CHAPTER FIVE
BONNIE
Cake consumed: Zero, and I’m going through withdrawal.
New job: One—not what I want to do for life, but it will do for now.
Days since last male-induced orgasm: Seventy-two, but my dreams were pretty naughty last night.
Attractive but surly Scotsman: One, and he was unfortunately the star of my naughty dreams.
Tasks: One—make cake today.
“Is Scotland on the surface of the sun?” I lift my hands to my eyes. “Dakota, are we on the sun?” I shout.
“I have coffee,” she calls, her voice traveling upstairs to my bedroom, which feels more like a loft since there is no door and the ceiling is slanted on either side, barely giving me enough room to stand.
The prospect of caffeine gets me out of bed.
Last night, after Dakota got home from going over all the details of the coffee shop with Finella, I told her all about Rowan and his rudeness.
Was he cute? she asked.
Did he have big muscles?
Was he as strapping as Finella said he was?
Pfft, barely, I told her. Sure, if you’re into the rugged Scot type.
After Dakota filled me in on some details about our stay, we decided I would take the upstairs room. Dakota took the downstairs room. It has a little more space than mine, but that’s because she has to sleep on a twin bed, whereas I have a full.
There is no doubt my eyes are bloodshot right now from exhaustion. I didn’t sleep too well last night, even though I attempted to go to bed early—I only found myself tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable in a strange bed, in a strange cottage, in a strange country.
Might be feeling a hair homesick.
I shield my eyes as I trudge down the stairs and head to the coffeepot. “Why is it so freaking bright—?” I pause, my eyes landing on the time on the coffee maker. “What the hell? Is it really four fifteen in the morning?”
“Yup,” Dakota mumbles from one of the red couches.
“What kind of game is the sun trying to pull right now?” I fill up a cup and swirl some sugar around in it.
“Summer in Scotland means longer days. Didn’t you notice it was still light out when we went to sleep?”
“I just assumed we were going to bed early.”
“We went to bed at ten last night,” Dakota says, staring out the window.
“What?” I groan. “Good God, where the hell did you take me? Accents, sheep stomach, water buckets for toilets, and endless sun. I don’t think my body is ready for this.”
“It’ll get better, once we’re here for a bit. It’s just a bit of a culture shock at first.”
“A bit?” I ask, sitting on the sofa across from her. “A Scotsman saw me in my towel yesterday and was unfazed when I pushed him with a broom. There is something fishy about the people out here.”
“He’s probably thinking the same about Americans, since you tried to defend yourself with a broom.”
“That’s not being weird—that’s being innovative.” I sip my coffee. “What the hell are we supposed to do for six hours before we open the coffee shop?”
“Explore? Get some food?”
“Uh, earth to Dakota, nothing opens up around here until nine.”
“Oh yeah.” She scratches the side of her head. “Man, I forgot about that. Uh, we could go look at the Penis Stone.”
“Ah yes, six a.m. adventures to go look at a penis stone—that’s exactly what I want to do.”
“There’s food here—I saw some muffins in a cupboard. We can pack them up and go for a walk along the loch, have a picnic breakfast.”
The internet is shoddy at best, there’s no TV in the cottage, and our only mode of entertainment is a bookshelf full of romance novels that I plan on tackling while I’m here, but my eyes are too busted for reading at the moment.
So a picnic by the loch sounds like a plan.
“Okay, let me go change.”
“Yeah?” Dakota asks, looking surprised.
“Yeah.” I nod and stand, taking another sip of my coffee.
I head upstairs, where I unpack a pair of leggings and a long-sleeve shirt. I toss them on quickly before I put my long hair up into a messy bun—a look I’m sure I’ll adopt with the ever-changing weather. No use doing my hair if it’s just going to get rained on all the time. I slip on my workout shoes and then head downstairs, where Dakota is pouring our coffee into to-go cups.
“Did you pack the muffins?” I ask.
“Not yet. They’re in the cupboard above the fridge. I think there are some apples in the fridge too.”
“Perfect.” Dakota brought her hiking backpack, so we load it up and head out the door into the crisp morning air.
Calm greets us. The air doesn’t seem to shift, but it carries a fresh weight that seeps into my bones and wakes me faster than the coffee. Birdsong surrounds us as a light haze lifts off the ground and dewdrops cling to each blade of grass from last night’s rain.
Peaceful.
Serene.
Exactly what I need.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, feeling like if I talk any louder I might wake the entire town, though we’re tucked away in our little grove of trees.
“I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything like it,” Dakota whispers back. She reaches over, grabs my hand, and presses our palms together. “Thank you for coming with me, Bonnie.”
Turning toward her, I match her grateful smile and pull her into a hug. “Thank you for drunkenly applying to the job for both of us.”
She chuckles and pulls away. “From the look of it, we’re not going to have any problem with coffee.” We start down the gravel path as the sun peeks through the leaves, truly making this entire experience feel like a dream. “I did ask for help when it came to the currency here. Finella made a little chart for us so we understand the worth of each bill and coin.”
“Oh crap, I totally forgot about money. Does it seem hard?”
Dakota shakes her head. “Finella did a good job laying it all out. I can show you later.”
“They leave today?”
“Yeah,” Dakota says as we near town. “As we were saying goodbye yesterday, she said the shop was in our hands and she trusts us.”
“Well, that’s a good thing, I guess.” As we hit Corsekelly Lane, we both look left, then right. The stone dwellings are quiet, the street empty. A complete ghost town. Not a soul awake besides us. A stark contrast with LA, where time doesn’t seem to stand still but moves past you at light speed.
In front of us is Loch Duich, the sun glistening off miniscule ripples of water. Off in the distance are the pointy peaks of the Highlands, decorated in green and peppered with evergreens, the perfect view for a deathly-early morning.
“Want to go down to the bank over there?” Dakota asks, pointing. “We can sit on the rocks so our butts don’t get wet from the grass.”
“That’s a great idea. It’s so wet here—completely different from California. I’m going to have to remember that when walking around.”
We find two flat rocks that sit right at the water’s edge and take a seat. Dakota divvies out our breakfast, and together we watch the water rippling in the sun, lapping just below our feet.
We’re silent for a while, just enjoying our muffins and nature, until my mind starts to turn, reflecting on the last few years of my life.
I was never the best student, and it wasn’t from a lack of trying. I just didn’t . . . get it. I never truly excelled in any topic, and I settled with solid Cs my entire high school career, which didn’t translate over into college.
Higher academics weren’t looking for average.
They were looking for someone like Dakota. Perfect grades. President of the art club and the chess club—quite the brainiac. The girl took online college classes during high school, for crying out loud. And funnily enough, she quickly realized college was going to be a waste of her time once she found a niche in the social media marketing community. She’s paid well, constantly has work flowing in, has built a phenomenal portfolio, and continues to grow.
I was the one who wanted to go to college. My parents didn’t know that. They never knew about the applications, and I was sure to always grab the mail before them. I wanted it to be a surprise. To show them that even though they were constantly on me about getting my grades up, I could do things on my own and go to college, major in business, be my own event planner. But every time I picked up the mail, I was greeted with rejection after rejection.
With every pass, every apology letter from a university, it became blatantly clear that my parents were right—I couldn’t do it.
I had to get out of their house, away from their disappointed faces. Once again, I’d let them down.
Los Angeles held promise, but I was still just average. Never truly excelling.
“This isn’t how I expected things to go for us,” I say quietly.
“You mean bouncing off to Scotland out of the blue?”
I chuckle and shake my head. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that, but I also wasn’t expecting to be put in a situation where bouncing off to Scotland was really my only chance at repairing myself.” I sigh and lean back on one hand as I tilt my head up to the sky. “I’m twenty-four and don’t have much to show for it. I was so sure I knew what I wanted to do. Move to Los Angeles, make connections, get into the party-planning scene . . .” What a joke that was. Three-time personal assistant with nothing to show for it besides knowing where every Starbucks is in Hollywood. Pathetic. “At least you know you’re good at graphic design—you can easily do that wherever you go. But I don’t really know who I am.” Tears well up in my eyes. My throat grows tight as hopelessness overtakes me, a dark cloud ready to pour down.
“Your job doesn’t define you as a person, Bonnie.”
“But it gives you purpose. I haven’t felt purpose in a while, not since . . . hell, I don’t think I’ve ever felt purpose. I haven’t felt genuinely needed. Even with Harry, he never truly needed me. And I know I didn’t need him, but that breakup was painful because it was another blow to my self-esteem, another thing that made me wonder if maybe . . . maybe I’m not important enough.”
“Stop it,” Dakota says, reaching over and taking my hand. “You’re important to me. Ever since you helped me take down Tijuana and Theresa on the handball court.” I snort. “I’m serious, though, Bonnie. You are very important. I need you. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know how I would have made it through my breakup with Isabella. And even before that, you were . . . you are my other half. We complete each other, and you might not feel important, but you are vastly important to me.”
And that does it to me. My tears spill over, and I let out a low sob. Dakota scoots closer as she wraps her arm around my shoulders and squeezes tight.
“Do you realize how valuable you are to me?” Dakota asks as I try to gain control of my emotions. “Like I said, I never would have made it through my breakup with Isabella without you. You have been my confidante, my rock, my laughter, my entertainment. I don’t just choose you as a best friend because you’ve been in my life for what seems like forever—I choose you because I rely on you, because I need you . . . I always have.”
And cue more tears.
Damn it, Dakota.
“You know I value our friendship, right?” I ask, wiping away my tears.
“I know.”
“It’s also gotten me through all the tough times, and I’m proud we’ve made it through all the ups and downs.”
“But . . . ?” Dakota says with a chuckle.
“It doesn’t feel like enough, and I don’t want that to sound mean—”
“I understand what you’re trying to say. You need more in your life. There’s purpose behind our friendship, but you want that individual purpose too. You want to feel like you’re accomplishing something.”
“Exactly. And I have no idea what that is. I thought moving to Los Angeles and working closely with celebrities would spark something within me, but looking back over those years, nothing grabbed me, nothing made me feel excited. And the personal-assistant jobs I had weren’t all mundane tasks—I did do some fun things, but those small moments never amounted to what I thought I wanted to do.”
“Event planning?” Dakota asks.
I nod. “Yeah, even thinking about it now . . . do I really want to throw parties? Or was I just good at attending them in high school?”
“You were the life of the party,” Dakota says with a smirk when I glance at her.
“And look where that got me.” I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my shins. “By now, people our age at least have a direction they want to take their life. I’m still lost.”
“Not true. They might have adult jobs and degrees, but a lot of people our age aren’t really doing what they want to do. They’re working to pay the bills. You have a unique opportunity to truly reflect and figure out who you want to become.”
“I don’t know where to start,” I say. “My self-worth is pretty low. I know I’ve tried to laugh everything off, make jokes about my situation, but after just a day here, I already see that our fast-paced life was a distraction. We’re surrounded by peace and beauty, and all it’s doing is bringing all my fears to the forefront of my mind. What if I truly never amount to anything? What if I never live up to my full potential?”
Dakota shifts on her rock while picking a piece of lint off her pants. She’s taking her time responding. Dakota is always thoughtful and insightful. She doesn’t spew nonsense, and when she has to be real with me, she is. There is no fluff in our friendship, just pure love for each other, and honesty.
“What would you define as a successful life? Does a job really matter that much to you? Is that how you think you’re going to find purpose?”
“It will give me something to strive for, something to challenge me.”
She slowly nods. “You know, sometimes I think we get caught up in the idea that our jobs make or break us as humans, when that’s not the case at all. A job is a means to make money and provide for yourself. I think it’s the relationships we cultivate, the energy we put out into the world, that define us. You could be a billionaire with all the riches in the world, but that wouldn’t mean your life was truly rich. I think we’re both lucky, because we have each other—a true friendship that has stood the test of time, especially through the teenager hormone years.” We both chuckle. “We’re an example of women lifting each other up, and to me, that’s powerful.”
“Yeah, it is,” I say, feeling a little lighter. “But why do I still feel like I’m missing something?”
“Because you are, and it will take some time to figure out what that is, but while you’re here, with all this beauty in your backyard, you should try to find that missing puzzle piece.”
“You’re right.” I sigh and again lean back on my hands, stretching my legs out. “Do you think this trip is going to change us?”
“Us, as in our friendship? Never. But us as in individuals? I hope so.”
She rests her head on my shoulder and I rest my head on hers, letting the birds fill the silence with their morning songs.
I truly hope Dakota is right.
“Aye, they’re dead,” a voice says as something stiff and hard pokes me in the shoulder.
“Should we call the police? Look for a medic?”
Poke.
Poke.
Poke.
“What are you doing?” I mumble, shifting, only to feel a million needles pierce my back.
Oh dear God, my ass is numb.
“Och, she’s alive,” someone calls out. “What about t’other one?”
The sun is blazing on me as I try to open my eyes. Lifting one hand in front of my face, I block out the intense rays and squint them open. Dakota is lying near me, her head resting on my lap.
“Dakota.” I sit up and give her a gentle shake.
“Hmm . . .”
“Wake up. We fell asleep on the rocks.”
“What?” She tries to open her eyes as well but must realize—like I did—that Scotland resides on the surface of the sun. “Oh God, why is it so bright?” She sits up and blinks at our surroundings.
I do the same.
Our backpack’s contents are strewn about the rocks, along with our bodies. Our thermoses of coffee have been tossed to the side, and our feet dangle above the lapping water, just begging to be dragged in.
“What time is it?”
“Half ten,” the voices above us answer.
“Half ten?” I ask, my mind mush. “What is that? Half of ten? So, five in the morning? Good God, it’s this bright out at five in the morning?”
“Nay. Half ten.”
I finally turn and spot two older-looking women standing over us. They both have red hair and matching concerned expressions. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what ‘half ten’ means.”
“The Americans,” one of the women scoffs.
“Aye, they are bonny, aren’t they?”
“Yes, that’s me, Bonnie—and you are?”
“Full of themselves too.” They chuckle together and reach out, giving us a helping hand. “I’m Innis, and I run the inn here. This is Shona—she owns the Mill Market.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, straightening up as much as I can, even though I can’t feel the entire back side of my body. “This is Dakota, and I’m Bonnie.”
“Oh, Bonnie is your name?” Innis asks. “Aye. Nice to meet you. Are ye Scottish?”
“One-sixteenth,” I say, puffing my chest. I watch Innis and Shona exchange a quick look of amusement.
“Well, then, the coffee shop is in good hands, even if you are tardy to open.”
“What?” Dakota and I say at the same time.
“It’s half ten,” Shona says. “We went to get a cup but noticed it was closed, and then we saw two lifeless bodies down here by the rocks and decided to investigate. We thought you were dead.”
“What does ‘half ten’ mean?” Dakota asks, looking panicked.
“Ten thirty.”
“Oh my God,” we both say. Quickly, we gather our things and take off toward the coffee shop, but not before thanking the ladies. They just laugh at us as we sprint up the gray brick road and straight to the coffee house, where . . .
Oh crap.
Standing tall, his arms crossed over a red-and-black-plaid shirt, is none other than Rowan MacGregor, as I’ve learned is his last name.
His eyes narrow and we run toward him, and I know I’m about to be met with a whole storm of grumpy.
“Taking it light on the job?” he asks.
I take a moment to catch my breath as he glowers down at me. “We were eating breakfast by the loch and fell asleep on the rocks.” I clutch my aching back. “It was an accident.”
“My parents trusted you to take care of their shop while they’re gone, and this is how you act on the first day?”
“We’re so sorry,” Dakota says, jogging to my side. “It was not our intention to slack. We’re just tired and jet-lagged, and the birdsong and lapping water were so peaceful, and we just couldn’t help ourselves.” There she goes, rambling. She gets that from me.
Rowan looks Dakota up and down, but it doesn’t feel like the same intense perusal he gave me yesterday while I wielded my broom.
“And you are?”
“Dakota.” She holds out her hand, but he doesn’t take it. Ugh, he’s so freaking rude. “You must be Rowan.”
“Aye. And you must be the responsible one.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, hands on my hips. “I’m responsible.”
His intimidating eyes flash toward me for a brief second before he focuses back on Dakota. “Me maw and da asked me to stop over at the shop today to make sure you two were all set with everything you need. To my surprise, you weren’t here.”
“Not on purpose. We would never disregard your parents like that,” I say.
His eyes remain trained on Dakota. “I don’t babysit. I told my parents I won’t be babysitting you two, but it looks like I might have to, judging by how day one is going.”
“No, you won’t,” Dakota says, using her best mom voice. “This is all an honest mistake. I promise, we will be better.”
“We don’t have to prove anything to him.” I fold my arms over my chest.
“Bonnie,” Dakota says, chastising me.
Rowan shifts in front of us, hands falling to his hips. Challenging.
“What? He’s being rude. It was an honest mistake. He doesn’t have to be so mean about it. I see his intimidation tactics. The way he towers over the ‘wee lasses,’” I say in my best Scottish accent. “I see right through you, Rowan.” I move two fingers between my eyes and his, but he doesn’t flinch, not even a blink. “I won’t stand here and let you attempt to intimidate us. No, sir.” I push past him, my shoulder brushing his, the stone of his arm sending my shoulder back as I continue forward. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some coffee to make. Come on, Dakota.”
From behind me, I hear Dakota say, “I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.”
I watch through the front window as Rowan angrily walks away. “You don’t have to suck up to him,” I say as Dakota steps inside and the door swings shut behind her.
“He’s Stuart and Finella’s son. I think it would be helpful if we were nice.”
“Why? He’s not being nice to us.”
“Because what if we need help with something? He’s the handyman, isn’t he?”
“We’ll be fine. What could possibly go wrong?”
Dakota strides behind the counter and starts scooping ground coffee into the coffee maker. “These are centuries-old buildings—pretty sure anything can go wrong, especially when you put words like that out into the universe. You’re just asking to be jinxed.”
“Please. We have all the luck on our side, remember? We’re going to go rub our faces on the Penis Stone. That’s all the luck we need.”
“Once again, it’s not the Blarney Stone. It’s where a man’s dick was chopped off.”
“In the name of women,” I declare, raising my fist. “Trust me, we are going to be completely fine.”
“Why do I let you talk?” Dakota asks, pressing her hand to her face as we stare at the kitchen faucet—which is turned on and completely dry.
“Are you alluding to me jinxing us?” I ask, hoping to the high heavens that I didn’t.
“I don’t know. You go and piss off the handyman, then after a long, boring day at the coffee shop, we come home to no running water when the water was just fine earlier today and yesterday.”
I gasp and spin toward Dakota. “Oh my God, do you think this is sabotage?” I start moving around the cottage, sniffing the air, running my fingers over the surfaces. “I can smell him. He was here.”
“You can’t possibly smell him.”
“I can,” I insist.
“Then what does he smell like?”
“A kilt,” I answer, not even thinking about it.
“You’ve never smelled a kilt in your entire life.”
“False,” I say, running my nose over the back of the couch . . . oof, musty. “Last fall, Bath and Body Works sold a candle called Scottish Kilt. That’s what Rowan smells like.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“Have I?” I ask. “Or have I cracked the code on this man?”
“You’ve lost it.” Sighing, Dakota grabs her phone and pulls up her contacts.
“I don’t think calling your dad is going to be helpful right now. Not sure he knows much about Scottish plumbing.”
“I’m not calling my dad.” She holds the phone up to her ear. “I’m calling Rowan.”
“You have his number?” When the hell did she get that?
“Finella gave it to me in case we needed anything,” Dakota says. Ahh, that makes sense.
Wait . . . she’s actually calling him.
“No, you can’t call him. That’s exactly what he wants you to do. We can figure this out on our own.” Hurrying to the bathroom, I grab the toilet-water bucket and charge out of the cottage to the well.
Now, to be honest, I’ve never seen a well in person, but I’ve seen them being used on many a TV show and movie, and when I say “many,” I’m pretty sure it’s only been Disney movies, but that’s beside the point. Those badass bitches knew exactly what they were doing when they were fetching water.
Squatting down beside the short stone well, I lean my head under the well’s little thatched roof and peer down the hole.
Pitch black.
“Hello?” I call down, just to check that there aren’t any trolls or gremlins lurking below. The Scottish are known for their fables and storytelling so, you know, just have to make sure. “Anyone home?” I ask, laughing to myself.
When there is no response, I take that as my cue to use the bucket.
“See, we don’t need him,” I mutter to myself. “We can just get our own water.” Not ideal, and yes, I swore I would need modern plumbing when we first pulled up to the cottage, but I’ve become one with Scotland today. Sleeping on the rocks by a loch—ha!—will do that to you.
I pull down the rope that’s attached to a pulley system and tie it securely around the handle of the bucket. I make sure to yank it a few times to test that it’s completely secure. Don’t need to lose our toilet-water bucket.
Once I feel it’s ready, I let the bucket dangle over the well before grabbing the pulley’s handle and turning it. The bucket lowers a few inches.
“Aha!” I yell, looking behind me to the cottage and spotting Dakota in the front window, phone still held up to her ear. “Look, Dakota, I’m fetching us water. Get a picture for the Gram.”
I turn the handle a little bit more and marvel at how smoothly it’s lowering the bucket. It’s as if I was born to fetch water.
“We’ll be taking baths in no time,” I call out, even though the thought of doing this multiple times to fill the tub isn’t at all appealing.
Ugh, and to think families used to share the bathwater. I can’t even begin to think of all the dead skin floating around.
Dakota and I are close . . . but we’re not that close.
“Just got off the pho—Bonnie, what the hell are you doing?” Dakota asks from behind me.
I pause my work and crane my neck around, flashing her a grin. “Did you not hear me? I’m fetching us water. We don’t need Kilty McGrumpyshire to come over here and save the day. We are survivalists—we can make it on our own.”
“Your form of survival is Uber Eats.”
“Takes a smart woman to know where to get the best food, still warm, and for a good price.” I tap the side of my head. “Call Kilty back and tell him we’re good.”
“I’m not calling him back—and why are you calling him that? You haven’t seen him in a kilt. You don’t even know if he owns one.”
“Okay, let’s not be naive,” I say, lowering the bucket even deeper. “He smells like a kilt, he’s grumpy, and . . . I don’t know, ‘shire’ has a nice ring to it. Kilty McGrumpy—huh.” I frown, sensing a shift in the rope. “I think I just hit something.”
“What do you mean you just—?”
An ear-piercing screech fills the air, and before I can look over the edge to assess what’s knocked my bucket, a mass of blackness comes barreling out of the well, straight toward me.
I fling myself back on the ground as what must be hundreds of bats pour out of the well like a tidal wave of God’s fury crashing down on us.
Now, there is only one way to describe the sound that flies out of my mouth as a bat’s wing clips me across the forehead: the war cry of a pig in heat as the farmer steals its trough right out from under its nose.
It’s feral.
It’s disturbing.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard fall past my lips.
And it isn’t just one scream.
It’s several.
“Ahhh! . . . snuff snuff . . . ahhhhhh bababa ahhhh snuff.”
Oink.
(Not really, but an oink wouldn’t surprise me at this point.)
“They’re eating me alive!” I cry out to Dakota, who is nowhere to be seen. “They want my brains; they’re begging for the sweet juices of my intelligence.” I swat at the air before trying to army crawl across the ground. This tactic fails miserably as bat after bat dive-bombs me. “I just wanted water. Don’t kill me for wanting to stay hydrated. Ahhhh!”
Still screaming, I cover my face with my hands, deciding that this is how I die. Then, to my horror, a giant bat scoops me up by the pants and lifts me off the ground.
“Don’t take me to your lair. Please, I’m not ready for Dracula. I have the devil’s blood—it’ll make you sick. Blood infused with garlic. So much garlic. Please spare me. Spare my life.”
“Shut the fuck up,” a deep Scottish voice demands.
I lift my hands from my eyes and look up to find Rowan carrying me to the house and then tossing me through the door, which he quickly slams behind him as he, too, enters. I scramble off the floor and to my feet. My blonde hair is a windblown—or bat-blown—mess, scattered across my forehead, whipping against my face and tangled into knots.
I stand up straight and lift my chin before I slowly push a chunk of hair out of my eyes. “I had it handled out there.”
Dakota is standing to the side, covering her mouth and chuckling so much that I can see her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.
She will hear about my displeasure at her reaction later. Right now, I have to deal with a Scot.
“No, you didn’t,” he retorts. “You sounded like a horse getting its leg chopped off.”
Huh . . . that would be another accurate way to describe the sounds coming from my mouth.
“Well, pardon me for expressing my discomfort as a million bats tried to bury themselves in my hair and take me to their master. Next time I’ll be sure to giggle and act more ladylike.”
“Wouldn’t hurt,” he says, and his reply makes me really, really want to kick him in the shin.
“Why are you so surly all the time? Got your kilt all twisted in your crack?”
He looks down at his jeans and back up at me. “I’m not wearing a kilt.”
“Metaphorically.”
“Aye, so would it be metaphorically the same if I asked whether or not your cowboy hat was screwed on a little too tight?”
“Not all Americans wear cowboy hats.”
“Which proves his point,” Dakota says from the side of her mouth. I glance at her with narrowed eyes—she seems to be having too much fun watching this interaction.
“That’s neither here nor there,” I say, straightening my shirt. “We don’t need your assistance. We are perfectly fine using the well water. Now, if you would please scurry—”
“That well has been dried up for years.”
Huffing, I fling my arm toward the well in frustration. “Then why have it there? Collecting bats? For unsuspecting people who think they’re providing a service by fetching water?”
“It’s decorative. Maw says it adds charm for tourists like yourself.”
Well, Finella is correct about that. Definitely completes the look of the thatch-roofed, fairy-tale cottage in the woods.
But in terms of convenience, it’s quite confusing.
“It’s also written in the guest book, if you read it.” He nods toward a binder on the coffee table.
“I fell asleep on jagged rocks in the middle of a strange town this morning,” I say, cocking my hand on my hip. “Do you really think I have the stamina to power through a house manual?”
“It’d be the responsible thing to do, but och, you’re not the responsible one, now, are ya?”
I turn to Dakota and jab a finger toward Rowan. “I told you he was rude. Rude and grumpy and mean and . . . smells like a kilt. Seriously, go smell him.”
“What does a kilt smell like, per se?” he asks, arms still crossed over his barrel of a chest.
“Like a freaking Bath and Body Works candle. Honestly, who are you people?” Walking toward the sitting area, I throw my hands up to the sky and then fling my body onto the couch, where I sit petulantly.
“Uh, she’s tired and needs a bath,” Dakota says, stepping up as the peacemaker. “We’d be grateful if you could check out the water for us.”
“Aye,” Rowan says. I can feel his gaze on me, but I don’t give him the time of day. No, sir, you can stare all you want. I’ll keep my eyes trained on this tiny piece of black lint that has fallen on my pants. I pick at it and roll it between my fingers.
The lint here is hard.
There are so many little differences between Scotland and the US. I’m sure that’s what it will be like for the next six months: discovering all these delightful cultural differences.
“You’re rolling bat poo between your fingers,” Rowan says as he walks toward the door.
“What?” I squeal, tossing it to the ground.
“Aye, it’s all over your clothes. I’d change if I were you.”
“Oh my God!” I yell as I scurry up the stairs to my bedroom.