“Yes, it is. I’ve been drinking out of it this entire time.”

  “Then you’ve been moving my glass.” She gasps and reels back, a hand to her chest. “Oh my God, sabotage!” She points at me. “Sabotage. Right here, in broad daylight.”

  Technically not broad daylight. It’s nine at night and the sun is still up, but I’m not about to argue with her.

  “I’m not sabotaging you—that’s my glass.”

  “You know damn well it’s not. You’re just trying to mess with my drunk mind. Well, I’m not taking it. I won—drink up.”

  “It’s my glass.”

  “God.” She shakes her head. “I knew you’d be a sore loser, but really, Rowan, acting like I’m cheating? Isn’t that beneath you?” She leans over the table, her cleavage in full display. “Drink up, lad.”

  I gulp, telling my eyes to look up, but hell . . . I must be feeling my drink too, because I can’t seem to stop looking at her boobs.

  “And while you drink, learn some manners. It isn’t polite to stare at a lady’s bosom.”

  “Call it a ‘bosom’ and I won’t stare at it,” I say, picking up a glass and chugging. That’s a lie—I’ll still stare.

  “I don’t understand what we’re doing here.”

  “I think we roll the dice,” I say, studying the backgammon board.

  “What are the dice for?”

  “Uh . . .” I scratch the side of my head. “To tell us how many spaces to move.”

  “Where are the spaces?”

  I squint at the board some more. “Can’t be sure. I think it’s missing pieces.”

  She runs her finger over the felt of the board and strokes the triangle sections. She starts with one finger, and then adds two . . .

  “What are you doing?” I ask, shifting on the bench.

  “Stroking the triangles.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugs. “Drunk, and I haven’t stroked anything in a long time.”

  “Stop it.”

  She glances up at me, eyebrow raised. “Is this turning you on, Rowan?”

  “No.”

  Yes.

  “Are you . . . sure?” she asks in a seductive voice.

  “You know, two can play at that game.” I bring my finger to one of the triangles and start to slowly massage it.

  Her eyes zero in on my finger, and her tongue peeks out, wetting her lips. “That’s a nice cadence you’ve got going on there. Looks like good pressure.”

  “Aye. Really good pressure,” I say, dropping my voice.

  Really getting into it, she strokes her triangle harder, faster.

  Jesus. I swallow hard, watching as her tongue pokes out and wets the top of her lip. That tongue, what I could do with it . . .

  This can’t be one sided.

  So I pick up the pace, eyeing her, and when her gaze lands on my finger, I slow it down, really dragging out the “pleasure.”

  “Oh God,” she says, her free hand traveling up her chest to her neck.

  “Uh . . . do you two need a second?” Hamish asks as he steps up to our table.

  We both jump and snap away from the board, hands going to our laps.

  I clear my throat. “Just playing backgammon.”

  “I’ve never seen it played like that.”

  “American way,” Bonnie says.

  “Aye, well, if you’re done playing, another table would like it.”

  “Sure, yup, all done.” Bonnie folds the board and shoves it toward Hamish. He thanks us and takes off. Bonnie glances at me. “Were we just . . . jerking each other off with a board game?”

  “I wasn’t . . . were you?”

  “No.” She shakes her head quickly. “Nope . . . not even a little.”

  “Good, because my dick is way bigger than that felt triangle.”

  Her mouth falls open as I smirk and finish off another pint.

  “You’re not so bad when you’re drunk,” Bonnie says, tossing a ladder ball clear across the playing area and missing the playing ladder completely. The sun is setting, the cast-iron lights that surround the courtyard are flickering on, and we’re currently battling a couple of tourists—Jim and Yolanda—who are on their second honeymoon. They’re staying at Under the Goat’s Kilt Inn and decided to extend their visit one more night because they’ve loved their time in Corsekelly.

  They’re also destroying us in ladder ball.

  “You’re tolerable,” I say as I toss a ball as well, which whacks Jim in the shin. “Sorry,” I call out. He just waves in response. Third time I’ve done that—you’d think he’d have faster reflexes by now.

  “I’m more than tolerable.” She whips her arm back and flings a ball. “Tallyho.” It wallops Yolanda in the arm. “Oof, sorry, Yolly!” Bonnie calls out. “They must think we’re aiming for them.”

  “I did on the last one,” I admit. “Wanted to see if he would move.”

  Bonnie chuckles and grabs my arm. “I just aimed at Yolly. Thought maybe if I aimed at her rather than at the ladder, I would hit the ladder. Didn’t work.”

  “Solid logic, though.”

  “Thank you.”

  From across the court, Jim says, “I think we’re going to call it a night.”

  “Ahh, well, make sure you ice that welt.” Bonnie waves. “Enjoy Corsekelly, and stop in the coffee shop for subpar coffee tomorrow morning.”

  They take off and Bonnie sighs, leaning against me.

  “I think I should get home too,” I say, my brain feeling sluggish, the effects of way too much beer.

  “Me too.” Bonnie wobbles as she starts to walk away. “Hey, where did Dakota and Isla go?” I glance over at their table, which is now vacant. Hell, almost the entire pub is vacant. When did that happen? She reaches for her phone and scans a text. “Oh, they went for a walk. Gah, do you think they’re holding hands? Oh my God, what if they kiss?” She grabs my shirt and shakes me. “Do you think they’ll kiss?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe?”

  “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see that. Dakota has the softest lips—she is constantly moisturizing them. I bet Isla will be immediately delighted by them. And the passion behind the kiss—think there’ll be passion?”

  I shrug. “Maybe?”

  “Ugh, you’re so . . . boring.”

  “Is that so?” I hold her up by her arm and guide her away from the pub and toward her cottage. “If I’m so boring, then how the hell did I entertain you all night?”

  “Duh, I entertained you.”

  “You wish. I was entertained because I entertained you.”

  Her nose scrunches up. “That makes no sense.”

  “Sounded right in my head.”

  She glances around, seeming to catch up to the fact that we’re walking. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the cottage, where else?”

  “You could be taking me to your sex dungeon.”

  “Nah, you’re not sex-dungeon material.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Her voice rises in defense. “You saw me stroking that triangle. I was really good at it.”

  “Really good is a stretch.”

  “As if your finger digging was any good.”

  “I wasn’t digging. Jesus.”

  She stumbles over a rock when we get to the driveway, and I hold her up. Seems like I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “Why are you taking me to the cottage? I wasn’t done drinking.”

  “You were done. Just seconds ago you said you should go home.”

  “Who made you the boss?”

  “God?” I ask, really unsure who made me the boss at this point.

  “Oh no, there is no way God would make you the boss.”

  “Do you like to disagree with me just to fight?”

  “No.” She smirks just as we reach the cottage.

  That smirk is dangerous.

  That single smirk could make me do something stupid.

  Something really stupid . . . like kiss her. Because she’s the kind of girl who can dig under your skin, make you want more, and I’m not sure I’m mentally ready for that kind of battle.

  So, to avoid any poor decisions, I throw the door open and push her inside. “There. Now, good night.”

  I’m turning to walk away when she calls out, “The minute you’re gone, I’m going back to the pub.”

  I pause, and my back stiffens as I turn around to face her. “The hell you are . . .”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BONNIE

  Beers consumed: Feels like at least twenty-five.

  Days since last male-induced orgasm: Who’s counting anymore?

  Hairy chests hand is playing with: One.

  Uhh . . . why is my hand on a hairy chest?

  Why am I so warm?

  Am I petting a chinchilla?

  I squint my eyes open. The sun is too bright, and my head is trying to crack itself open. But despite the scrambled eggs my brain is transforming into, I notice one thing that isn’t right . . . there is a man in my bed.

  Not just any man . . .

  *Whispers*

  Kilty McGrumpyshire.

  *Gasp*

  My hands quickly fall to my body—I feel my breasts first.

  Exposed.

  Oh my God, why am I naked?

  “Why am I naked?” I shout, sitting up in bed and startling the hell out of Rowan. He rolls off the bed, just as I realize I’m not naked—I’m still wearing my dress. My boobs have just fallen out of it like little escapees.

  Just as Rowan pops his head up, I clap my hands over my boobs and turn toward him. His shirt is unbuttoned, but the rest of him is covered.

  Did I unbutton his shirt?

  Ugh. I forgot about his tattoo.

  And his perfectly proportioned nipples.

  Even in the morning, fresh off the booze train, he’s gorgeous.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asks, pressing a palm to his eye.

  “Why are you in my bed?”

  He glances around. “Hell if I know.” He blinks a few times. “Why are your tits out of your dress?”

  “They went rogue last night. It has nothing to do with you.” I turn away and stuff the stubborn ladies back in. Dignity and all. Once I’m tucked away, I turn back around to find the smallest of smirks on his lips, and good God, my loins practically throw themselves at him.

  Deadly. He is positively deadly with a smirk.

  Trying to control myself, I say, “Your chest hair is really soft. What little chest hair you have, that is.”

  He glances down at the small patch between his pecs and then back up at me. “I put leave-in conditioner in it.”

  “Really?” I didn’t take him for a leave-in conditioner kind of guy, although his hair is luscious.

  “No.” He stands, and that’s when I see his jeans are unbuttoned, revealing a peek of his black underwear.

  Of course he’d have black underwear. I don’t know why that’s a turn-on for me, but it is. So are the abs carved into his taut stomach and the little patch of hair right above his waistline.

  “Checking me out, Bonnie?”

  I cross my arms over my chest and look away. “I’d rather burn my eyes out with acid.”

  He chuckles, and just like that . . . my nipples are hard.

  “Good to know.” He grabs his shoes and moves around the bed, through the cramped room, and down the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, chasing after him—for God knows what reason.

  “Home. I need to wash your stink off me.”

  “I don’t stink,” I scoff as we make it into the living room. He sits down on the couch and puts his boots on, his fingers flying through the laces. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone tie their boots that fast.

  Why is that something I’m noticing?

  I blame the hangover.

  When he stands, he tilts his head to the side, studying me as he slowly buttons up his shirt—a total detriment to society. He might drive me crazy, but his body was made to be naked at all times.

  “You look sad. Do you not want me to leave?” he asks in a teasing tone.

  “Oh, I def—”

  “Uh . . . good morning,” I hear Dakota say behind me.

  I quickly spin around to find her standing in her bedroom doorway, a sly smile turning up her lips.

  Oof, how could I forget Dakota was here? I probably assumed she went home with Isla. Although not everyone works like I do—bringing an orgasm producer home but failing to receive said orgasm.

  Not that I would want him to give me one.

  Yeah, I know, I didn’t believe that last sentence either, but I figured, you know . . . to save face and all.

  “Morning, lass,” Rowan says casually, as if standing in our house with his shirt half-undone and jeans open is completely and utterly normal. “How was your date with Isla?”

  Dakota frowns and glances cautiously between us. “It was nice.”

  “Did you kiss?” I ask, clasping my hands together at my chest, momentarily forgetting my predicament.

  “No.” Dakota’s face brightens. “We did hold hands, though, while we went for a walk.”

  “Oh, be still my heart,” I gush. Turning to Rowan, I grab the lapels of his shirt and shake him—or at least attempt to. “Did you hear that? They held hands.”

  “Which pales in comparison to whatever you two did last night,” Dakota says.

  I wave my hand at her. “Nothing happened.” To Rowan, I whisper, “Nothing happened, right?”

  “Her tits threw themselves at me, and she told me my chest felt like a chinchilla.”

  “I said that out loud?”

  “Mumbled it,” he says, awkwardly patting me on the back.

  “What a . . . thrilling night,” Dakota says, still looking confused. “So is this . . .” She wags her finger between us. “A thing?”

  “What? No.” I shake my head. “Nope. No . . . no.”

  “If you didn’t get that, it’s a solid no,” Rowan chimes in.

  “Okay.” Dakota rocks on her heels. “Would you like to stay for breakfast, Rowan?”

  “Oh, he has to get going—”

  “Would love to.” He pats me on the back again and then makes his way to the kitchen, shirt and jeans still undone. “Shall I cook us up some eggs and toast?”

  “That would be great,” Dakota says, smirking at me.

  Why does it feel like they’re on the same team—one I am forbidden to join?

  “So, tell us about your date,” I say, sitting down at the dining table with Dakota while Rowan moves around in the kitchen.

  “It was really good.” Dakota plays with a napkin on the table. “She’s pretty awesome, but Rowan already knows this.”

  “I do,” he says, his perfectly deep voice adding to the conversation. “She’s quite the catch.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Everything. Our childhoods, how different they were. Spoke about our friendship, and how even though I don’t have siblings, you’ve always been a sister to me.”

  “True. I have no problem fighting you for the last piece of cake.”

  “Claws out and everything,” she says, and we both laugh. “But it was also nice to have someone actually look me in the eye while I spoke. It felt like she cared about what I had to say. Isabella was never like that. Maybe a little at first, but then . . . I don’t know. I felt more like a puppet to her than anything.”

  I nod, remembering just how toxic that entire relationship was. “Tell me about the hand holding.”

  “Well, she asked if I wanted to go for a walk, and of course I wanted to since you and Rowan were starting to get rowdy and loud.”

  “Were we?”

  Dakota laughs. “Uh, yeah. It was quite the sight to behold.”

  I cringe. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, you were having fun. You need fun.”

  Rowan glances over his shoulder at me from the stove, and I quickly look away. I don’t want him to see any ounce of vulnerability, because yeah, I did have fun last night—at least from what I can remember.

  I had one of the best times I’ve had in a long time that didn’t involve Dakota. He helped take my mind off my nagging need to prove something to myself, to find anything that shows I’m on the right track, that I’m worthy. It’s a feeling that’s been plaguing me for what feels like every second of the day, and he erased that. He helped me relax, chill, just enjoy life for a moment rather than focus on what I could have done differently the last few years.

  Yes, we might bicker and pick on each other, but I know it’s all in good spirit. I like a guy who doesn’t hold back, and Rowan doesn’t. He says whatever is on his mind. It can be terrifying at times, but also thrilling. And that realization is startling because I think . . . oh God . . . I think I might be having some sort of affectionate feelings toward the man.

  No . . .

  Right?

  It must just be indigestion from the beer last night.

  At least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself, because there is no way I want to face these feelings right now. I’d rather lay down the denial card, thank you very much.

  “So, the hand holding.” I nudge her under the table, a sign I want her to move on.

  “Yes, well, we started walking through town, along the loch. I was telling her about LA when she slipped her hand into mine.”

  “Smooth,” Rowan says, and I detect a hint of pride in his voice.

  “I was a little surprised at first, but then it felt so right, and we wove our fingers together. It was perfect. I had so many butterflies take off in my stomach that it almost felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

  “Gah, my heart can’t take this.” I reach over and take Dakota’s hand. “I’m so excited for you. So, does this mean you’ll go out again?”

  “If she asks, I will.”

  “Why don’t you ask her?” Rowan chimes in, bringing two plates of food to the table. He sets them in front of us with silverware and then returns to the counter, leaning against it and picking up a plate for himself. He grabs a fork and starts to dig in, and I realize something—he might drive me crazy and he might be the grumpiest person I’ve ever met, but underneath it all, he’s a very kind and caring man.

  A protector.