“And fun pens . . . well, all we have are these Flair pens. A pack of black, red, and blue. I can put in an order for some other ones if you’d like.”

  I take the familiar pens along with the notebook. “These will be just fine, thank you.”

  “Of course. Do you need anything else? We just got a fresh shipment of Curly Wurlys, and they’re quite divine, if you’ve never tried one before.”

  “Is that a pig’s tail?” I ask, the only thing coming to mind at those words.

  She chuckles and shakes her head. “Nay, it’s Cadbury chocolate with caramel. Everyone in town loves them, so I always stock up. Best you get some now before those Murdach boys find them. And MacGregor too—he’s been known to buy a handful at a time.”

  “Rowan likes them?”

  “Aye. How those boys all stay in shape despite their massive Curly Wurly intake is beyond me. Here.” She pulls me up to the sugar shelf and grabs a few long, white-and-purple-wrapped treats and sets them in my hand. “You won’t be sorry.”

  “Okay, yeah.” I stare down at the candy. “I’m going to have to start running if I keep eating the way I have since I’ve been here.”

  “Isla’s shortbread?” she asks as we head to the counter.

  “That and the Dundee cake. Although I ate a dozen shortbread cookies without even realizing—so I think that’s more dangerous than the cake. At least that I know how to pace.”

  “’Tis all right to indulge, just keep up on your fitness. Take the Hairy Coo Footpath every morn. That’ll do ye just fine.”

  “The Hairy Coo Footpath?” I ask. What an adorable name.

  She rings up my purchases and puts it all on my tab. Thank God. I still don’t have the hang of the whole foreign-money thing yet.

  “No one tell you about the hairy coos? They’re our Highland cattle. They roam about the grasslands. Cute fellas, if you ask me. There’s a two-mile path that loops around their feeding area. A few years ago we laid down a dirt path to help with tourism. Give visitors more to see than just Fergus and the Boaby Stone.”

  “Oh, that’s a good idea. Do a lot of people hike it?”

  She shakes her head. “Only locals. Not many people know about it.”

  “Oh, well, that’s a shame.” Another potential attraction for tourists that’s not living up to its potential. There is so much charm in this town, and it’s all overshadowed by a penis rock.

  “’Tis pretty, though, and a bonny morning walk. The path starts right past the Boaby Stone entrance, tucked into the hills. Can’t miss it. Marked well too.”

  “Thank you. I’ll walk it tomorrow morning.”

  “Enjoy.” She hands me a paper bag of my items and gives me a small wave.

  I came in for a notepad and some pens. I’m leaving with a bribery tool—the Curly Wurlys—and a new way to curb all the calories. A successful trip to the Mill Market, indeed.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Dakota asks as she jogs in place in front of me.

  Yes, Dakota has been running every day since she got here. She found a challenging trail she really enjoys and has been tracking her times to watch for improvement. Besides her brilliantly creative mind, she’s also very math oriented. She loves data and solving problems. So this behavior doesn’t surprise me in the least. I’m also not surprised that her slowest time so far happened on the day we shared half a Dundee cake.

  I was also sluggish that day, but I wasn’t sorry about it.

  “Positive. You go train for the Olympics, while I take a leisurely walk with the cows.”

  “Okay, have fun. You remember where the trail is, right?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And you have your cow-poop barometer ready?”

  I nod. “Yup. Going to sniff it out to see if it’s a suitable running trail for you.”

  “You’re the best. Meet you back at the cottage.” She takes off, and I watch her set the time on her watch before she heads into a run.

  I walk up to the entrance and marvel at the stick arch that marks the start of the footpath. It reminds me of what you see at the end of a driveway in Texas, welcoming you to a ranch. Straight ahead are rolling green hills spotted with heather and gray slate rocks. Behind the hills are even taller mountains, jagged and peaked to points, which I heard from a local the other day usually have snow on the caps during the winter. Unfortunately, no snow for this walk, but it’s still breathtaking.

  I’m already excited about the possibility of this being my morning routine. Water in hand, shoes tied tight, I walk through the arch and down the trail. The dirt crunches under my shoes while early birds chirp off in the distance.

  Yes, I could get very used to this.

  The greenery, the crystal-clear brook that runs by the trail and into the loch, the soothing sound of trickling water, and oh look, a hairy coo.

  Isn’t he adorable.

  Picture a cow with a seventies hairstyle. Long brown locks sweep over his face, and massive horns come out the side of his head. Isn’t he darling? I could just stare at him all—

  SMACK.

  My cheek connects with what feels like a stone wall, and I fall back on my ass with a thump.

  What on earth?

  “Ah hell.” A deep, accented voice rolls through my entire body.

  Blinking and trying to get ahold of my bearings, I slowly take in the wall before me. Except it’s not a wall. Toned, tanned legs, running shorts . . . bulge . . . deep, muscular V, followed by defined abs, massive pecs . . . oh sweet Jesus, those nipples. So proportionate and pretty. My eyes keep running, following a path of dark, twisted ink that stains one pec and travels over his shoulder and down his arm.

  And then his face comes into view as he squats down. Dark scruff, wet lips, mossy-green eyes.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Rowan asks, pulling me to my feet.

  I blink some more, my face level with his beautifully sculpted chest.

  My oh my, do they breed them well in Scotland.

  “Hello? Are you okay?”

  “You’re shirtless.”

  He glances down at his wet, glistening chest. “Aye. And you have a shirt on.”

  I glance down at my chest and nod. “Aye.”

  The smallest of smirks appears on his lips before it disappears. “Glad we established who’s wearing a shirt and who’s not.”

  “’Tis quite the accomplishment this fine morn,” I say in a horrible Scottish accent. Maybe that knock did something to my brain.

  “Okay, well . . .” He frowns. “If you’re not concussed, I’m going to take off.”

  “I don’t think I’m concussed. Although I don’t know what a concussion feels like.”

  “Are you dizzy?”

  I do feel slightly dizzy, but I’m not sure if it’s from being knocked down or from the combination of my lack of male-induced orgasms and seeing Rowan with his shirt off.

  “Maybe?”

  His brow knits together. “Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”

  I didn’t eat breakfast, so that could be why I’m feeling slightly faint.

  “Maybe?”

  “Jesus.” He drags his hand down his face and exhales heavily. Taking me by my upper arm, he spins me around and starts walking me back toward town.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Taking you to your cottage.”

  “But I planned on seeing more hairy coos.”

  “Not if you’re feeling dizzy and nauseous,” he grumbles. “We didn’t even run into each other that hard.”

  “Says the guy built like a rock wall.” I swat at his hand. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t manhandle me like this. I am a lady, after all.”

  “I’m holding you up so you don’t fall again.”

  I swat at him a second time, but he doesn’t budge. Sheesh, he’s strong. “I’m more than capable of walking—” I trip over a tree root and nearly fall forward, but Mr. Muscles pulls me back.

  Muscles McGrumpyshire.

  “You were saying?” he asks drily.

  “That was an unfortunate coincidence.”

  He silently walks me all the way back to the cottage, his grip tight, unwavering.

  “Mornin’, Rowan,” a man calls out, tipping his pageboy hat in our direction.

  “Mornin’, Alasdair,” Rowan says, his voice sounding chipper, so different from when he speaks with me.

  “Morning,” I shout, waving obnoxiously.

  Alasdair chuckles. “Morning, lass. Good luck with the beast—he looks like he’s on a war path.”

  “Oh, you know, just a caveman trying to control every aspect of my life,” I shout back as Rowan walks us away. Have never spoken to the man in my life, but I like his jolly smile. Can you guess? Rowan doesn’t appreciate my tiny conversation with Alasdair. He indicated this by tightening his grip. Impossible man.

  “You know,” I say as he marches me down the gravel driveway to the cottage, “I think I can make it from here.”

  Nothing.

  Not a single word.

  When we reach the cottage, he pushes through the door and walks me to the couch. While I sit down, he goes to the kitchen and digs through a drawer before pulling out a flashlight. Striding back over, he squats in front of me and flashes it in front of my eyes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure your pupils aren’t dilated. That’s a sign of concussion.”

  “Are they?”

  “No.” He turns off the flashlight and heads back to the kitchen, where he puts it back in the drawer and fills up a glass of water. He stalks back and hands it over. Planting his hands on his hips, he stares down at me.

  “Can I help you?” I ask.

  His strong jaw twitches as his chest rises. “Drink the water.”

  “Why? Did you bewitch it with special healing powers?”

  “Jesus . . . fuck.” He pushes both hands through his hair. “Fine, do whatever ye want.” He turns on his heel and storms toward the door.

  “Wait. I think . . . uh, can you get me a bowl? I think I might throw up.”

  With lightning speed, he grabs the kitchen trash can and brings it to me before sitting on the arm of the couch and placing his hand on my back. I lean my face over the trash can for a grand total of five seconds. Then I turn my head toward him and smile.

  “Just kidding.”

  Annnd ohhh boy, if I thought that storm was bad the other day, the one that’s brewing right in front of me might be even worse. Yes, maybe I should take it a little easy on him after what I learned about his brother, but there’s something about the clench in his jaw that makes me want to keep pushing his buttons.

  Before he can erupt, I place my hand on his thigh. “Settle down, Grumps. I’m fine.”

  He tears the trash can away and shoves it back in the kitchen. “Good to know.” With that, he charges to the front door, rips it open, and strides outside.

  Yikes. Someone doesn’t like to joke in the morning.

  Feeling guilty and remembering why I need to be nice to this guy, I chase after him. When I move past the front door of the cottage, I spot him, both hands on the back of his head, his back tensing with anger.

  I’m about to say something when he turns around. His eyes widen in surprise as they meet mine, but that surprise is short lived, and he closes the distance between us.

  Body vibrating with fury, he gets right in my face. “Don’t joke about being injured. Got it?”

  “Rowan, you can’t be serious. I was knocked down, and you’re acting like I cracked my head open.”

  His eyes darken, and his jaw clenches so tightly that I’m afraid he might break a tooth. His eyes search mine, and I can feel him wanting to say something. But he doesn’t open his mouth—instead he just stares at me. I wonder what he’s holding back.

  Does this have anything to do with his brother? This innate need to constantly protect, to make sure everyone is okay? I think back to what Dakota said about Rowan and rainstorms, the way he tensed every time I slipped. Was that . . . ?

  I take stock of the situation: his breathing is heavy, his fists are clenched at his sides. So much anger. So much hurt. It’s all bottled up, ready to be released, and if I don’t defuse the situation, it’s going to blow up right on me.

  And then . . . get ready for it, ladies . . .

  His eyes fall to my lips.

  Yup. They fall right to my lips, which means we have clearance for the one thing that I know will defuse any situation with a man this angry.

  Might not be smart.

  Might be a little on the dangerous side.

  But it’s guaranteed to work . . .

  In one swift motion, I grip both his cheeks, pull him down, and crash my lips against his.

  Just like that.

  Kissing the beast in front of the cottage.

  And boy oh boy is it the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever done in my life.

  Butterflies do not erupt.

  There is no sign of hearts flying out of my head.

  Nor is there a distant harpist playing romantic background music.

  The only things present during this torturous moment are his stiff lips and flailing arms, as if his lips got stuck in a bear trap and he doesn’t quite comprehend how to release himself.

  Dramatic much, Rowan?

  Deciding to end his apparent misery, I release him, and he quickly steps back, putting distance between us. He runs the back of his hand over his lips while staring at me . . . appalled.

  I set my hands on my hips. “Did you just wipe my kiss away?” I can’t help but feel a tad insulted.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “I asked you a question.” I stand taller.

  “What did it look like?” he asks, giving his lips one more wipe while looking me dead in the eyes.

  The bastard.

  “I’ll have you know, I’m a lovely kisser.” He doesn’t say anything. “And you looked at my lips. I saw it. That’s the universal sign for ‘trespassers welcome.’ And if you didn’t approach me with cod mouth, I could have demonstrated that, but there is only so much a person can do when your lips are puckered up like an ass—”

  “Don’t be fucking kissing me,” he says, taking another step back.

  “I’m not diseased.”

  “Don’t kiss me,” he repeats.

  “Why? Do you have a girlfriend? A wife?”

  “Nay.” Another step back, his eyes still on mine.

  “Do you not find me attractive?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Sure does,” I say, pressing him. “Now you opened up a box you shouldn’t have opened. Why don’t you want to kiss me? I brushed my teeth this morning.”

  “Because I don’t want to. There doesn’t need to be a reason other than that.”

  “Well, it’s rude.”

  He scoffs. “It’s rude to kiss someone when they don’t want to be kissed.”

  “Oh my God, it’s not like I licked the side of your face and then shoved the tip of my tongue up your nose. I kissed you. Grow up.”

  “You grow up,” he shoots back.

  “Gah.” I point at him. “You grow up.”

  “You’re the one kissing random people. You grow up.”

  “Maybe you both should grow up,” Dakota says, jogging up the driveway.

  Rowan rolls his eyes in response and takes off jogging himself. Wait, no. He can’t jog off—we have things to discuss. Chasing after this man does not sit well with me, but . . .

  “Hey!” I call out to him. “I need to talk to you.” No response. “You can’t run from me—I’ll find you!” I shout. And then he’s gone, disappearing past the trees. “Damn it,” I mutter.

  I walk back into the cottage, where Dakota is stretching. “What was that all about?”

  “I kissed him.”

  “What?” she asks, the shock clear in her voice as I make my way toward the shower.

  “Don’t worry, he kissed me back with his codfish mouth. I think I would have found more of a love connection with Fergus.”

  “Why did you kiss him?”

  “Read the room, Dakota,” I say, slamming the bathroom door shut.

  Why the hell did I kiss him?

  I tap my pen on my empty notebook paper, chin propped in hand as I lean over the coffee shop counter. Dakota ran to get us lunch at the Admiral—there’s a scotch beefsteak sandwich they serve there that is *kisses fingers* to die for.

  While Dakota has been working on her soup-can images—the current one features a dancing chicken on the top waving a flag; I don’t ask, I just smile and say it looks nice—I’ve been trying to drum up ideas for the shop. But I keep falling short, because all I can think about is this morning.

  Honestly, I’m hosting a bunch of emotions right now, and I’m ready to kick some of them out.

  Anger because he’s infuriating. That one will probably stay—not going anywhere soon.

  Embarrassment because I kissed him, hoping it would calm him down—but he acted as if I was a hairy coo lapping at his lips. Positively disgusted. Yup, humiliation will probably hang out for a bit too.

  And then I have these . . . how do I put it . . . uh, adoration-type feelings. I adore his thick pecs, his furious green eyes, his bristly voice, and the repartee we have. I like it maybe a little too much. So . . . looks like those feelings will stay as well.

  Ugh.

  I’m lifting up and pressing my palm to my eye just as Dakota walks into the coffee shop with a bagful of the goods.

  Okay, there is one thing that will distract me, and that’s food.

  Especially that steak sandwich.

  “Are the tatties hot?” I ask, clapping my hands as I meet Dakota at one of the tables.

  “Fresh, still steaming.”

  “God, my mouth is a-gusher right now.”

  “Attractive,” Dakota says, laughing. “Ran into Rowan, by the way.”

  “Is that so?” I ask coyly, popping open the to-go containers and letting the delicious onion and garlic smells fill me with joy.

  “Yup, told me to tell you that when he got home, he washed his face with bleach.”

  My eyes snap to hers. “He did not.”

  Dakota chuckles and takes a seat, a salmon sandwich in front of her. “That’s what he said; just relaying the message.”