Dear God, Dakota. A filter, please.

  Rowan steps away and turns toward the door. “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about. I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Wait, Rowan, we weren’t done.”

  “Just do whatever, Bonnie.” Before I can answer, he takes off, the door shutting behind him.

  Dakota shoots me a confused look. “Did I interrupt something?”

  Normally my response would be sarcastic, but I don’t want to take away from her big moment. I shake my head. “So she said yes, huh? Tell me all about it.”

  Smiling brightly, she recounts the entire conversation, and even though I’m dying to know what Rowan was going to say, I could not be happier in this moment.

  “Hey, Leith,” I say, walking up to the high-top table he’s occupying in the pub.

  “Bonnie, you’re looking beautiful tonight.” He pulls me into a tight hug, enveloping me in his woodsy cologne. It’s nice.

  “Thank you. You’re very handsome yourself.”

  I take a step back as he adjusts the collar of his shirt. “I ironed this myself.”

  “Well, you did a superior job.”

  “Thank you. Now, what can I help you with? I know you’re looking for something, because you have a little crinkle between your eyes.” He pokes my forehead and chuckles.

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “Aye.” He nods.

  “I was looking for Rowan. I was hoping he’d be here. We have some unfinished business.”

  “Does this have to do with him walking out of your cottage this morning? Isla told me she spotted the old scoundrel.”

  Wow, news spreads even quicker here than in Los Angeles, where people live and breathe by gossip websites.

  “Nothing happened.”

  “So I’ve been told.” He shakes his head. “If it were me, something would have happened. You’re a fine lass, quite the catch.”

  I chuckle and tip his chin. “And you’re quite the ladies’ man.”

  “Try to be, but I ken it’s the broody one you’re after.”

  I shake my head. “Not after him; just need to talk to him.”

  “So you’re telling me there’s still a chance?”

  I shrug. “Never say never.”

  He fist pumps the air playfully. “I’ll take it.”

  “Now, would you be able to tell me where Rowan is?”

  “Most likely hunkered down in his cottage.”

  Well, that’s not helpful. I purse my lips and look to the side, trying to figure out what to do next.

  “I can tell you how to get there if you want. About a five-minute walk from here.”

  Look at Leith being a good friend. He very well might be my favorite Murdach now.

  “You don’t think he’d get mad?”

  Leith gives me a good once-over. “If you showed up at my door, I definitely wouldn’t be mad.”

  “Okay, okay, enough with the flirting—you’re going to make me blush.”

  He chuckles. “We Scots are quite the charmers. Now, come here.” He stands from his seat and guides me out the front door and around the corner. “See that road over there, Loch Lane?” He points to a street just around the petrol station. “Take that all the way to the end. You’ll come to a cottage on the right—can’t miss it. Navy-blue door. That’s Rowan’s place.”

  “That seems pretty easy.”

  “Can’t get lost. Good luck, lass.”

  With a quick goodbye, I take off down Loch Lane, admiring all the little cottages I pass on the way. I can’t imagine how anyone would want to live somewhere else. It truly feels like an entirely made-up world out here, a world you only see in movies and storybooks. As I come to the end of the lane, I spot a cottage on the right, tucked behind some trees. Its door is painted navy blue.

  A stone wall circles the front of the cottage with an old iron gate, potted flowers hang off the house on hooks, and the white walls glisten in the sun. It’s a beautiful little cottage, and I could easily see it serving as his oasis—a place to tuck himself away at night, an escape after a long day in a small town.

  Just like where Dakota and I are staying.

  Nerves bloom in my stomach as I walk through the gate, which creaks out my arrival. I hope this was a good idea. My determination to get to the bottom of what Rowan was starting to say at the coffee shop wanes, and regret creeps in. What if he truly wants to be alone and I’m barging in on that time?

  I look behind me, down Loch Lane. The rooftops of town peek out beyond a grove of trees. I could run away undetected—

  The door to the cottage suddenly opens, revealing Rowan, standing in a pair of low-hanging sweatpants and nothing else.

  Uh, I don’t think someone could get me to flee even if there was a fire. I don’t mind the prospect of staring at this man all night.

  His hand grips the edge of the door, his knuckles whitening from how hard he’s squeezing the wood. I catch a ripple in his forearm as my eyes travel over his intricate tattoo to his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes.

  God, angry looks so sexy on him.

  “Can I come in?” I ask.

  I’m met with silence as his eyes do a slow once-over, traveling up my leggings and plain T-shirt. And just when I think he’s about to say no, he pushes the door open a little more. I duck under his arm and walk into his cottage.

  It’s simple, clean, and everything I would expect from him. To the right sits a black leather couch facing a small fireplace. There’s no TV in sight, but instead, an open book is turned facedown on the coffee table. To the left is a small kitchen and a two-person dining table. It’s just like our cottage, but Rowan’s is better organized, with newer wood cabinets and modern hardware. Above the coffee maker is a row of beautifully crafted mugs, hanging from hooks and bringing a sense of color to the white, rustic space.

  When he shuts the door, I turn to face him, and his eyes rake over me one more time. He looks like a wolf on the prowl, and I’m the prey. It’s equally terrifying and exhilarating.

  “Uh . . . Leith told me where you live.”

  He doesn’t say anything, so I keep on going, my pulse rising every second.

  “I wanted to finish our conversation from earlier. I didn’t think it had a proper conclusion.”

  Nothing. Not a quirk to the brow, not a tick in the jaw. Just arms crossed, staring at me.

  “Were you, uh, interested in finishing that conversation?” I ask, twisting my hands together, a jittery sensation bouncing inside me.

  Rowan is a private person. I know this. Did I just completely overstep my bounds?

  Then again, if he didn’t want me here, he wouldn’t have let me in, right?

  Motioning to his cottage, I say, “You’ve done a lovely job with the space. I like the subtle pops of color.”

  He runs a hand along the side of his jaw, and . . . can I just pause for a second and appreciate the specimen in front of me?

  Chiseled, sculpted, a Scottish Adonis with a handsome face and the perfect amount of scruff on his jaw, which seems to never change in length. He’s unlike any man I’ve ever seen in person but have always dreamed up. His carved V borders an extreme set of abs. His large pecs connect to boulder-like arms and large, sexy hands.

  And when anger vibrates through him—like it is now—every one of his muscles fires off. It’s quite the sight to behold.

  “Are you going to say something?” I ask, feeling myself shrink in his presence, beneath his intimidating stare. “Because it’s rude to invite someone in but not talk. You have company, Rowan—be a good host.”

  His jaw works side to side but remains clamped shut.

  Well, this seems to have been a huge mistake.

  Not in the mood for a blowup, I let out a heavy, defeated breath. I should probably leave—catch him on another day when he’s ready to be human, not a Neanderthal.

  “Okay, well, this was a lovely visit. Thank you for the hospitality.”

  I push past him, but he reaches out and gently takes my arm, halting me in place. We’re standing side by side—he faces one direction, and I face the other. “Coffee?” he quietly asks.

  “Uh . . . sure.”

  Slowly, he releases my arm, and his fingers trail over my skin like feathers, sending a shiver up my spine as he pulls away.

  He strides to the kitchen, keeping his back toward me. I watch him prepare a simple pot of coffee and then pull two mugs from the hooks. While the coffee brews, he opens a cabinet that’s next to the fridge and pulls out a Tupperware container full of . . . oh dear God.

  It’s cake.

  Things are about to get embarrassing.

  “Is that, uh . . . cake you’ve got over there?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Because if so, you know I would love a piece, big guy.”

  He pulls two beautifully made plates off a shelf, the same style as the mugs. Then he cuts two pieces of cake, puts them on the plates with forks, and brings them to the coffee table, just as the coffee maker beeps.

  He fills each mug. “Cream or sugar?”

  “Both,” I answer, standing awkwardly in the middle of his cottage, unsure of what to do with my hands—or my body, for that matter. Do I sit down? Do I wait for him? Do I snag the cake and sprint out the door?

  Option three is looking pretty promising—that is, until he turns around with two mugs and I catch sight of him once more.

  Yeah, there’s no way I would be able to leave at this point. I’m dedicated to watching his pecs flex tonight.

  He heads toward the couch, then takes a seat and sets everything down on the coffee table. When he looks up at me, he asks, “Are you going to sit down or stand there all night?”

  “Well, you know, you’ve made things quite uncomfortable.” I move around the couch and take a seat. “I’m not sure I’m even allowed to breathe in your space.”

  “You can breathe.”

  “Oh, look at that, you can talk.” He slides a mug over to my side and then leans back on the couch, staring at me.

  But he doesn’t just stare. He practically looks into my soul as his arm casually drapes along the back of the couch.

  “So.” I pat my lap. “Are we just going to look at each other?” He doesn’t answer, and I can’t take it anymore. It’s probably some sort of Scottish intimidation tactic that I’m unaware of, but there’s only so much silence I can endure before I start to lose my mind.

  I’ve hit that point.

  I reach out and push against his leg. “What is wrong with you?” I scoot closer, poking him in the quad, determined to annoy him until he says something. “Talk to me. Say something—anything. Just stop sitting there in silence without a word or—”

  “You look beautiful tonight, Bonnie.” And just like that, he steals my breath from me. He looks away, clenching his fist and opening it, as if he’s trying to control himself.

  “Are you finally admitting you find me attractive?” I ask, hoping that lightens the mood.

  The teasing falls short as he reaches out and lifts my chin. “Ye ken I do.”

  Okay, then.

  Glad we established that.

  Annnd . . . why did I come here, again?

  My mind draws a blank as my heart rate picks up. My desire escalates to a body-pounding level that I’ve never experienced in my life.

  Please, Bonnie, don’t do something stupid.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ROWAN

  Americans making me talk way too much: One.

  I knew she was going to be bad news the minute I saw her, but for some reason I’m holding on to that bad news and, apparently, trying to make it mine.

  I’ve thought about her all day.

  Ever since I left her cottage, I’ve thought about her.

  The way her hand felt moving over my chest, her warm body tucked up against mine in the morning, the hug before I left, her admission . . .

  Hell, my admission.

  And then later, in the coffee shop, I was ready to blurt out my sordid history in the middle of the day, as if I’ve known this lass forever. It was a reality check.

  I’ve lost my damn mind.

  When have I ever talked about the past? Let alone to someone I barely know?

  Never.

  And yet, when I heard the gate creak a few moments ago, the sign of someone coming, I knew it was going to be her. I felt her presence. Seeing her, those eyes . . . fuck, I couldn’t turn her away if I wanted to, and all those emotions I felt in the coffee shop, all my confessions, came bubbling up again.

  The only way I knew to keep myself from pouring everything out to her was to stay silent.

  But it seems like that tactic has run its course.

  Fidgeting with her hair, she looks off to the side. “So, you find me attractive, good to know. Not too bad yourself.”

  She’s fucking adorable.

  “And even though this conversation is quite riveting, I think we should eat some cake.” She picks up her plate, scoops a giant bite, and plops it in her mouth. As if she’s forgotten about the last minute, she moans against her fork and sinks back into the sofa. “Where the hell has this been since I’ve arrived? Dundee cake is good and all, but this . . . this . . . what is this?” She pokes the cake with her fork.

  “Iced cherry cake.”

  “Well, hold my boobs and slap my ass because ooooeeee is this a delight in my mouth.” She takes another forkful and closes her eyes. “The flavors are magnificent. And it’s so moist. Oh man do I love a moist cake. Moist . . . moist, moist, moist.” She shoves the last bite in her mouth and leans over, poking at the cake on my plate. “Are you going to eat this?” She snags a forkful and picks up the plate, holding it in front of her as she chews. “Is this from Isla’s shop? Because she’s been holding out on me.”

  “I made it,” I say.

  Silence.

  Slowly, she turns and looks me in the eyes. Her mouth carefully chews. Swallows. And then . . . “You made this?” she asks in such awe that, hell, my calm exterior cracks.

  A smirk tugs at my lips and I nod. “Aye, I made it.”

  “For yourself?”

  “Aye . . . ,” I reply, confused.

  “You mean to tell me that you came home one day and thought, ‘You know, I think I’m going to make myself a cherry cake.’”

  “Is there something wrong with that?”

  She sets her fork down, cake still on it, and folds her hands carefully on her lap. “I’m going to be honest with you, Rowan. Never in my life have I ever wanted to jump a man’s bones as much as I want to right now.”

  All of this over cake?

  She clears her throat and lifts her chin. “But I am a lady, and even though I showed animalistic eating habits just a few moments ago, I refuse to jump any man at this age.”

  “Aren’t you twenty-four?” I ask.

  “A respectable twenty-four. I’m not a twenty-two-year-old floozy anymore. I mean business. So, I will say thank you for the cake, kind sir, and then be on my way.”

  “Do whatever ye want,” I say, calling her bluff and picking up my plate of cake, which still has her fork on it. I lift the fork to my mouth, watching her hands—itching, ready to pounce in three, two, one . . .

  “On second thought, you look like you need company.” She takes the fork and shoves the cake in her mouth. “Oh, sweet sugary nectar, you’re giving me life.”

  I chuckle. She’s so fucking ridiculous.

  “Help yourself,” I tease.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” She takes another bite and then picks up her coffee. She takes a sip, and her eyes widen. “Oh my God, what kind of coffee is this?”

  “Special blend I order in. Cherry coffee with cherry cake—my favorite combo.”

  Her hand falls to my thigh, and she gives it a good squeeze. A bolt of lust shoots straight to my cock. I take a deep breath.

  Keep it together, lad.

  “Rowan, do you realize the kind of flavor combination you’ve created here? This could easily sell in the shop as a special.”

  “Who’s going to make the cherry cake?”

  “Uh . . . you?”

  “Not interested,” I say, finishing the rest of the cake and setting the plate down.

  “Don’t you want to help your parents?”

  “I’ve given up enough for them,” I say, my throat feeling tight all of a sudden. To an outsider, my comment must sound selfish, but if she knew what I’ve been through, she’d understand exactly where the feelings are coming from, where my need to help falls flat.

  From the sympathetic look on Bonnie’s face, it’s a safe guess that no one has told her exactly what happened to my brother.

  “What have you given up?”

  “Not something I want to talk about.”

  “Is that what you were alluding to back at the coffee shop?”

  I blow out a heavy breath. “Bonnie—”

  “Fine, we don’t have to talk about that. I can tell you’re getting angry. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she asks, batting her eyelashes. “Came for the cake and compliments.”

  “You didn’t know I had cake.”

  “Lucky guess.” She shakes my leg. “Come on, Rowan, relax. Stop being so stiff.”

  Keep touching my leg like that, and the “stiffness” won’t go away.

  “Be real, Bonnie,” I say. “Why are you here?”

  Her smile fades and she leans back, removing her hand from my leg.

  “Honestly?” I nod. “I wanted to see you. Make sure you were okay. Talk to you.” She shrugs. “Spend an evening with you without alcohol. I got the impression that you might be hurting in one way or another, and I thought it would be nice to talk to someone who might truly understand what I’m going through as well.”

  When she lifts her eyes to mine, I immediately see vulnerability. She might love to joke and tease, but behind that facade is a broken heart, a damaged spirit, and that’s what makes her real.

  I nod toward her feet. “Take your shoes off and get comfortable.”

  She takes her shoes off and shoots me a beaming smile that hits me in the gut. This might have been a bad idea. That single smile tells me that this girl very well might own me by the end of the night.