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.
The only way I knew to keep myself from pouring everything out to her was to stay silent.
But it seems like that tactic has run its course.
Fidgeting with her hair, she looks off to the side. “So, you find me attractive, good to know. Not too bad yourself.”
She’s fucking adorable.
“And even though this conversation is quite riveting, I think we should eat some cake.” She picks up her plate, scoops a giant bite, and plops it in her mouth. As if she’s forgotten about the last minute, she moans against her fork and sinks back into the sofa. “Where the hell has this been since I’ve arrived? Dundee cake is good and all, but this . . . this . . . what is this?” She pokes the cake with her fork.
“Iced cherry cake.”
“Well, hold my boobs and slap my ass because ooooeeee is this a delight in my mouth.” She takes another forkful and closes her eyes. “The flavors are magnificent. And it’s so moist. Oh man do I love a moist cake. Moist . . . moist, moist, moist.” She shoves the last bite in her mouth and leans over, poking at the cake on my plate. “Are you going to eat this?” She snags a forkful and picks up the plate, holding it in front of her as she chews. “Is this from Isla’s shop? Because she’s been holding out on me.”
“I made it,” I say.
Silence.
Slowly, she turns and looks me in the eyes. Her mouth carefully chews. Swallows. And then . . . “You made this?” she asks in such awe that, hell, my calm exterior cracks.
A smirk tugs at my lips and I nod. “Aye, I made it.”
“For yourself?”
“Aye . . . ,” I reply, confused.
“You mean to tell me that you came home one day and thought, ‘You know, I think I’m going to make myself a cherry cake.’”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
She sets her fork down, cake still on it, and folds her hands carefully on her lap. “I’m going to be honest with you, Rowan. Never in my life have I ever wanted to jump a man’s bones as much as I want to right now.”
All of this over cake?
She clears her throat and lifts her chin. “But I am a lady, and even though I showed animalistic eating habits just a few moments ago, I refuse to jump any man at this age.”
“Aren’t you twenty-four?” I ask.
“A respectable twenty-four. I’m not a twenty-two-year-old floozy anymore. I mean business. So, I will say thank you for the cake, kind sir, and then be on my way.”
“Do whatever ye want,” I say, calling her bluff and picking up my plate of cake, which still has her fork on it. I lift the fork to my mouth, watching her hands—itching, ready to pounce in three, two, one . . .
“On second thought, you look like you need company.” She takes the fork and shoves the cake in her mouth. “Oh, sweet sugary nectar, you’re giving me life.”
I chuckle. She’s so fucking ridiculous.
“Help yourself,” I tease.
“Don’t mind if I do.” She takes another bite and then picks up her coffee. She takes a sip, and her eyes widen. “Oh my God, what kind of coffee is this?”
“Special blend I order in. Cherry coffee with cherry cake—my favorite combo.”
Her hand falls to my thigh, and she gives it a good squeeze. A bolt of lust shoots straight to my cock. I take a deep breath.
Keep it together, lad.
“Rowan, do you realize the kind of flavor combination you’ve created here? This could easily sell in the shop as a special.”
“Who’s going to make the cherry cake?”
“Uh . . . you?”
“Not interested,” I say, finishing the rest of the cake and setting the plate down.
“Don’t you want to help your parents?”
“I’ve given up enough for them,” I say, my throat feeling tight all of a sudden. To an outsider, my comment must sound selfish, but if she knew what I’ve been through, she’d understand exactly where the feelings are coming from, where my need to help falls flat.
From the sympathetic look on Bonnie’s face, it’s a safe guess that no one has told her exactly what happened to my brother.
“What have you given up?”
“Not something I want to talk about.”
“Is that what you were alluding to back at the coffee shop?”
I blow out a heavy breath. “Bonnie—”
“Fine, we don’t have to talk about that. I can tell you’re getting angry. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks, batting her eyelashes. “Came for the cake and compliments.”
“You didn’t know I had cake.”
“Lucky guess.” She shakes my leg. “Come on, Rowan, relax. Stop being so stiff.”
Keep touching my leg like that, and the “stiffness” won’t go away.
“Be real, Bonnie,” I say. “Why are you here?”
Her smile fades and she leans back, removing her hand from my leg.
“Honestly?” I nod. “I wanted to see you. Make sure you were okay. Talk to you.” She shrugs. “Spend an evening with you without alcohol. I got the impression that you might be hurting in one way or another, and I thought it would be nice to talk to someone who might truly understand what I’m going through as well.”
When she lifts her eyes to mine, I immediately see vulnerability. She might love to joke and tease, but behind that facade is a broken heart, a damaged spirit, and that’s what makes her real.
I nod toward her feet. “Take your shoes off and get comfortable.”
She takes her shoes off and shoots me a beaming smile that hits me in the gut. This might have been a bad idea. That single smile tells me that this girl very well might own me by the end of the night.
“Favorite thing about Corsekelly?” Bonnie asks, curled up on my sofa. She looks good in my house—comfortable, relaxed.
“I like that it’s tucked away in the Highlands. Makes me feel like we have our own little clan here.”
“I can feel that. I grew up in a smallish town—well, small for California—but it didn’t have the same kind of feel that Corsekelly has. Just feels magical here.”
“We get that a lot.”
A smile crosses her face. “Ever have a one-night stand with a tourist?”
I roll my eyes. “What do you think?”
“Easily.”
I just lift my brow and look away.
“Oooh, there are some stories there. Listen, I’m all for getting it when you can. No judgment here.” She holds up her hands.
“What about you?” I ask. “Doesn’t Los Angeles have a bunch of tourists?”
“Not the kind of tourists I’m sure you get here. A lot of families go on vacation to LA, strutting down the Walk of Fame and taking pictures with their favorite actors’ and actresses’ handprints. I’ve never found a tourist who was single and looking for a good time. But have I had the odd one-night stand? Yes. Sadly disappointing the three times it happened.”
“Shame,” I say, sipping from my mug.
“Tell me about it.” She groans. “Ugh, it’s been so long since I’ve copulated. I’ve almost lost count at this point. What about you? When was the last time you had sex?”
Not quite what I had in mind for conversation topics.
“Uh, not sure. Not recently.”
“Look at you, not counting the days. Good for you.” She gives me an approving nod.
“Well, in a small town like Corsekelly, not many opportunities present themselves.”
“Understandable.” She taps her chin. “Have you ever taken a picture with your boaby on the Boaby Stone?”
“No.”
“Have you set your naked boaby on the Boaby Stone?”
“No.”
“Why not? Ladies put their breasts on it and take pictures.”
“Because there are crazy fans out there who will lick the Boaby Stone. Not exactly hygienic. And I don’t even have a TV—never seen the show.”
“Why don’t you have a TV?”
“Never wanted one. I like to read, listen to podcasts, do puzzles.”
“Oh my God, you’re a cute old man.”
“I’m not old.”
She leans over and touches my temple. “There are a few gray hairs in here.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“Is that so?” She gives me a slow once-over. “Eight years my senior and in impeccable shape—must be all those runs with the hairy coos.”
“And the ability to pace myself with cake,” I say with a pointed look.
She whips out her index finger. “Don’t you dare cake shame me! I enjoyed every last bite of that cake, and if you weren’t sitting in front of me, being the cake guard, I would have helped myself to more already. So I’ve been showing some restraint, if you must know.”
“Shocking,” I tease, which only makes her grin. “What’s your favorite thing about Corsekelly?” I ask her this time, playing along with her little game.
“Besides the bakeshop, I truly do enjoy the people here. I like how everyone is so nice and welcoming and willing to help. They knew we were coming, and instead of pointing and saying, ‘There are the Americans,’ they welcomed us into their little world.”
“Scots get a bad reputation about attitude. We’re usually portrayed in the media as angry brutes, shouting constantly, but in reality we’re quite passionate, but kind, human beings.”
“I could see that. It’s clear in the way Dakota and I have been welcomed.” She picks up her mug, takes a sip, and then sets it back down. “What’s the juiciest gossip you’ve heard since we arrived?”
“Juiciest?” I ask, rubbing my jaw. “Probably that you were caught coming out of the pub bathroom with Lachlan.”
“What?” Her eyes widen. “Who’s been saying that?”
“Everyone.” I chuckle.
“Everyone? Who’s everyone? That . . . that’s—” She eyes me. “Are you lying?”
“Aye.” I laugh some more.
“Not funny, Rowan.”
“I thought it was.”
“Think you can make one of these for me?” Bonnie asks, finishing off her second serving of cake.
“Not sure you’re worth it just yet.”
“Oh, I’m worth it.” She winks. “I know how to thank people quite kindly.”
“Keep saying things like that, and the Lachlan story could very well be true.”
“Please, if I walked out of the pub bathroom with anyone, it would be Leith. He actually hit on me before I came over here.”
“Not surprised.”
She nudges me with her foot. “Aren’t you going to act all jealous and rage-y and demand an apology on my behalf?”
“Why? You’re not mine to claim.”
“Not yet.” She winks again.
Hell, that wink was full of promises.
Promises I hope she intends to keep.
“Move your hand—you’re doing that on purpose.” She swats at my hand, which is holding the pen. We’re sitting side by side on the sofa, and with every second that passes, she somehow inches closer.
“Stop distracting me.”
“You’re distracting me with your hand.”
“Found it,” I call out, circling the word flannel in the word search we’re working on together.
“Damn it!” Bonnie slaps the sofa. “You have a distinct advantage because you’re holding the book and the pen.”
“Fine, here.” I hand her everything and then rest my arm over the back of the sofa, scooting in close to her and taking in her sweet scent, a mix of floral and vanilla. “Next word.”
She snuggles in close. “‘Loch Ness Monster’—go.”
“Found it,” I say, seconds later, and point to it.
“What? You’re cheating.”
“Or I’m really good.”
She shakes her head. “No way, you’re cheating.”
Maybe I saw it earlier, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“I’m not hurting you, am I?” Bonnie asks as she leans into me, her feet tucked up under her. My arm is still on the back of the sofa, but now I’m playing with the long strands of her hair.
“No.” In reality, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this comfortable. This content. Outside, rain pelts the ground, and my cottage fills with that fresh rain smell I always look forward to as thunder and lightning crash through the sky. And for once, the storm doesn’t unsettle me. Instead, as I gaze at Bonnie, I decide it provides the perfect soundtrack for the end of our evening.
I have no idea when Bonnie plans on leaving, but I’m not going to force her out, even though it’s past ten and sleep starts to knock at me with yawn after yawn. I’m not ending this night—she’s going to have to call it.
When I sat down to read my book earlier, I never expected the evening to end up like this: Bonnie leaning against me, talking quietly while we play game after game of word search and lose ourselves in conversation . . . and don’t forget those two servings of cake and coffee.
“You’re warm,” she says, nuzzling her head against my chest, her voice soft, almost sleepy. “You’re so comfortable. And you smell good.”
Not sure what to say, I stay quiet and twirl a long blonde strand around my finger.
“Can I ask you something that might make you mad?”
“Sure,” I say, feeling so relaxed that I actually mean it. Maybe that was her intention all along. Either way, she can ask me anything at this point.
“Someone told me you had a brother.”
Hell.
Maybe not everything.
I blow out a long breath and lean back, slouching so my head is tilted up against the cushion and my gaze is fixed on the ceiling.
“I did,” I answer honestly.
“What happened to him?”
I swallow hard. “Passed away from a head injury.” Bonnie turns and faces me, her hand falling on my chest, her eyes intent on my face. “Callum was twenty. I was twenty-two. We were hiking with Leith and Lachlan, all of us drunk and being eejits. We got caught up in a rainstorm and didn’t think much of it until Callum slipped in a pile of mud and slammed his head against a rock. He was unresponsive.” Bonnie’s hand slowly rubs over my chest, easing the tension that’s building over my heart. “Somehow we got him down the mountain and called an ambulance. We shouldn’t have moved him, but we didn’t want to leave him up there in the rain either. His brain swelled, and there was no recovering after that.”
“Oh my God,” Bonnie says. “The hike up to the castle, your anger . . . it was because of Callum.”
“Aye. I swore I’d never stop hiking, because it was one of his favorite things to do, but I use loads of caution now. The rucksack I was carrying when we went to the castle was full of first aid supplies, and I keep track of the weather pretty constantly.”
“I’m so sorry. I wish I had known. I feel terrible that I put you in that position.”
“It’s not something you need to worry about.” I push my hand through her hair, a sense of understanding passing through us. “But he was the reason I was harsh with you—probably why I’m harsh with everybody.”
“You haven’t gotten over his death.”
“Does anyone ever get over losing someone they love?”
“No, I suppose not,” she answers softly.
Gently, she rests her cheek on my bare chest and wraps her arm around my waist, pressing tight against my body, almost as if she’s trying to fuse us together. I welcome it—the warmth, the comfort.
Hell, when was the last time I actually felt another person try to comfort me like this? I honestly can’t recall . . . maybe never.
“Was that the change you were talking about in the coffee shop? Why you never left town?”
“How did I know you were going to ask that?”
She lifts up. “I’m sorry if I’m being nosy.”
“You are. But it’s okay.” I yawn, covering my mouth. “Maybe we save it for another day.”
Understanding softens her eyes as she sits up and looks over at the clock on the oven. “Jeez, I didn’t realize how late it was. I’m sorry. I should head home.” A loud crack of thunder rattles the cottage, and she winces. “Or, you know, this couch is pretty comfortable.”
Chuckling, I stand as I bring her to her feet, and we link our hands together for a brief moment. I give her a squeeze, pulling a small smile from her lips right before I move around the cottage, taking care of the dishes and locking up. I lead her to my bedroom, which is off the back, and then rummage through my dresser for a shirt.
“To sleep in,” I say, handing it to her. “There’s toothpaste and an extra toothbrush in the cabinet in the bathroom.”
“Okay. Thank you. Let me text Dakota to let her know I’m staying so she doesn’t worry. I’ll probably just need a blanket and a pillow for the couch.”
I walk up to her and pinch her chin with my forefinger and thumb. “You’re sleeping in my bed tonight . . . with me.”
Her mouth drops open, forming a bonny little O. I take off to the bathroom, where I get ready quickly, mentally preparing myself for a long night of yearning and no touching.