“Thank you, Hamish,” she says.

  “Of course, darling. Enjoy.” He nods at me quickly and then takes off.

  “Wow, these look amazing,” Bonnie says while Isla starts pouring everyone a glass of beer.

  Clearing her throat, Isla meets Dakota’s gaze. “How was your day?”

  Dakota smiles, her whole face flushed. “It was productive.”

  “Oh? What did you do?”

  Shifting in place, she glances at Bonnie and me—Bonnie chowing down on a nacho, completely oblivious to Dakota’s discomfort. “Uh, you know, just some stuff on the computer.”

  Heat slides up the back of my neck as I realize just how much the girls want privacy.

  “I’ve never been a super fan of jalapeños,” Bonnie says, staring down at one that’s pinched between her fingers. “Which is weird, given that I’m from Southern California. You would think Mexican food is in my bloodstream, but then I had one a few months ago by accident and I couldn’t help but think, ‘spicy, but delightful.’” She pops it in her mouth and looks around the table. “Really good.”

  Dakota clears her throat. “Do you, uh, like jalapeños, Isla?”

  “I do,” she answers awkwardly.

  “Now, olives. Ooo-eee, there’s something I’ve never been able to get enough of,” Bonnie says, picking one up and plopping it in her mouth.

  “Do you like olives, Isla?” Dakota asks, and holy hell, I’m dying a slow, slow death.

  “I do,” Isla responds. “Do you?”

  Dakota is about to answer when Bonnie says, “Oh, she loves them. When we were kids, she used to buy five cans at the store, and we’d sit under my trampoline with a can opener eating them all. It was a weird addiction, but our parents were glad we weren’t doing drugs. Oh, these chips are amazing. Crunchy and holding the cheese just like—”

  “Bonnie, I need to show you something,” I say, standing from the table.

  “What?” she asks, appearing completely confused. She looks me up and down. “What do you need to show me?”

  “It’s over there.” I point to the stone wall.

  “Uh . . . I’m good.” She picks up another nacho, and I glance down at Dakota, who shoots me a pleading look.

  That’s it—she wants her friend gone so she can relax with Isla. I get that. If I was trying to go on a date and my mate was with me, it would be hard to relax.

  I round the picnic table. “It’ll just take a second. It’s important.”

  “You’re being weird,” she says. “Why are you talking like your jaw is clenched tight?”

  Dear Jesus, this woman.

  “Just go see what he wants,” Dakota says, nudging Bonnie in the back.

  “What if it’s his penis or something? Last time a guy said he wanted to show me something, he stretched his nutsac over his pants and said, ‘Look, it’s gum.’”

  Who the hell is she hanging out with?

  “Do you really think I would do that?”

  Bonnie gives me a smooth once-over, her eyes resting a second too long on my chest. Finally, she answers, “Maybe.”

  Christ.

  “I’ve never met a more infuriating woman,” I say before I can stop myself.

  “Oh yeah, now I really want to leave with you.” Bonnie rolls her eyes.

  Dakota shoves Bonnie this time, and they exchange a look. In that one look, I can see Dakota secretly telling her friend to get the hell up. Luckily, it works. Bonnie stands and smooths her dress. “Fine, but if he shows me his ‘gum,’ you owe me some more shortbread.” She sighs and turns toward me. “Okay, show me whatever it is you want to show me.”

  The girl really is clueless sometimes.

  I grab her by the upper arm and walk her over to the wall, far enough away from the table that no one can hear us.

  She looks around, examining the area, and then turns to me. “What? Is there some kind of special rock that will give you luck if you rub it? Is there another Boaby Stone here?”

  “You’re really fucking clueless.”

  “Excuse me?” she asks, hands on her hips, and hell, the position only lifts her breasts more.

  I clear my throat. “They’re on a date.”

  “Uh . . . duh. I’m her wing-woman.”

  “Yeah, pretty sure Dakota doesn’t need a wing-woman at this point.”

  “You don’t even know her. She asked me to go because she’s shy. Dakota has been through a lot, and she leans on me, especially when it comes to her love life. This is important to her, and there is no way I’m going to let her down, not when I know I’m needed. Don’t believe me? Just look at . . .” Bonnie’s voice fades as she turns to the table—Dakota and Isla are deep in conversation now. “Huh, would you look at that.”

  “I don’t think she needs you. What they need is space, away from someone blabbing on about the history of their jalapeño and olive consumption.”

  “Uh, that was a smooth icebreaker. Not all of us can just huff our way through a conversation.”

  “I don’t huff through a conversation.”

  “Practically.” She folds her arms, and that just makes things even worse for me.

  Christ, it’s as if I’ve never seen a pair of boobs before. Eyes up, Rowan.

  “Well, I guess if she doesn’t need me, I’ll just go home,” Bonnie says.

  “Okay,” I answer nonchalantly. I’m turning to walk away when she pulls on my arm.

  “You’re supposed to say, ‘You can have dinner with me,’” she says, and her defensive tone almost makes me laugh.

  “Why would you even want to when I huff through a conversation?”

  Her lips twist to the side, and the smallest of smiles appears on her beautiful face. “Touché,” she says. She tugs on my arm again. “Don’t make me eat alone.” She bats her eyelashes. “Pleeeease, Rowan, I feel bad about the other day—”

  “You feel bad?” I scoff. “You feel bad about driving me batshit.”

  “Funny that you mention batshit . . .”

  I roll my eyes and drag my hand over my face. Fuck, this woman has me feeling all kinds of emotions that I can’t quite seem to process. It doesn’t help that she’s looking damn beautiful tonight, those brilliant eyes of hers pleading for me to give this a chance.

  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to eat with her. Despite our tension-filled moments, I still want to be around her, see how far she can push me before she turns around, a complete one-eighty, and makes me laugh.

  She tugs on my hand. “Please, Rowan. We can keep an eye on the girls from here and jump in if they need help—and we can keep each other company.” She smiles and . . . damn it.

  That smile lowers my defenses in seconds. It’s sweet and loaded with promises of friendship and good times.

  Hell . . .

  “Fine.” I point at her. “But don’t give me the story behind any other food preferences.”

  “Oh darn, I was planning on going into the history of my life and cake.” She smirks.

  “Save it for someone else.” I nod toward an empty table near the stone wall that’s far enough away from Dakota and Isla. “Grab that table. I’ll snag a plate of nachos and some beers from Isla.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I approach the table, and Isla glances up at me, gratefulness in her eyes. “Everything okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Figured you two might want a break from all the jalapeño and olive talk. Bonnie and I are going to hang at the table over there.” I point to where Bonnie is, and she gives them an enthusiastic wave. “Figured we could grab beer and some nachos.”

  “Yes, please. We won’t be able to eat and drink all of this,” Isla says.

  I’m filling up a pint for each of us and grabbing the plates when Dakota says, “She hides it well, Rowan, but she’s struggling. Be kind.”

  “Of course,” I say, wishing I could read between the lines. Struggling with what?

  Honestly, given Bonnie’s personality, I never would have guessed that she was struggling with something. She’s always so full of life . . . and saucy behavior.

  I hold up the plate and beer. “Thanks. Have fun, lasses.”

  “Thank you,” Isla mouths to me before I take off.

  I really hope they find a connection. They both seem like they’re searching for something, and I’m hoping they’ve just found it.

  As I walk toward her, Bonnie hops up from her bench and helps me with the nachos while I set the beers down on the table. I take a seat across from her and pick up my beer, bringing it to my lips and taking a small sip.

  An IPA. Not my first choice but still good. Probably Deuchars. It’s a go-to for a lot of locals at Fergie’s Castle.

  “Oh, this beer is really good,” Bonnie says, setting her pint down. “Might be my favorite I’ve had so far. Is it yours?”

  I shake my head. “Prefer an ale.”

  “Ohhh, you like to chew your beer. I do too, on occasion, but I have to be in the mood. Like when we had fish and chips, the maltiness of that beer with the oil and vinegar . . .” She kisses her fingertips like a chef. “Perfect. But this IPA goes great with the nachos.”

  I pick up a chip full of cheese and beans. “Yeah, it does.” Bonnie rests her chin in her hand and stares at me. I pull some cheese off my finger with my mouth and ask, “What?”

  “You’re rather dressed up for the evening, Rowan. It’s a Friday night. Were you expecting to find a lass to take home tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Please, a man with your kind of virility—I’m sure you must go on the prowl often.”

  “I know everyone in town.”

  “Doesn’t mean you don’t have a little sidepiece around here.” She perks up and looks around while absentmindedly picking up a chip and stuffing it in her mouth. “What about Shona? Cougar, but still a looker.”

  “Shona is my maw’s best friend. She changed my diapers.”

  “So she’s familiar with your nakedness, then.”

  My brow shoots up. “You realize how disturbing that is?”

  “You know, when I said it out loud, it felt disturbing.” She looks around again. “Okay, what about that girl over there?” She points to a brunette wearing a bright-red shirt.

  “That’s Alana.”

  “Ohhh, Alana. She sounds lovely.”

  “She’s also married to Alasdair, who owns the Admiral.”

  “Hmm . . . are they interested in threesomes?”

  I take another sip of my beer. “Want me to ask them for you? I’m sure they’d be open to a blonde joining their marriage.”

  “Not for me, for you.”

  Leaning back, I call out, “Alana, come here.”

  “What are you doing?” Bonnie hisses as Alana approaches our table.

  “All right, you two.” She holds her hand out to Bonnie. “I’m Alana. I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

  “Alana, this is Bonnie. Bonnie, meet Alana.”

  “Pleasure,” Bonnie says, tacking on a smile and shaking her hand. “Rowan here said you’re married to Alasdair.”

  “Aye, we’ve known each other since we were wee ones. Parents swore we would get married one day, and we did.”

  “Ah, that’s sweet,” Bonnie says, dreamy eyed.

  But that look quickly vanishes when I open my mouth. “Bonnie here was wondering if you have room in your marriage for one more. She’s looking to hop on for a threesome.”

  “Rowan!” Bonnie gasps. “No, I did not say that. There was no mention of threesomes at all.”

  “You just said you wanted a threesome.”

  “Rowan,” she says through clenched teeth, her eyes screaming murder.

  “We’re taking applications,” Alana cuts in, always ready for a laugh. “We’re looking for someone adventurous. Would you say you’re adventurous, Bonnie?”

  Her eyes widen, and she sits back, hands twisting her beer. “I, uh . . . I mean, I’ve dabbled in things here and there, but—”

  “Have you ever kissed another woman?”

  “Well, there was this one time I kissed Dakota, but that wasn’t really sexual.”

  “Experience in the bedroom—how many years?”

  Completely shell shocked, Bonnie fidgets nervously. “Uh . . .” She looks up in an apparent effort to calculate in her head. “Carry the five . . . I’m sorry, math is hard under pressure.”

  “Have you ever used a feather? Alasdair likes a good feathering,” Alana says, and I nearly lose it.

  “Not per se,” Bonnie says, really twisting her beer now. “But, you know, I could always—”

  Alana and I both laugh out loud, and Bonnie stares, pressing her hand to her heart.

  “What’s going on here?” she asks. “Are you . . . are you teasing me?”

  Alana nods. “Aye, but I do enjoy that you dabble in things here and there.”

  “So . . . you’re not looking for a third to your marriage?”

  Alana shakes her head. “Does that disappoint you?”

  “No, I mean . . . no.” She takes a deep breath and directs her attention to me. “I hate you.”

  I chuckle and sip my beer as Alana pats me on the back and wishes me luck. Eyes trained on Bonnie, I wait for the onslaught of whatever she’s going to do to retaliate, but she stays silent instead, stewing.

  Which, let’s be honest, is worse. Because she’s planning something vindictive—I can feel it.

  She leans back, beer in hand. “Did you get a good chuckle out of that?”

  “Aye.”

  “I see.” She slowly stands, eyes still on me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.” With one hand on the picnic table, she hops up on her bench and faces the crowd congregated outside the pub. “Ahoy!” she yells, grabbing everyone’s attention. The crowd quiets down, all eyes trained on her. She clears her throat. “I would like it to be known that I kissed Rowan McGrumpyshire”—she points to me—“and he has cod lips. Dead cod lips. Worst kiss I’ve ever experienced in my life. Total and utter disaster. Be warned, all lasses . . . and lads, for that matter: if you’re looking to pucker up with the crotchety beast, be prepared to be disappointed. Dead . . . fish . . . lips.” She holds up her beer in a toast. “Slangevar.”

  And just like the good Scottish people they are, they all hold their beers up and say, “Slangevar!” before taking a drink.

  She sits down and smirks at me.

  “Feel better?” I ask. She nods, looking completely and utterly happy with herself. “Good.” I stand as well and step up on the bench.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she snaps. “Get down.”

  I put my hand up. “Just need to clarify some things.” Copying her, I turn to the pub’s patrons and call out, “Ahoy!” A few people laugh and cheer. I give a small wave before clearing my throat as well. “Aye, it’s true, I had dead codfish mouth when she spelled me with her witchy ways.”

  “They were not witchy!” Bonnie shouts.

  “But I tightened my mouth tight because, according to local lore, women with long blonde hair and ice-blue eyes could be the Serpent Queen. And I saw it”—I lean forward, getting into the story—“one evening, I saw her lick her lips . . .”

  “Serpent tongue,” Lyall says from the side.

  “Derived from a basilisk,” Baird calls out from the back.

  “Exactly. The elusive serpent tongue. The myth is true, lads—she’s upon us. Slithery, scaly, ready to pop off your boabies, and I’d be damned if I let it touch my tongue. Kiss of death.”

  “And then off to the Boaby Stone,” Lyall adds.

  I point at him. “Precisely. Beware, lads . . . and lasses, for that matter. The Serpent Queen is among us, and she’s ravenous for her next victim.” I hold up my pint. “Slangevar.”

  “Slangevar!” everyone says. With that, they take another sip of their drinks and go back to their conversations.

  I hop down and sit back on my bench, looking expectantly at Bonnie. She runs her tongue over her teeth and doesn’t flinch, or even blink. Just stares.

  “Aren’t you pleasant company?” she finally says.

  I down the rest of my beer and grin. “I think so.”

  “Oh, I so have you.”

  “No, you don’t,” I scoff.

  “Yes, I do.” Bonnie taps the side of her head. “I’m three steps ahead of you, son.”

  “That’s what you said the last three times you lost.”

  “I mean it this time.” She rubs her hands together and reaches for a glass. She takes a sip and then moves it across the three men’s morris board we borrowed from the pub.

  After a rousing stare-down from Bonnie while I finished off the nachos, we glanced over at Dakota and Isla to see how they were doing, and it was as if they were the only ones on the planet. Talking intimately close, hands reaching out across the table to push hair out of their faces, intention in their eyes, never a lull in conversation. Nothing fazed them. Bonnie and I could have both whipped off our clothes and performed a naked jig, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

  So, I offered a pub game to Bonnie—one I know I excel at—and she jumped on it.

  Three men’s morris, the Scottish way.

  Like tic-tac-toe on a wooden grid, but the pieces we move are pint glasses. Every time we move them, we take a sip . . . a small one. Whoever loses has to chug one pint.

  Bonnie is swaying to the music filtering from the pub, and she’s starting to show signs of being drunk. It’s kind of funny, because the more she drinks, the more she develops a fake bravado, like she can take on the world and do it one handed.

  “Oh, you are going down, Grumpyshire.”

  I move my glass and take a sip.

  “Aha!” she yells. “Bam. Drink up, sucker.”

  She moves her glass, and I stare down at the board.

  “Uh, you didn’t win.”

  “Yes, I did.” She motions to the line of glasses. “One, two, three. In a row. Suck it.”

  “That’s my glass.” I point to the one in the corner.

  “No, it’s not.”