CHAPTER SEVEN
BONNIE
Cake consumed today: None, but that’s about to change.
Days since last male-induced orgasm: Seventy-three? Seventy-four? It’s getting up there.
Hangovers: One massive head-cracking hangover.
Annoying Scottish men who treat women like potato sacks: One, but God does he smell good. Like a really sexy pheromone-filled kilt.
I don’t know what they put in their beer over here, but golly is it strong. Did I poke an ass last night?
“You’re walking too fast, and my retinas are bleeding.” I shield the sun from my eyes as Dakota drags me along the stone-paved street, away from the coffee shop. “I demand to know where you’re taking me.” Instead of answering, Dakota comes to an abrupt stop before a teal door.
I blink at the door, struggling to truly see anything in this godforsaken sunlight—I thought Scotland was all rain and clouds; bunch of turd wash that is—before Dakota opens it and pushes me inside. I stumble into the sweetest-smelling room I’ve ever been in.
Two bakery cases rest next to the intricately carved counter—a Murdach clan crest shaved into the middle. On the other side of the beautifully wood-paneled space is a high bar attached to the wall with accompanying seats for those who want to eat in the bakery. There isn’t much decor, but there doesn’t need to be, given the wood-stained corbels in the corners and the wood-slatted ceilings.
Adorable.
“Hey, ladies.” I look up to find Isla walking toward us, an apron around her waist and a towel in her hands. “How are you feeling?”
Isla is adorable too. Really freaking adorable. Vibrant red hair brushes her shoulders, and she has these steely eyes that she barely highlights with a touch of mascara. A light splattering of freckles decorates her nose, and the smallest of nose rings glimmers in the light.
When she walked up last night and Rowan introduced us, I gauged Dakota’s reaction—blushing cheeks and light smirk—and I knew my best friend was a little smitten.
I don’t blame her. Isla is a bombshell with a sweet accent. Every word that comes out of her mouth is like a melody.
And, most importantly, she owns a bakery, which means . . .
“Caaaaake,” I groan like a woman looking for water in a desert.
Isla chuckles. “That good, huh?”
Dakota places her hand on my back. “We need a little pick-me-up for this girl before we head over to the coffee shop.”
Why the bakery is open before the coffee house, I have no idea, but right now this is working in my favor.
“I think I can help you out with that.” She works her way behind the counter near the bakery cases. “You’re looking for cake? Or breakfast.”
“Both,” Dakota answers as I slink over to the food display. One side is full of what look like Hot Pockets, and the other contains a plethora of pastries and yumminess. I float over to that side.
“Well, we have some breakfast pies. All have egg in them, and then we add different things like spinach, bacon, haggis.”
I hold my hand up. “No haggis, please . . . no haggis.”
Isla chuckles. “Aye, it’s an acquired taste.”
“What’s that cake?” I ask, pointing to a round loaf with almonds decorating the top.
“That’s Dundee cake. A Scottish specialty. I actually won second place at the Highland Games for mine. It was the first time they had a Dundee cake competition—it’s usually just shortbread, which I placed third in.”
“Wow, that’s incredible,” Dakota says. “If that’s the case, we’re going to have to try both.”
“Not so fast,” I say and raise a brow at Isla. “What’s in the Dundee cake?”
She smiles. “It’s a much tastier version of America’s fruitcake. But this is made with currants, sultanas—which are white grapes—and almonds.”
I tap my chin. “Yeah, I feel like I would like that. Wrap it up.”
“And the shortbread?”
Dakota nods. “And two breakfast pies, egg and spinach. We need protein too.”
“I need cake first. I swear the withdrawal is real.”
As she packs up everything, Isla asks, “Did you have fun last night?”
Dakota leans against the counter, taking over the conversation, and if I weren’t so hungover I would make it hard on her, tease her like any other good friend, but I give the girl a break. Also, it’s nice to see her stepping out of her comfort zone.
“We did. The music added to the whole mood.”
“You should have danced.”
“I didn’t have enough drinks in me to get out on the dance floor.”
“Hasn’t stopped you before,” I mumble. Dakota shoots me a look, and I slump against the counter. Be nice, I silently chastise myself. She has the money to buy the cake.
“Maybe another night, then,” Isla says as Dakota hands her a credit card. “Nay, we’ll open a tab for you.”
“Ohh, a tab, I like the sound of that,” I say, perking up while Isla hands Dakota a paper bag full of our treats.
“Do not let Bonnie add anything to the tab or start her own,” Dakota says, looking Isla directly in the eyes. “Do you understand? If given access to such a privilege, she will run us into the ground. Her obsession with cake is borderline lunacy.”
“Ha, as if you don’t have the same problem.” I point my thumb toward Dakota. “Loves cake . . . but obsessed with muffins.” I wink, and Dakota knocks me in the stomach with her elbow.
Okay, I deserved that.
Isla smiles playfully and winks. “Pretty obsessed with muffins myself.”
And oh my God, the way Isla stares my friend down . . . I swear on the Dundee cake, a wave of butterflies erupts in my stomach.
Dakota’s cheeks redden, and she fumbles with the bag as she walks backward to the door. “Yeah, muffins . . . ahem,” she says, clearing her throat, and be still my heart she’s so nervous. “Muffins are good.”
“Especially when licked, right?” I say, because why not, at this point? Already in the doghouse.
“Especially,” Isla says, laughing as she starts wiping down the counter. “Have a good day, lasses.”
“You too, Isla.” I give her a wave and take Dakota by the arm, ushering her out the door and onto the street.
She’s silent as we make our way to the coffee shop, but the minute we’re inside and the door is shut, she pounces on me.
“What the hell was that back there?”
“What was what?” I snag the bag from her and set it on one of the shop’s two tables as I sit down in one of the matching chairs. Not even bothering with any kind of finesse, I dive into the bag and pull out the Dundee cake. I tear off a piece and stuff it in my mouth. “Holy Highlands, that is delicious.” Almond flavoring washes over my tongue, followed by hints of orange and sweet raisin. “Want a piece?” I hold up the round cake to her, but she just stares me down.
“Bonnie, that was humiliating back there. Licking muffins? Could you be any more obvious?”
“I could have said licking vaginas, but I kept it classy.” I take another bite as I melt into my seat. I think I’ll be having a love affair with Dundee cake while I’m here.
“That was not classy.” She presses her hand to her forehead and starts pacing. “God, what she must think of me.”
“She’s probably thinking, ‘When can I take the stiff blonde out on a date?’”
“She was not thinking that.”
“Uh, she totally is. From the way she was eyeing you last night and the playful banter this morning, oh yes, ma’am, she’s definitely wondering when she can ask you out.”
Dakota pauses and sets her hands on her hips. “You really think so?” The smallest of smirks plays on her lips. And God, I’ve missed that mischievous smile, the one that shows just how excited she is despite her best efforts to hide it. I haven’t seen it in a while, not since Isabella broke her heart.
“Yup. Only a matter of time before she comes over here and asks out my beautiful best friend.” I hold out a piece of the Dundee cake, and this time she takes it. “Honestly, Isla is a hot piece of Scottish ass.”
Dakota’s cheeks redden, and she sits down next to me. “She’s really pretty, isn’t she?”
“Totally. Her freckles are cute.”
“I really like her freckles,” Dakota says with excitement. “And her voice.”
“Oh, look at you—you’re so smitten.”
“Not smitten, just . . .” She shrugs, and I push her shoulder.
“You’re smitten, and I like it. This is a good thing.”
“What if she does ask me out?”
“Uh, you say yes and go out with her. Are you kidding me, Dakota? You need this. Even if it’s a vacation fling. You’ve put yourself in this nondating box ever since Isabella broke up with you, but now it’s time to get out and open up to new possibilities. This is important, the first date after the breakup. If anything, it gets you back in the game, and that’s what I want to see—my girl happy.”
“Yeah, I know.” She sighs and takes a bite of the cake. “She really is pretty.”
“Total smoke show,” I say, dropping crumbs into my mouth as I tilt my head back.
“You know I’m going to make your life a living hell whenever Rowan is around, though, after that whole bakeshop scene.”
“What? Why? The circumstances are completely different.” I stand up from the table, walk over to the two coffee thermoses, and start making coffee. How this place is still open with only two options, I have no idea. “I don’t like Rowan, but you like Isla.”
“Oh, please,” Dakota scoffs. “You can’t tell me you don’t find him attractive.”
“I mean, yeah, is he all brawny and beautiful to look at? Sure. But that only takes you so far. You need a connection, and the only thing connecting us is stubbornness.”
“Mark my words, I think you two are going to hook up . . . multiple times before we leave Scotland.”
“Ha! Never. Not interested. Plus, I’m not here to hook up—I’m here to find my passion.”
“Maybe your passion is Kilty McGrumpyshire, and you don’t even know it.”
Doubtful.
“Is that the third tour bus that’s come into Corsekelly today?” I ask, standing from my chair. I walk over to the propped-open door and stare down the tourists, who don’t even look our way. “Why aren’t they coming in to get some coffee? Are they really just here for the Penis Stone?”
“It is odd that we haven’t seen one person today besides a few locals,” Dakota says, furrowing her brow. “Just like yesterday. Makes me feel uneasy. The sign blatantly says COFFEE. It’s been a drizzly day—why don’t they want anything to warm up with?”
“Exactly what I’m saying.” I toss my hands up in the air and head back into the shop, where I sit at one of the uneven tables. “I don’t think I can take six months of this boredom. At least you’re getting work done. I’m just sitting here on my ass taking career assessment quizzes that have turned out to be more depressing than anything.”
“What are they saying?” Dakota asks, shutting her computer.
“That I have great organizational skills and should be an assistant.”
“Oof, that’s harsh.”
“Tell me about it. Last thing I wanted to hear today.” Groaning, I slouch in the chair and glance around the bleak space. “Finella is a nice lady and all, but could she add some charm to this place? Anything to liven up these serial killer–white walls. Look at these tables: it’s like they were constructed by someone just learning to use a hammer. And the floors, I mean—”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”
“Mother of Jesus!” I scream, clutching my heart, my eyes snapping to the open door. I gasp. A goat stands on the threshold. What the ever-loving—
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” it screams again, startling me right out of my chair and onto the floor with a thump.
“Satan’s beast,” I say, scrambling to my feet and holding one of the dilapidated chairs in front of me. “Why does it sound like a human?” I brandish the chair in the goat’s direction. “Back, you. Back. Hee-ah, hee-ah.”
But the goat doesn’t move. It just screams again, this time with a bit of a moan to it, and I’ll be honest—the sound makes me 90 percent scared for my life and 10 percent horny.
It steps into the shop, and I back up against the wall, chair out in front of me, ready for any sudden movements.
“Dakota, do something. It clearly wants to communicate with us.”
Dakota is up on the counter, arms wrapped around her tucked-in legs. “What do you want me to do?”
“Talk to him, see what he’s come for.”
“Do you think I developed magical goat-speaking powers overnight?”
“Maybe,” I say, clucking at him now, but he just steps deeper into the shop. “Oh God, he’s going to make this a thing. Scaring the Americans with his screeches. I can sense it.”
“I wonder if this is Fergus,” Dakota says.
“Who’s Fergus?”
“The town goat. Centuries ago, during one of the Scottish uprisings, Corsekelly was about to be attacked when a goat came screaming into town, waking everyone up. They were able to escape before they were killed and then rebuild Corsekelly after the enemies burned down their homes. Fergus is a direct descendent of that hero goat. Didn’t you see the goat statue out in the town square?”
“No, I was trying to drive on the wrong side of the road when we arrived. Wasn’t really sightseeing.” I slowly start inching closer to Dakota, keeping the chair held up as a barrier. “So you’re telling me this goat is idolized by the town?”
“Given that a lot of the businesses are named after a goat, I would say yes.”
“Which means we need to handle this extraction delicately. Got it. Well, I volunteer you. Animals like you more; they can sense your ability to connect with them.”
“Since when?”
“Since that goldfish at the pet store followed your finger.”
“It was trying to eat my finger.”
“Doesn’t matter, the goldfish thought you were good enough to eat. So go ahead; don’t be nervous. I’m sure—”
“Fergus, old lad, there you are,” Lachlan says, striding into the coffee house, followed closely by Leith. Shirtless and wearing matching kilts, they both give him a pat and then take in the horrified looks on our faces. “Awright, lasses. Everything okay?”
“They seem to be scared of Fergus,” Leith says, stroking the now-silent goat on the back of the neck.
“Scared of a wee goat?”
Carefully I set the chair down, not wanting to provoke the beast. “He startled us with his boisterous hello.”
Lachlan and Leith both laugh, and I shamelessly watch as their thick pecs and defined abs bounce up and down. The Murdachs have good genes, that’s for damn sure.
“Aye, he sure knows how to announce himself,” Leith says, patting Fergus on the back. “But he comes from an impeccable lineage that saved this very town. We would be lost without him. Back in 2001, his father’s life was threatened by the outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease, but it didn’t spread to the Highlands, thankfully. We were nervous, though—it wreaked havoc on England’s agriculture.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” I say as Dakota hops off the counter.
“Want some coffee?” she asks, acting as if she wasn’t just terrorized by a farm animal.
Leith holds up his hand. “We’re about to go do a training video for our followers. But thank you. We were just stopping by to grab Fergus—he’s a celebrity on our videos—and to see if you lasses wanted to go on a hike with us on Sunday. Picnic up at Corsekelly Castle, like I mentioned in the pub.”
“Training video?” I ask.
“Aye, personal training. The Training Kilts,” Lachlan says. “If you ever see us hopping around town carrying logs and acting like fools, it’s for a training video. We sell training packages with accompanying kilts—and we’re building quite the fan base. Which reminds me, Dakota, would we be able to pick your brain about some new graphics for our website?”
“Of course. Anytime. We’re, uh, not very busy here.”
“The coffee shop is never too busy. Shame,” Leith sighs. “Stuart put his heart into this store.”
“Was it different before Stuart left?” I ask, surprised.
“Aye. Stuart used to sell these delicious butteries with homemade jam. He would sell out by noon. That’s all it was—simple coffee, butteries, and his classic storytelling. Word got round, and tour buses would clear him out. He built quite the happy life. Then he retired, and Finella couldn’t keep up. I’m glad they’re on holibags. They need it.”
“Butteries? What are those?” I ask.
“Ehm, like a flattened croissant,” Leith answers. “Traditional butteries are hard to come by. They’re supposed to be made with butter and lard, but the mass producers started using palm oil, and they’re just not the same.”
“They sound good.”
“They look like hell. Lot of Scots call them the ‘roadkill pastry,’ because they look like they’ve been run over by a car, but have one toasted with some jeely, and I’ll tell ya, you’re in heaven.”
“I’m sad he doesn’t make them anymore.”
Leith sighs and gives the coffee house another look. “Remember when this place used to be full? Maybe when Finella gets back, she’ll have a renewed spirit.”
“Hopefully,” Lachlan agrees and then claps his hands together—prompting Fergus to scream again. The boys laugh, while Dakota and I clutch our hearts. “So, Sunday . . . are you lasses up for a hike?”
I glance at Dakota, who smiles and shrugs. “Sure,” I say. “We really don’t have any plans. Should we bring something?”
“Isla is packing the food. Just bring some water for yourself. Meet you at half ten at the bakeshop.” Lachlan gives us a wave, and then both boys take off.
Once they’re out of earshot, I turn to Dakota and give her a playful grin. “Hear that? Isla is packing us food. Maybe she’ll let you taste her muffin.”
“Grow up.” Dakota chucks a rolled-up napkin at me.
“What on earth are you doing?” Dakota says as she shuts the door to the cottage.
“Damn you, dough!” I scream. I flop back on the kitchen floor and sit cross-legged, my hands extended so I don’t get any of the butter-lard mixture that’s caked on my hands anywhere.
“Uh . . . what is happening?”
“I’m trying to make butteries,” I say, just about ready to throw a fit.
“Is that why you wanted to leave the shop early?”
“Yes,” I answer, exasperated. “I found a simple recipe online, went to the Mill Market, where Shona helped me collect the ingredients, and then I came back here, confident that you’d be coming home to fresh, warm butteries.” I toss my arm toward the pile of melting dough on the counter. “But that is my third attempt, and I honestly think I might throw it down the well.”
“Why are you trying to make butteries?”
“I don’t know. The way Lachlan and Leith were talking about them, I thought it would be fun to get domestic, you know? I make boxed cake all the time; why not try something new?”
“Bonnie.” She walks over and squats down so we’re eye to eye. “You know I love you, but boxed cake is completely different from a homemade pastry.”
“Uh, I do two-tiered boxed cakes. That’s special and challenging.”
“Yes, but it also only requires you to measure correctly and stir. It doesn’t call for yeast and whatever goop is all over your hands.”
I glance down. “It has been slightly more difficult.”
“I can tell.” She sweetly rubs her hand over my shoulder. “It’s so nice that you were trying something new, though.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s something new.” I start to perk up. “Hey, look at me stepping out of my comfort zone.”
“I’m very proud of you.”
I rise to my feet and stare at the mess on the counter.
“You know, I think I’m going to make this my mission. I’m going to master the buttery while I’m here. And I’m going to bring it back to America and open a buttery food truck, with homemade currant jam. And people from all over the country are going to come to my food truck and ask me to butter their buttery, and then movie sets will catch wind of my butteries and hire my truck to come feed their team, and when the assholes who fired me come to the truck, I’ll tell them I just ran out and that maybe if they hadn’t been so rude to me, I would be able to find some extras in the back for them.”
“Wow, spent some time thinking about this?” Dakota chuckles.
“No, it all just flashed in front of me.”
“You’re ridiculous, but I love you.”
I go to my dough on the counter and poke it. “It just keeps melting and I don’t know why, but I’m going to figure it out. Who knows, maybe I can bring some to the picnic this Sunday. Surprise everyone.”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling renewed. I can do this. I’ve got to channel my inner baking skills.
This time Sunday, I’m going to have quite the surprise for our new friends.
“How’s it coming?” Dakota asks, stepping out of her room, empty bowl in hand.
“Butteries can go to hell.”
“That well, huh?”
“No wonder the Scots call them the ‘roadkill pastry’—that’s where they belong, next to all the other lonely carcasses. I’m a failure.”
I stare down at my creation. Flat as a pancake, with butter oozing out the sides, it is very displeasing to the eyes.
“Don’t give up, Bonnie. I know you can do this.”
“Your enthusiasm is only irritating me.”
“Fine. You suck at life.”
I look up at my best friend, my brow furrowed. “Hey, now, that was just mean.”
“Tough love, baby.”
“Oh my God, Bonnie, is the cottage burning down?” Dakota says as she flies through the front door, still holding her keys from closing up the coffee shop. She waves a hand in front of her face, clearing out the smoke.
“No,” I groan, feeling defeated as I sit on the floor with my back against the fridge, an oven mitt on one hand. “Just the butteries going up in flames.”
She coughs and picks up a book, then tries to wave the smoke out of the cottage with it. “What happened?”
“I think too much lard. Something dripped and burned in the oven, and now it’s smoking me out. I think it’s a sign. Butter and lard don’t want me anywhere near them.”
“How did they come out?”
I stand and bring the baking sheet over to her. Congealed into one giant liquid mess, the “butteries” are once again melted and burned. They definitely look like roadkill, but not in the charming way I’m sure Lachlan and Leith meant.
“Huh . . . well, those don’t look appetizing.”
“Thank you for pointing out the obvious.”
“Keep trying.” She gives my shoulder a pat. “Make butteries your bitch.”
Hmm . . .
“Think they’d respond to some good old-fashioned tying up and whipping? Haven’t tried that yet.”
“You never know until you try,” Dakota says on a laugh.
“I’m about to become their madam. Safe word . . . ‘boaby stone.’”