me to blowing through my stash quicker than I care for, and I’m not fucking happy about it. And she’s made me consider why I didn’t kiss her back. Maybe because she drives me insane? Maybe because I have no idea how I really feel about her? Maybe because I’m out of my mind with my parents, her, the changes that are happening at a rapid pace.
Can’t blame a guy, right?
“Rowan, are you there? It’s your mother.”
“Yes, Maw. I know. I can see that from the caller ID.”
“Well, I can barely hear you!” she yells into the phone.
“Because you don’t have the phone on speaker,” I hear my da say.
“I pressed the button.”
“You didn’t press the button. It’s not lit up.”
“How do you know it has to be lit up?” Maw asks.
“That’s how the phone works. Press the button.”
“I did.”
“You clearly didn’t.”
“Jesus Christ, just someone press the button!” I shout.
“Fine, I’ll press the button again—oh look, it’s lit up.”
“I told you, you bawbag,” Da says, making me chuckle.
“You watch your tone, Stuart,” Maw snaps. “Or I won’t fetch you that cola like you asked.”
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
Da and his cola.
“Rowan, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m still here,” I answer while kicking my feet up on my coffee table.
“How are you?” Maw shouts, nearly breaking my eardrum.
“You don’t have to shout, Maw, I can hear you just fine.”
“Och, sorry.” She chuckles. “You’d think I’ve never used a phone before. How are you?”
It’s rare when she does use a phone, though. If she wants to talk to someone, she usually just walks over to them. The only person she talks to on the phone is her sister, and that’s pretty much it.
“I’m doing fine.” I twist my water bottle in hand, staring down at the fizz tablet that’s reacting to the water. “How’s holibags?”
“Lovely, lovely. We had the most wonderful chicken today. I asked the waitress for the recipe, and she said they didn’t do that.”
“Yeah, Maw.” I push my hand through my hair. “It’s not like the Admiral, where you can go up to Alasdair and ask him for his piecrust recipe.”
“Well, it should be. We paid enough. You would think they’d allow you to take home the recipe.”
“Where exactly are you?” I ask.
“Oh now, now, none of that business.”
“Don’t you think it’s well mad that you’re in another country and I don’t know about it? It’s not settling well with me, Maw. I’m worried, ye ken?”
“You have nothing to worry about, Rowan. We’re safe.”
Yeah, well, easy for her to say.
I take a deep breath, trying not to grow frustrated with my parents and stress them out. “Given what’s happened in the past, I’d assume you would be more sensitive to me fretting about the well-being of my family members.”
A sigh. “Rowan, I promise you, you have nothing to worry about.”
“Why won’t you tell me?” I ask, sounding harsher than I wanted.
“Just drop it, Rowan,” Da chimes in with his stern voice.
And now that he’s spoken up, it’s done. But I don’t think it’s nothing to worry about. They’re not saying where they are. Da sounds weaker. Something is going on, and it’s really starting to concern me that they aren’t involving me in their lives.
I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “Fine, but you’re being smart? Taking all precautions? You know how people can treat tourists, especially older ones. They take advantage.”
“We’re not that old,” Maw scoffs. Old enough. “And yes, we’re being safe. Now, let’s talk about you. Shona was telling me how you’ve become familiar with Bonnie. She couldn’t remember who was who at first, but she described her as the long-haired blonde.”
Fucking Shona.
“I’m not familiar with Bonnie, whatever the hell that means.”
“Well, that’s not what I’ve heard. Seems like you’ve been carrying her all around town. Going on hikes. Apparently, you appeared from the trees all muddy and wet. Care to explain? She assumed you two were rolling around together.”
“Shona shouldn’t assume and just keep to herself. We were stuck in a rainstorm, got wet and muddy. That is all.”
“You two danced together.”
Jesus Christ, does she have a camera crew following me around?
“You know, you don’t want to talk about where you are, and I don’t want to talk about Bonnie—got it?”
“Watch your tone, lad,” Da cuts in again.
“You know, I have to go. I have some things to do.” I stare down at my fizzy water.
“Oh, okay, dear. Well, stay in touch, and make sure the lasses are taken care of. Anything they need, lend a helping hand.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We love you, Rowan.”
Exasperated, I blow out a low breath. “Love you too.”
I hang up my phone and take a look at the time. Little past six thirty. I could use more than just an electrolyte water at this point. I could use an entire bucket of beer.
I stand from the sofa, head to my bedroom, and pick out some fresh clothes before turning on the shower. I’m heading to the pub.
Friday night at Fergie’s Castle is always packed, but Hamish opens up the doors and allows outdoor seating during the summer. Makes the space less crowded, and having a few pints with the loch lapping at the shore across the way is soothing.
Because everyone is at the pub on Friday, I put on a nice pair of jeans and a simple white button-up shirt, making sure to roll the sleeves up to my elbows. I’ve styled my hair for once and am about to leave when I quickly spray a bit of cologne that I never wear. My friends might appreciate some cologne.
This has nothing to do with possibly seeing Bonnie.
Not even a little.
When I make my way into town, I can already tell that Fergie’s has a little bit of a crowd, based on the noise emanating from the building. A few summers ago, Hamish spent a great deal of time working on the pub’s outdoor courtyard and repairing the stone wall that borders Loch Duich. He added planters that hold flowers during the summer and sprigs of spruce during the winter. He evenly spaced out picnic tables with large red umbrellas securely fastened in the middle, providing protection from what sun we do get. And then, toward the wall, he built a ladder ball court for those drunken nights when you think your ability to throw balls on a string is on point, when it’s really not. I suppress a smile at a few rowdier memories as I step onto the courtyard. To my surprise, a few picnic tables are still available.
Excited to be able to sit outside and enjoy a pint, I’m making my way past the picnic tables—just as someone grabs my hand.
“Rowan, you look nice.”
I glance down to find Isla, looking nice as well in a summer dress, her red hair gathered high on her head in a ponytail.
“Hey, Isla. You look good yourself. I didn’t even recognize you.”
“Oh really? Am I that squirrely day to day?” She smirks at me.
“You know what I mean.”
She tugs on my hand. “Join me. I ordered a pitcher and two plates of nachos. They’re the special tonight, and you know I’m not going to pass up some nachos.”
“Two plates’ worth?” I chuckle. “And a pitcher—you’re going to need someone to carry you home.”
“No, it’s not all for me. I’m expecting company.”
“Who . . . ?”
“Hey, Isla.” I don’t have to turn around to know who just excitedly greeted her, but I do anyway. “Who’s your friend—?”
Bonnie is standing next to Dakota, and they’re both dressed up as well and . . . hell, Bonnie, uh . . . fuck, she looks drop-dead gorgeous.
Her long blonde hair is styled in waves and is pinned back half up, half down. Heavy black mascara highlights those mesmerizing eyes, and a light shade of pink paints her plump lips. And that dress. Hell. Light blue, it’s tight around her waist and breasts and flairs out at her hips. Mouthwatering, that’s the only way to describe her.
“Oh, Rowan.” She chuckles. “I didn’t recognize you in a button-up shirt.”
“Should say the same about the dress,” I say, and her eyes narrow.
“You both look really nice,” Isla says sweetly before clearing her throat and turning to Dakota. “I love your hair.”
Dakota blushes. “Thank you. You look great too.”
And oh my God, they’re on a date . . . with a third wheel.
Bonnie is the dead giveaway—she’s stepped off to the side and is twiddling her fingers together in front of her chest, looking far too excited.
We both stare at Dakota and Isla, who are staring at each other and smiling. I don’t know much about Dakota, but from what I’ve seen, she could be a good match for Isla. They’re both calm, thoughtful, and take good care of their friends.
Hence the reason I’ve been asked to become this date’s fourth wheel.
Normally I would quickly bow out and grab a pint to myself, sit on the stone wall, and stare out at the loch, but I have a feeling—from the way they’re staring at each other—that they’re going to want some alone time, but there is no way they would dingy Bonnie. They’re not that kind of people.
So . . . looks like I’m on Bonnie patrol tonight. Great.
“I ordered us the beer you two said you liked and some nachos. I hope that’s all right,” Isla says with a nervous smile.
“I love nachos,” Bonnie says, taking a seat at the picnic table. Dakota sits next to her, and Isla takes a seat across from Dakota, which leaves me with sitting across from Bonnie.
When I take a seat, Bonnie’s eyes widen.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Isla invited me.” I smirk.
“I hope that’s okay,” Isla says, always the people pleaser. “I can kick him out right now, and he could get his own nachos.” I know she’s not serious, but I’d allow it if she was.
“Please kick him—”
“The more the merrier,” Dakota says, elbowing Bonnie.
Just then Hamish delivers the beer and the nachos, something he never does, but then again, he’s always had a soft spot for Isla. Who doesn’t here? She owns a bakeshop, is incredibly sweet, and is always one of the first locals to volunteer to help out wherever it’s needed.
“Thank you, Hamish,” she says.
“Of course, darling. Enjoy.” He nods at me quickly and then takes off.
“Wow, these look amazing,” Bonnie says while Isla starts pouring everyone a glass of beer.
Clearing her throat, Isla meets Dakota’s gaze. “How was your day?”
Dakota smiles, her whole face flushed. “It was productive.”
“Oh? What did you do?”
Shifting in place, she glances at Bonnie and me—Bonnie chowing down on a nacho, completely oblivious to Dakota’s discomfort. “Uh, you know, just some stuff on the computer.”
Heat slides up the back of my neck as I realize just how much the girls want privacy.
“I’ve never been a super fan of jalapeños,” Bonnie says, staring down at one that’s pinched between her fingers. “Which is weird, given that I’m from Southern California. You would think Mexican food is in my bloodstream, but then I had one a few months ago by accident and I couldn’t help but think, ‘spicy, but delightful.’” She pops it in her mouth and looks around the table. “Really good.”
Dakota clears her throat. “Do you, uh, like jalapeños, Isla?”
“I do,” she answers awkwardly.
“Now, olives. Ooo-eee, there’s something I’ve never been able to get enough of,” Bonnie says, picking one up and plopping it in her mouth.
“Do you like olives, Isla?” Dakota asks, and holy hell, I’m dying a slow, slow death.
“I do,” Isla responds. “Do you?”
Dakota is about to answer when Bonnie says, “Oh, she loves them. When we were kids, she used to buy five cans at the store, and we’d sit under my trampoline with a can opener eating them all. It was a weird addiction, but our parents were glad we weren’t doing drugs. Oh, these chips are amazing. Crunchy and holding the cheese just like—”
“Bonnie, I need to show you something,” I say, standing from the table.
“What?” she asks, appearing completely confused. She looks me up and down. “What do you need to show me?”
“It’s over there.” I point to the stone wall.
“Uh . . . I’m good.” She picks up another nacho, and I glance down at Dakota, who shoots me a pleading look.
That’s it—she wants her friend gone so she can relax with Isla. I get that. If I was trying to go on a date and my mate was with me, it would be hard to relax.
I round the picnic table. “It’ll just take a second. It’s important.”
“You’re being weird,” she says. “Why are you talking like your jaw is clenched tight?”
Dear Jesus, this woman.
“Just go see what he wants,” Dakota says, nudging Bonnie in the back.
“What if it’s his penis or something? Last time a guy said he wanted to show me something, he stretched his nutsac over his pants and said, ‘Look, it’s gum.’”
Who the hell is she hanging out with?
“Do you really think I would do that?”
Bonnie gives me a smooth once-over, her eyes resting a second too long on my chest. Finally, she answers, “Maybe.”
Christ.
“I’ve never met a more infuriating woman,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Oh yeah, now I really want to leave with you.” Bonnie rolls her eyes.
Dakota shoves Bonnie this time, and they exchange a look. In that one look, I can see Dakota secretly telling her friend to get the hell up. Luckily, it works. Bonnie stands and smooths her dress. “Fine, but if he shows me his ‘gum,’ you owe me some more shortbread.” She sighs and turns toward me. “Okay, show me whatever it is you want to show me.”
The girl really is clueless sometimes.
I grab her by the upper arm and walk her over to the wall, far enough away from the table that no one can hear us.
She looks around, examining the area, and then turns to me. “What? Is there some kind of special rock that will give you luck if you rub it? Is there another Boaby Stone here?”
“You’re really fucking clueless.”
“Excuse me?” she asks, hands on her hips, and hell, the position only lifts her breasts more.
I clear my throat. “They’re on a date.”
“Uh . . . duh. I’m her wing-woman.”
“Yeah, pretty sure Dakota doesn’t need a wing-woman at this point.”
“You don’t even know her. She asked me to go because she’s shy. Dakota has been through a lot, and she leans on me, especially when it comes to her love life. This is important to her, and there is no way I’m going to let her down, not when I know I’m needed. Don’t believe me? Just look at . . .” Bonnie’s voice fades as she turns to the table—Dakota and Isla are deep in conversation now. “Huh, would you look at that.”
“I don’t think she needs you. What they need is space, away from someone blabbing on about the history of their jalapeño and olive consumption.”
“Uh, that was a smooth icebreaker. Not all of us can just huff our way through a conversation.”
“I don’t huff through a conversation.”
“Practically.” She folds her arms, and that just makes things even worse for me.
Christ, it’s as if I’ve never seen a pair of boobs before. Eyes up, Rowan.
“Well, I guess if she doesn’t need me, I’ll just go home,” Bonnie says.
“Okay,” I answer nonchalantly. I’m turning to walk away when she pulls on my arm.
“You’re supposed to say, ‘You can have dinner with me,’” she says, and her defensive tone almost makes me laugh.
“Why would you even want to when I huff through a conversation?”
Her lips twist to the side, and the smallest of smiles appears on her beautiful face. “Touché,” she says. She tugs on my arm again. “Don’t make me eat alone.” She bats her eyelashes. “Pleeeease, Rowan, I feel bad about the other day—”
“You feel bad?” I scoff. “You feel bad about driving me batshit.”
“Funny that you mention batshit . . .”
I roll my eyes and drag my hand over my face. Fuck, this woman has me feeling all kinds of emotions that I can’t quite seem to process. It doesn’t help that she’s looking damn beautiful tonight, those brilliant eyes of hers pleading for me to give this a chance.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to eat with her. Despite our tension-filled moments, I still want to be around her, see how far she can push me before she turns around, a complete one-eighty, and makes me laugh.
She tugs on my hand. “Please, Rowan. We can keep an eye on the girls from here and jump in if they need help—and we can keep each other company.” She smiles and . . . damn it.
That smile lowers my defenses in seconds. It’s sweet and loaded with promises of friendship and good times.
Hell . . .
“Fine.” I point at her. “But don’t give me the story behind any other food preferences.”
“Oh darn, I was planning on going into the history of my life and cake.” She smirks.
“Save it for someone else.” I nod toward an empty table near the stone wall that’s far enough away from Dakota and Isla. “Grab that table. I’ll snag a plate of nachos and some beers from Isla.”
“Sounds good.”
I approach the table, and Isla glances up at me, gratefulness in her eyes. “Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Figured you two might want a break from all the jalapeño and olive talk. Bonnie and I are going to hang at the table over there.” I point to where Bonnie is, and she gives them an enthusiastic wave. “Figured we could grab beer and some nachos.”
“Yes, please. We won’t be able to eat and drink all of this,” Isla says.
I’m filling up a pint for each of us and grabbing the plates when Dakota says, “She hides it well, Rowan, but she’s struggling. Be kind.”
“Of course,” I say, wishing I could read between the lines. Struggling with what?
Honestly, given Bonnie’s personality, I never would have guessed that she was struggling with something. She’s always so full of life . . . and saucy behavior.
I hold up the plate and beer. “Thanks. Have fun, lasses.”
“Thank you,” Isla mouths to me before I take off.
I really hope they find a connection. They both seem like they’re searching for something, and I’m hoping they’ve just found it.
As I walk toward her, Bonnie hops up from her bench and helps me with the nachos while I set the beers down on the table. I take a seat across from her and pick up my beer, bringing it to my lips and taking a small sip.
An IPA. Not my first choice but still good. Probably Deuchars. It’s a go-to for a lot of locals at Fergie’s Castle.
“Oh, this beer is really good,” Bonnie says, setting her pint down. “Might be my favorite I’ve had so far. Is it yours?”
I shake my head. “Prefer an ale.”
“Ohhh, you like to chew your beer. I do too, on occasion, but I have to be in the mood. Like when we had fish and chips, the maltiness of that beer with the oil and vinegar . . .” She kisses her fingertips like a chef. “Perfect. But this IPA goes great with the nachos.”
I pick up a chip full of cheese and beans. “Yeah, it does.” Bonnie rests her chin in her hand and stares at me. I pull some cheese off my finger with my mouth and ask, “What?”
“You’re rather dressed up for the evening, Rowan. It’s a Friday night. Were you expecting to find a lass to take home tonight?”
“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.
“What the hell are you doing?” she snaps. “Get down.”
I put my hand up. “Just need to clarify some things.” Copying her, I turn to the pub’s patrons and call out, “Ahoy!” A few people laugh and cheer. I give a small wave before clearing my throat as well. “Aye, it’s true, I had dead codfish mouth when she spelled me with her witchy ways.”
“They were not witchy!” Bonnie shouts.
“But I tightened my mouth tight because, according to local lore, women with long blonde hair and ice-blue eyes could be the Serpent Queen. And I saw it”—I lean forward, getting into the story—“one evening, I saw her lick her lips . . .”
“Serpent tongue,” Lyall says from the side.
“Derived from a basilisk,” Baird calls out from the back.
“Exactly. The elusive serpent tongue. The myth is true, lads—she’s upon us. Slithery, scaly, ready to pop off your boabies, and I’d be damned if I let it touch my tongue. Kiss of death.”
“And then off to the Boaby Stone,” Lyall adds.
I point at him. “Precisely. Beware, lads . . . and lasses, for that matter. The Serpent Queen is among us, and she’s ravenous for her next victim.” I hold up my pint. “Slangevar.”
“Slangevar!” everyone says. With that, they take another sip of their drinks and go back to their conversations.
I hop down and sit back on my bench, looking expectantly at Bonnie. She runs her tongue over her teeth and doesn’t flinch, or even blink. Just stares.
“Aren’t you pleasant company?” she finally says.
I down the rest of my beer and grin. “I think so.”
“Oh, I so have you.”
“No, you don’t,” I scoff.
“Yes, I do.” Bonnie taps the side of her head. “I’m three steps ahead of you, son.”
“That’s what you said the last three times you lost.”
“I mean it this time.” She rubs her hands together and reaches for a glass. She takes a sip and then moves it across the three men’s morris board we borrowed from the pub.
After a rousing stare-down from Bonnie while I finished off the nachos, we glanced over at Dakota and Isla to see how they were doing, and it was as if they were the only ones on the planet. Talking intimately close, hands reaching out across the table to push hair out of their faces, intention in their eyes, never a lull in conversation. Nothing fazed them. Bonnie and I could have both whipped off our clothes and performed a naked jig, and they wouldn’t have noticed.
So, I offered a pub game to Bonnie—one I know I excel at—and she jumped on it.
Three men’s morris, the Scottish way.
Like tic-tac-toe on a wooden grid, but the pieces we move are pint glasses. Every time we move them, we take a sip . . . a small one. Whoever loses has to chug one pint.
Bonnie is swaying to the music filtering from the pub, and she’s starting to show signs of being drunk. It’s kind of funny, because the more she drinks, the more she develops a fake bravado, like she can take on the world and do it one handed.
“Oh, you are going down, Grumpyshire.”
I move my glass and take a sip.
“Aha!” she yells. “Bam. Drink up, sucker.”
She moves her glass, and I stare down at the board.
“Uh, you didn’t win.”
“Yes, I did.” She motions to the line of glasses. “One, two, three. In a row. Suck it.”
“That’s my glass.” I point to the one in the corner.
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is. I’ve been drinking out of it this entire time.”
“Then you’ve been moving my glass.” She gasps and reels back, a hand to her chest. “Oh my God, sabotage!” She points at me. “Sabotage. Right here, in broad daylight.”
Technically not broad daylight. It’s nine at night and the sun is still up, but I’m not about to argue with her.
“I’m not sabotaging you—that’s my glass.”
“You know damn well it’s not. You’re just trying to mess with my drunk mind. Well, I’m not taking it. I won—drink up.”
“It’s my glass.”
“God.” She shakes her head. “I knew you’d be a sore loser, but really, Rowan, acting like I’m cheating? Isn’t that beneath you?” She leans over the table, her cleavage in full display. “Drink up, lad.”
I gulp, telling my eyes to look up, but hell . . . I must be feeling my drink too, because I can’t seem to stop looking at her boobs.
“And while you drink, learn some manners. It isn’t polite to stare at a lady’s bosom.”
“Call it a ‘bosom’ and I won’t stare at it,” I say, picking up a glass and chugging. That’s a lie—I’ll still stare.
“I don’t understand what we’re doing here.”
“I think we roll the dice,” I say, studying the backgammon board.
“What are the dice for?”
“Uh . . .” I scratch the side of my head. “To tell us how many spaces to move.”
“Where are the spaces?”
I squint at the board some more. “Can’t be sure. I think it’s missing pieces.”
She runs her finger over the felt of the board and strokes the triangle sections. She starts with one finger, and then adds two . . .
“What are you doing?” I ask, shifting on the bench.
“Stroking the triangles.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “Drunk, and I haven’t stroked anything in a long time.”
“Stop it.”
She glances up at me, eyebrow raised. “Is this turning you on, Rowan?”
“No.”
Yes.
“Are you . . . sure?” she asks in a seductive voice.
“You know, two can play at that game.” I bring my finger to one of the triangles and start to slowly massage it.
Her eyes zero in on my finger, and her tongue peeks out, wetting her lips. “That’s a nice cadence you’ve got going on there. Looks like good pressure.”
“Aye. Really good pressure,” I say, dropping my voice.
Really getting into it, she strokes her triangle harder, faster.
Jesus. I swallow hard, watching as her tongue pokes out and wets the top of her lip. That tongue, what I could do with it . . .
This can’t be one sided.
So I pick up the pace, eyeing her, and when her gaze lands on my finger, I slow it down, really dragging out the “pleasure.”
“Oh God,” she says, her free hand traveling up her chest to her neck.
“Uh . . . do you two need a second?” Hamish asks as he steps up to our table.
We both jump and snap away from the board, hands going to our laps.
I clear my throat. “Just playing backgammon.”
“I’ve never seen it played like that.”
“American way,” Bonnie says.
“Aye, well, if you’re done playing, another table would like it.”
“Sure, yup, all done.” Bonnie folds the board and shoves it toward Hamish. He thanks us and takes off. Bonnie glances at me. “Were we just . . . jerking each other off with a board game?”
“I wasn’t . . . were you?”
“No.” She shakes her head quickly. “Nope . . . not even a little.”
“Good, because my dick is way bigger than that felt triangle.”
Her mouth falls open as I smirk and finish off another pint.
“You’re not so bad when you’re drunk,” Bonnie says, tossing a ladder ball clear across the playing area and missing the playing ladder completely. The sun is setting, the cast-iron lights that surround the courtyard are flickering on, and we’re currently battling a couple of tourists—Jim and Yolanda—who are on their second honeymoon. They’re staying at Under the Goat’s Kilt Inn and decided to extend their visit one more night because they’ve loved their time in Corsekelly.
They’re also destroying us in ladder ball.
“You’re tolerable,” I say as I toss a ball as well, which whacks Jim in the shin. “Sorry,” I call out. He just waves in response. Third time I’ve done that—you’d think he’d have faster reflexes by now.
“I’m more than tolerable.” She whips her arm back and flings a ball. “Tallyho.” It wallops Yolanda in the arm. “Oof, sorry, Yolly!” Bonnie calls out. “They must think we’re aiming for them.”
“I did on the last one,” I admit. “Wanted to see if he would move.”
Bonnie chuckles and grabs my arm. “I just aimed at Yolly. Thought maybe if I aimed at her rather than at the ladder, I would hit the ladder. Didn’t work.”
“Solid logic, though.”
“Thank you.”
From across the court, Jim says, “I think we’re going to call it a night.”
“Ahh, well, make sure you ice that welt.” Bonnie waves. “Enjoy Corsekelly, and stop in the coffee shop for subpar coffee tomorrow morning.”
They take off and Bonnie sighs, leaning against me.
“I think I should get home too,” I say, my brain feeling sluggish, the effects of way too much beer.
“Me too.” Bonnie wobbles as she starts to walk away. “Hey, where did Dakota and Isla go?” I glance over at their table, which is now vacant. Hell, almost the entire pub is vacant. When did that happen? She reaches for her phone and scans a text. “Oh, they went for a walk. Gah, do you think they’re holding hands? Oh my God, what if they kiss?” She grabs my shirt and shakes me. “Do you think they’ll kiss?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe?”
“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see that. Dakota has the softest lips—she is constantly moisturizing them. I bet Isla will be immediately delighted by them. And the passion behind the kiss—think there’ll be passion?”
I shrug. “Maybe?”
“Ugh, you’re so . . . boring.”
“Is that so?” I hold her up by her arm and guide her away from the pub and toward her cottage. “If I’m so boring, then how the hell did I entertain you all night?”
“Duh, I entertained you.”
“You wish. I was entertained because I entertained you.”
Her nose scrunches up. “That makes no sense.”
“Sounded right in my head.”
She glances around, seeming to catch up to the fact that we’re walking. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the cottage, where else?”
“You could be taking me to your sex dungeon.”
“Nah, you’re not sex-dungeon material.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Her voice rises in defense. “You saw me stroking that triangle. I was really good at it.”
“Really good is a stretch.”
“As if your finger digging was any good.”
“I wasn’t digging. Jesus.”
She stumbles over a rock when we get to the driveway, and I hold her up. Seems like I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “Why are you taking me to the cottage? I wasn’t done drinking.”
“You were done. Just seconds ago you said you should go home.”
“Who made you the boss?”
“God?” I ask, really unsure who made me the boss at this point.
“Oh no, there is no way God would make you the boss.”
“Do you like to disagree with me just to fight?”
“No.” She smirks just as we reach the cottage.
That smirk is dangerous.
That single smirk could make me do something stupid.
Something really stupid . . . like kiss her. Because she’s the kind of girl who can dig under your skin, make you want more, and I’m not sure I’m mentally ready for that kind of battle.
So, to avoid any poor decisions, I throw the door open and push her inside. “There. Now, good night.”
I’m turning to walk away when she calls out, “The minute you’re gone, I’m going back to the pub.”
I pause, and my back stiffens as I turn around to face her. “The hell you are . . .”