Fucking terrified.

  It was a storm, just like this. Years ago. Came out of nowhere and changed everything.

  But she doesn’t need to know that.

  I shake my head. “Nay. The storm will pass.” And that’s something I have to keep reminding myself. It will pass.

  “Will it be harder to get down the hill?”

  “Aye. Much harder,” I say through a clenched jaw.

  “So do you offer piggyback rides?”

  I raise a brow. “No.”

  “Ugh, what kind of burly, strapping young lad are you?”

  “Not the kind that carries stubborn, eejit tourists down the side of a hill.”

  “What if I injured myself?”

  “You didn’t, but if you did, I’d drag you down—the mud will be slippery enough.”

  She huffs against me and rests her cheek on my chest. “You’re infuriating.”

  “Get used to it.”

  She sighs and then hugs me a little tighter, her arms still shaking, her body still trembling. I squeeze her a little tighter, and even though it’s technically her fault we are still up here, I move my hand up and down her back, trying to soothe the shivers out of her.

  Keep my hands busy. Keep my mind from wandering.

  Briefly, she glances up and gives me a soft smile before then returning her cheek to my chest and gripping me even tighter.

  I want to believe that we’re standing like this to avoid the rain and lightning. I want to believe this position is just self-preservation.

  But with every stroke down her back, I feel her melt farther and farther against me. And the scary thing of it all is that I like it.

  I really fucking like it.

  And she’s helping me forget . . .

  The sun glitters through the wet leaves above us as we make our way to the bottom of the footpath.

  “Watch it,” I say as she slips down a steep, muddy patch on the edge of the hill. I quickly grab her hand and steady her for the final few feet.

  “Thank you,” she says as we step off the path and onto the gravel car park, which sits on the edge of town.

  We’re both drenched. Head to toe. Mud sloshes in our shoes from falling multiple times down the hill, and our hair is slicked down. Bonnie’s falls over her eyes occasionally. Every time she’s pushed it away, a new swipe of mud has decorated her face, making it look like she’s wearing camouflage. Thanks to all the low-hanging branches, we both have twigs and leaves sticking out of our clothing. Basically we’re a sight to behold, and the trip down has left me exhausted. Mentally and physically.

  We stood beneath the ruins for a good twenty minutes, our arms laced around each other, until I felt it was safe to venture down. Well, as safe as it could be. The rain continued halfway through our journey, though it finally let up as we grew closer and closer to town. But the damage was done.

  We resemble something that would come out of Loch Duich in the middle of the night to feast on children.

  “So, that was fun.” She laughs nervously.

  I don’t respond. Instead, I turn away and start walking into town, irritated and completely beat. Carrying worry on your shoulders while hiking dangerous terrain is tiring. I was nervous she was going to hurt herself, that another storm might roll around—or hell, that I was going to take a bad fall and she was going to have to make it down the hill without me to get help.

  “So you’re just not going to talk to me now?” She jogs up next to me.

  Yup.

  I keep walking . . . well, more like stalking, my footsteps echoing against the paved road and through the silent Sunday town. Everyone’s tucked away in their houses, besides the odd local out on a stroll.

  “After everything we’ve been through today, that’s it? We make it to town, and now you’re just going to walk away?”

  I spin on her. “You’re safe, and you know how to get back to your cottage. I did my job.”

  “You did your job?” she asks. “What is this? Some historical romance where the hero saves the damsel in distress and then takes off? I could have made it down the hill myself.”

  I push my hand through my wet hair. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Thank you.” She smiles, and Jesus Christ, it makes me want to push her up against the wall of the Mill Market and tame that sassy mouth.

  “You realize you could have really been hurt up there?”

  “Aww, Rowan, you care about me.” Her voice is teasing, but all it does is grate on my nerves. She has no fucking idea the kind of trouble we could have been in.

  What a fucking emotional roller coaster today has been. One minute I tolerate her company, the next I feel myself craving conversation, and then I want to tear a tree down bare handed and chuck it across the mountaintop because she drives me so goddamn mad.

  “This isn’t funny, Bonnie.”

  Her smile slowly fades, and her head tilts to the side as she studies me. “You really were worried.”

  “Yes,” I growl in frustration. “We’re lucky something more serious didn’t happen. If you’d just listened to me, we wouldn’t be covered in mud and drenched to our core.”

  “But we’re fine.”

  “We could have been hurt.”

  “‘Could have’ being the key phrase.” She presses her hand to my shoulder. “No need to get so upset.”

  “Yeah, that’s easy for you to say—you weren’t the one responsible for another life.”

  “You don’t have to be responsible for me, Rowan. I can take care of myself.”

  “Okay, then, take care of yourself,” I say, pushing past her and heading toward my cottage.

  Jesus Christ.

  What the hell happened today? I was supposed to go on a leisurely hike with my friends, and I spent most of it arguing with a smart-mouthed blonde, getting stuck in a torrential downpour, and then letting that smart-mouthed blonde get under my skin.

  Hours later, after a long shower and a hearty helping of beef stew, I lean back in my chair and stare up at the ceiling, my eyes focused on its arched wooden beams. Bonnie weighs heavily on my mind.

  She drives me crazy.

  She makes me want to scream, throw things, and then kiss her all in the same moment.

  I shake my head. There is no way I’m developing feelings for her. No way in hell.

  Yes, she’s attractive, but feelings . . . no.

  I need to go back to my initial plan: stay as far away from the lass as possible. In the week she’s been here, my life has never felt more chaotic, and the last thing I need is to be out of control whenever she’s around.

  Distance. I need solid distance from her, and everything will be fine.

  CHAPTER NINE

  BONNIE

  Cake consumed today: Three slices of Dundee cake.

  Days since last male-induced orgasm: Eighty-one.

  Boredom: Massive amounts, too much to count.

  Rainstorms since arrival to Scotland: Fourteen. No wonder it’s so green here.

  Serving coffee to invisible humans is frankly borderline lunacy. At least Fergus is still showing up unannounced. Last time, he screamed so loud that I piddled. A goat made me piddle. But then I petted him, and now I think we’re starting to build a strong bond. This is my life now.

  “Coffee? Yeah, you—I know you want coffee.” I wave a cup in the air. “It’s tasty—true Scottish flavors. Ever taste a kilt? We squeeze them right into the brew. We actually use kilts as coffee filters. Delivers the true essence of the land’s ancestors.” The tourist I’m verbally accosting puts his hand up over his face and walks right on by.

  Sheesh, he’s rude.

  “A simple ‘No, thank you’ would suffice!” I shout out before walking back into the shop.

  “Why are you saying everything smells or tastes like a kilt?” Dakota asks. She’s standing behind the counter, hovering over her computer and drawing pad. “You know there’s so much more to Scotland than just kilts.”

  I tap my chin and lean against the wall. “Think I should have said we stir each cup of coffee with bagpipes?”

  “You’re losing it.”

  “I am, Dakota,” I say as I walk over to the counter, where I hoist myself up, letting my feet dangle down. “What the hell are we doing here day in and day out? We’re wasting away.” I motion to her computer, which she’s been parked behind since we got here. “You’re at least doing something.” I squint at her screen. “Is that a soup can with an inspirational quote on it?” I wave my hand, dismissing the new freelance job she received from an up-and-coming influencer who specializes in dishing out “inspirational soup.” Dakota was telling me about it last night. I swear, marketing is getting cornier and cornier. “I’m so bored here. I’m just staring at the wall.”

  “Then do something.”

  “Okay, so what do you suppose I do? Play some music and come up with a tap dance routine that might bring in more customers?”

  “Nooo,” she drags out and then motions to the space. “Fix things up.”

  “Pardon?”

  She sighs and lifts herself away from her computer. “If you want more customers, figure out how to get them. Catcalling them from the doorway about kilt-flavored coffee is not the way to do it. You want to keep busy, and, well, here’s a project sitting right in front of you. Take advantage of it.”

  “You mean . . . fix up the coffee shop?”

  “Why not? I told you Finella left us with her credit card when you were taking care of your haggis situation—remember? She told us to use it however we need to make the store shine.”

  “I vaguely recall this.” I tap my chin and look over the space as ideas start to trickle into my mind. “You really think she meant it? To help make this place shine?”

  “Yeah.” Dakota shrugs and goes back to work.

  “Dakota.” I reach over and shut her laptop, something I know she hates, but I need her complete attention. “Do you think . . . do you think Finella was alluding to us actually making something of the coffee shop again? Like, did she hire us to bring it back to life?”

  “Maybe. She did mention that she created the ad to bring some fun attention to the coffee shop. Wasn’t expecting it to bring two Americans to Corsekelly to run it, but she said Americans know their coffee houses, and maybe we could put our touch on it.”

  “And you’re just telling me this now? After over a week of absolute boredom? What is wrong with you?”

  “Why on earth would you try to fix something if you don’t have a baseline?” Dakota asks, and her simple reasoning is far too annoying to appreciate. “You can’t possibly fix something without finding out what’s wrong with it first.”

  She’s right about that . . . unfortunately.

  Just then, another tour bus pulls away. I glance at the time on my phone—they were here for half an hour. Half an hour in Corsekelly, and not one of them came into the coffee shop.

  The only visitor was Fergus, and frankly that’s just sad. But we did have a riveting conversation about hooves. Even though his look like little vaginas, I told him not to be self-conscious—and if he really wanted to spice things up, I could paint them in a pretty plaid pattern with nail polish. He said he would consider it. Between you and me, I’m pretty sure he’s going to pass.

  But Fergus as our lone visitor isn’t going to cut it.

  “Do you know how much business we miss out on because we’re offering plain coffee and hot chocolate packets?” I ask. “This place has the potential for more—much more. We could offer so many other drinks, baked goods, specials that go hand in hand. Coffee and a buttery. We can have Penis Stone souvenirs. There aren’t many here in town. And what about Fergus? I mean, he’s a town treasure, and no one is selling anything Fergus themed. Think of all the money we could make for Finella and Stuart. We could jump-start this entire coffee shop and give it a new life.”

  For the first time in I don’t know how long, excitement bubbles up inside me. My mind whirs with all the possibilities, all the potential the coffee house has.

  “You can design a new sign. Create a logo for the shop. Design all the shirts and merch. The menus—oh my God, this could be huge, Dakota.” I push at her shoulder. “Doesn’t this excite you?”

  “Sure,” she says, so casually that it makes me want to scream.

  “What do you mean, ‘sure’? Done right, we could capitalize on those tour buses and create something special here. And according to all the career assessments I’ve taken, organizational skills are my best attribute. This is right up my alley.”

  Dakota smiles and opens her laptop back up. “I can see you really creating something special.”

  “Really? Do you mean that?”

  “Of course. I say go for it.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, nearly bouncing up and down.

  “Yeah, but whatever you do, you have to run it by Rowan first.”

  Poof!

  Did you see that splatter of hope? That was all my excitement drying up like a string bean in the desert.

  Shriveled up and morphed into dust, only to be picked up by a gust of wind and carried off into the land where dreams don’t come true.

  “What do you mean, run it by Rowan?”

  “Did you not pay attention to a thing I told you our first night?”

  “Oh, excuse me.” I hold up my hands. “I was jet-lagged, had a Scottish man try to speak to me while tapping his crotch, thought I was going to die on a roundabout in a MINI Cooper, was fed sheep intestines—and then quickly disposed of those intestines—only to be accosted by a grumpy Scot who found my broom wielding more comical than threatening. I apologize for not remembering the smallest of details.”

  “Maybe that was why you were fired three times,” Dakota says with a huge smirk.

  I point a finger at her. “You’re an asshole.”

  We both laugh, and Dakota turns back to her screen. “Seriously, though, Finella said whatever we do, just to run it by him first.” She shrugs. “Seems fair. She doesn’t want two strangers coming in and destroying the integrity of their coffee shop.”

  “But . . . I haven’t seen or spoken to him since he stormed off after the hike.”

  “About that . . . according to Isla, it seemed like you really pissed him off—which is not the story you gave me.”

  My eyes narrow. “What do you mean, according to Isla? When did you speak to her?”

  “Yesterday.” The smallest of smirks pulls at the corners of Dakota’s mouth. “I was stocking up on your Dundee cake supply.”

  “Oh, don’t you dare use me as an excuse to go into the bakeshop. We all know why you were there. And you didn’t even come home with Dundee cake. You came home with shortbread.”

  “Which you ate all of.” She lifts a brow.

  “Boredom eating is a real thing,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “But that’s beside the point. You were talking about me?”

  “No,” Dakota sighs. “Isla asked how you were doing after being stuck up on the mountain with Rowan during the rainstorm. Ever since he lost his brother—”

  “Wait, what?” I ask, sitting taller. “Rowan has a brother?”

  “Had,” Dakota says quietly. “Isla didn’t get into it, and I didn’t pry. All I know is that he doesn’t like serious rainstorms. She wanted to make sure he wasn’t too harsh on you. Last time they were stuck on a mountain together when it was storming, Rowan apparently lost his mind. It took some time to calm him down.”

  “Oh my God,” I just about whisper as I think back to our hike, how I carelessly disregarded his warnings and his persistent need to make it down the hill before the rain became too strong. The tension in his back every time I slipped, his stern grip as we walked through mud. His demeanor after we stepped off the trail.

  Anger.

  Distress.

  Relief.

  Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more like an ass.

  “I had no idea,” I say softly.

  “Apparently he holds it all in—which explains why he’s so grumpy and standoffish. From what Isla alluded to, there seems to be some darkness in Rowan’s family. So yeah, even if you two aren’t getting along right now, maybe cut him some slack. Don’t go full Bonnie on him.”

  “Too late.” I cringe.

  Begging for forgiveness from Mother Nature over littering . . . yup, I went full Bonnie on him . . . while he was in the midst of panicking.

  Really great, Bonnie. Just perfect.

  “Hey, Shona,” I say, walking into the Mill Market.

  The quaint shop can best be described as what would happen if someone blasted Target with a shrink gun and then redecorated with Scottish charm. Its baskets overflow with fruits and vegetables. Its wooden shelves are perfectly stocked. And its beautiful plank wood floors wave and roll with the earth beneath it. Just like Target, the Mill Market has almost everything you could need. Unlike Target, it all comes in small quantities.

  “Hello, Dakota.”

  “I’m Bonnie, actually,” I chuckle.

  “Och. I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “Blame it on the old-lady brain.”

  “Not a problem at all.”

  “Anything I can help you find?”

  I walk past a display of haggis and mushy peas and feel my bones shiver from the inside out. I know other countries probably balk at the idea of putting peanut butter and jelly on a sandwich, but at least it isn’t a can of harvested sheep innards.

  “Looking for a notepad and fun pens.”

  “Aye, right this way.”

  She walks out from behind the counter and guides me down a small aisle, past the fruits and vegetables, past the meat and dairy cases, and into a small section stocked full of household items.

  Pots, pans, kitchen utensils, greeting cards, wrapping paper, toys, and school supplies.

  “Here ya go, lass. We have a few notebooks that might tickle yer fancy.” She lifts one up from the little stack on the shelf. “This has a goat on it—reminds me of Fergie, the old man. Take this one—it will bring good luck.”

  “Okay,” I say, glancing at the others and noticing they all have goats on them. Gives me something to share with Fergus. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.