Well . . . damn.

  I point my fork at him. “Don’t try to butter me up with compliments.”

  “Fine. Your hair is a damn mess.”

  I pat down my head. “Really?”

  He chuckles. “Nay. You’re still beautiful.”

  “You don’t have to walk me all the way,” I say when we reach the driveway leading to the cottage.

  “Wasn’t planning on it. This is where I send you on your way.”

  I study him, my hand still clutching his. “You know, you’re a strange man. Sweet and passionate and protective one minute and then a grumpy, sarcastic ass the next.”

  “Take what you can get, lass.” He leans forward, lifts my chin, and presses a sweet kiss to my lips. “See you around.”

  He lets go of my hand and starts to walk away.

  “Uh, excuse me.” He pauses and looks over his shoulder. “‘See you around’? That’s all you’ve got? No ‘I’ll call you’?”

  “Don’t have your number.” He winks and takes off, not turning around again, not even when I huff out in frustration.

  “Infuriating man,” I mumble, stomping down the driveway and straight into the cottage. Dakota is sitting at the table, enjoying her own breakfast of eggs. She’s in her running gear, and a light sheen of sweat coats her skin. Man, I need to start working out more like her, or else the shortbread and tattie scones and cherry cake really will catch up to me.

  “Good morning.” She smirks, taking me in. I’m still wearing Rowan’s shirt and no bra, though I did pull on my leggings before leaving his house. My shirt and undergarments are tucked into a bag Rowan gave me, which I’m clutching with one hand.

  “It’s not what it looks like.”

  “Looks like you slept over at Rowan’s house. And from the goofy grin on your face, I’d say your dry spell’s ended.”

  “I’m not sporting a goofy grin. I’m irritated with that man.”

  “You might be irritated on the inside, but you’re glowing on the outside.” She sits back and takes a large gulp from her water glass. “Care to share?”

  I plop into the seat across from her. “I sucked his cock.”

  Dakota’s eyes widen, and she spits her water back in her glass. “Jesus, Bonnie,” she chuckles as water dribbles down her chin. “Warn a girl before you go and say something like that.”

  “You wanted me to share, and that’s what happened. It was in the middle of the night too. At first he just held me, and then I woke up to find him in the kitchen by himself. That’s where we kissed.” I sigh at the memory of that moment. “It was so perfect, and then, when we went back to bed . . . well, I was a little handsy and then so was he, so I stripped him down and had my way with his body.”

  “Wow, you really went for it. I’m proud of you. Did he reciprocate?”

  “Oh, did he.” I shake my head in disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard, Dakota. I was on a different planet. It was insane.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “And then he made me breakfast, ruined me for all men, walked me home, and said . . . ‘See you around.’”

  Dakota tilts her head back and laughs. “Oh, that’s perfect.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “No, it really is. He loves goading you, and that’s exactly what he did.”

  “The devil of a man.”

  “Yeah, but you like it.” She smirks.

  I do.

  I really freaking do.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BONNIE

  Days since last male-induced orgasm: ZERO!

  Need I really say more at this point?

  “So that’s it?” I ask Dakota as we both stare down at a flat piece of rock in a dank cave. Water glistens off the walls, and our feet are sinking half an inch into the muddy ground, something I wasn’t expecting when I wore my cute tennis shoes.

  “I believe so,” Dakota says. “The Boaby Stone.”

  I lean toward her. “Is it as unimpressive to you as it is to me?”

  “Frankly, the only thing impressive about it is that it’s probably seen more dick than you have.”

  “Hey,” I say on a laugh, shoving her to the side.

  She chuckles and then pulls out her phone to take a picture. “Want to pretend your arm is a penis and take a picture?”

  “Isn’t it obvious that’s why we’re here?”

  “Just making sure.”

  Squatting down to the height of the stone, which reaches just below my knees, I position my arm in front of my crotch and then hover it right above the slab. I don’t want to make actual contact, because there has been real dick on it—lots of real dick—and touching a melting pot of penis is not on my to-do list today.

  “Smile,” Dakota says right before taking a picture.

  I stand, and when she offers her screen, I quickly approve the picture. “Send that to me. Do you want one of yourself with a fake penis?”

  “I’m good.”

  I pause and stare at her. “Soooo . . . you made me take a picture, but you’re not going to take one?”

  “I didn’t make you—you did it of your own accord. It’s Instagram worthy for you, but I keep it classy for my clients.”

  “Ugh, if you start talking about keeping your brand cohesive on social media again, I’m going to tour the Highlands without you,” I say, striding away from the stone and toward the cave’s entrance. I duck past the dripping water at the opening as I hear Dakota trail behind me.

  “It’s important, Bonnie. Influencers and companies find me through Instagram. I can’t have a picture on there of me pretending my arm is a penis.”

  I whip around, halting her in place as I plant my hands on my hips. “It’s because my arms are longer than yours, isn’t it? You’re too ashamed to have your fake penis next to my fake penis.”

  “Yes, Bonnie,” she deadpans. “That’s exactly right. I have fake-penis envy.”

  I snap my fingers and smile. “I knew it.” I reach out and take her hand in mine. “Come on, now, we have much to see.”

  We decided to visit a few spots in the Highlands today. We have plans to go to Inverness and explore later on, and when we can really squeeze in some time together, we want to hit up Edinburgh. We aren’t just here to work and find ourselves. We’re also here to take in the country.

  And that is what today is about: exploring with my best friend.

  My eleventh-grade English teacher was obsessed with England. A real lover of Shakespeare. He would drive us crazy with anecdotes and vacation pictures of him splashed around England.

  Mr. Dorsey in a red phone booth.

  Mr. Dorsey in front of Buckingham Palace.

  Mr. Dorsey in the countryside.

  Mr. Dorsey at Stonehenge.

  At one point, Josh Flanders stood up in the middle of a slideshow of Mr. Dorsey prancing in an English field with sheep and told the man to get a life. Josh was sent to the principal, but mentally I applauded him. Who on earth would be so obsessed with another country?

  *Ahem*

  *Slowly raises hand*

  Yeah, I get it now.

  I so freaking get it.

  Ugh, poor Mr. Dorsey. I want to write a letter to him and tell him . . . “I see you.”

  And then I want to write him a letter describing in intricate detail the way the heather on the hills sways rhythmically with the wind, almost like it’s dancing.

  To make my point: I’m obsessed with Scotland.

  I came to that realization about five minutes ago, when Dakota slowly pulled around a bend on a narrow road that opens up to a valley. My heart caught in my throat as the landscape unfolded before us.

  After pulling off onto a lookout with a bench, we sat in the car and quietly stared for a few good minutes before I got out of the car and breathed it all in.

  The fresh air was the first thing to ignite my senses. So pure.

  The second thing was the soft sound of a trickling brook winding and weaving through the valley. Not big enough to be a river, but powerful enough to set the soundtrack for the view in front of us.

  The third thing was the contrast in bold colors Mother Nature has chosen to bless us with. A palette of whimsical childhood hues clashing together, making the soil pop, the clouds dance, and the peaks claim authority over the land.

  The only word for it all: breathtaking.

  “Wow,” Dakota says as she pulls a travel cooler with our lunches out of the car.

  “I know. I think we found the spot.”

  “We did.” She chuckles, and we both take a seat on the wide bench.

  Before we left Corsekelly, we stopped at the bakeshop for some savory pies—both opting for cheese and onion today—and of course some shortbread, because what’s one more helping for my hips?

  “Isla was right about this place,” I say, taking a bite of my pie and enjoying the hearty and acidic flavors of the cooked onion. “I’m so glad she told us about it.”

  “Me too,” Dakota says quietly.

  I know that quiet.

  That quiet is a result of her thinking heavily about something.

  That quiet has been present through almost our entire drive.

  Yes, we were taking in the views and listening to traditional Scottish music, but she usually comments on a few things, at the very least. There was no commenting this time.

  I bump her with my shoulder. “What’s going on in that head of yours? And don’t tell me nothing. We’ve been friends since the fourth grade—I know when you’re thinking too hard.”

  “Do I really give it away?”

  “Smoke comes out of your ears. I like to think of it as sort of a Batsignal, but just for me.” Cupping my hands around my mouth—pie balanced precariously on my lap—I say, “Alert, alert, Bonnie, help is needed. Help is needed.”

  “You are so stupid.” Dakota laughs and then lets out a long sigh. “I’m scared.”

  “Scared?” I ask, turning to face her. Sorry, scenery. “Why are you scared?”

  “I don’t think I know how to navigate this thing with Isla. And I’m really starting to like her. I don’t want to make a mistake.”

  “Dakota—”

  “Isabella was always telling me that I was doing things wrong. I wasn’t holding her hand enough. I wasn’t giving her enough affection. I wasn’t dressing the way she wanted me to dress. I wasn’t posting enough about gay rights. I should be using my Instagram platform for the lesbian community, not for my business. I wasn’t . . . gay enough.” Shoulders slouched, she twists her hands in her lap. “Those words haunt me. I can still see her with that blonde, when I found them in bed together. She didn’t even care I caught her cheating on me. She just shrugged and said, ‘You’re not gay enough for me; I moved on.’ What if . . . what if it’s the same with Isla?”

  Anger eclipses me, and I have to take a brief pause before I say something that won’t help the situation—only magnify it.

  Once I’m feeling calm, I take Dakota’s hand in mine. “I want to make one thing clear: being gay doesn’t define you. Do you understand that? I think sometimes people fall under the impression that if you’re gay, that’s who you are. You’re gay, and they leave it at that. But that’s not fair. And just like a beautiful, nonsmelly onion”—she chuckles—“you have layers, and being gay isn’t the outer ring; it isn’t even the second or third. It’s deep at your core, and you keep it there, close to your heart, because that’s the way you choose to live your life. You choose to define yourself as a good friend. As a beautiful artist. As a savvy businesswoman who has used her platform to grow her freelance work. You are so much more than a lesbian. Yes, that’s a piece of who you are, but it’s not the definition.”

  She smiles softly and tilts her head, resting it on my shoulder. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” I kiss the top of her head. “Isabella put you through hell, and she’s made you second-guess every piece of you that makes you special, unique, the best friend you are. Don’t let one person’s blinded opinion of you make you question the person you’ve grown to be.”

  “I loved her, though. She was my first . . . ever. She helped open my eyes to a part of me I was hiding for such a long time. She was right about my being gay, which was the biggest revelation of my life. It’s hard not to trust her opinion on everything else, when she knew I was gay.”

  “I can understand that.” I stroke her hair. “Yes, she might have opened your eyes, but that’s all she did. And if it wasn’t her, it was going to be another girl—you just happened to run into Isabella first. Don’t give her all the credit for something that was bound to occur.” I lift her chin up so she has to look me in the eyes. “This is your chance to grow, Dakota. Your chance to be yourself, not the person Isabella wanted you to be.” I motion to the valley in front of us. “And what better place to do it than here, in Scotland.”

  She chuckles. “You’re right.”

  “I know I am.” I smile, picking up my pie. “Give yourself some grace when it comes to Isla. It will take a bit of time to get used to navigating a new relationship, but she seems patient, kind, and understanding. The best you can do for her, and for you, is be yourself.” I take a bite of my pie and chew.

  “When did you become so wise?”

  “I think it’s all the shortbread and Scottish air.”

  Dakota studies me, a smirk playing at her lips. “I think you’re starting to find yourself here.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nods. “I see a new spark in your eyes. There’s excitement in your voice.”

  “I am excited. The entire drive here, while we were taking in the landscape, I kept writing down ideas for the coffee shop and my plan of attack. Want to hear them?”

  “I would love to.”

  “Enjoy,” I say to an old man wearing a plaid shirt with SCOTLAND embroidered on the back as he leaves the shop, coffee in hand.

  He told me he stopped in on this Monday morning because he heard the coffee was boring and that’s what he likes—boring coffee.

  Yay for the sale, but serving coffee to a small demographic of cantankerous crotches isn’t really what I’m looking for.

  Leaning against the counter, I pull out my goat notebook and look over my notes. There’s so much I want to do, but I honestly don’t know where to start. I really want to go over this stuff with Rowan, and that was the idea lurking in my head the other night, to maybe talk some things through. But then, when we started just getting to know each other and having fun, I didn’t feel like bringing up the coffee shop.

  Nope, I brought up his dead brother instead.

  Smart, Bonnie. Really smart.

  Exhaling, I press my forehead to my hand and start doodling on the side of my notebook.

  Dakota is over at the bakeshop—no shock there—and through the open door, I spot Lachlan and Leith, in just their kilts, of course, doing jumping jacks and lifting a log over their heads while Fergus watches over them. Tourists from the current bus circle around, counting along with them and taking pictures.

  Yup, quite the sight to behold.

  I’ve checked out a few of their training videos online, and they really have something going for them. And Dakota has been helping them out with some graphics—I’ve seen the rough drafts, and they are going to die over them.

  A large frame steps through the door, pulling me from my doodling. Rowan’s face comes into focus as my eyes adjust to the light. I lift myself up off the counter, a smile stretching over my face.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, is Dakota here?” He glances around.

  “No.”

  “Och, okay. Is she at the bakeshop?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Just wanted a chat.” He turns to walk away, and I nearly trip over my own feet running after him.

  “Wait a second. That’s all?”

  Chuckling, he turns back and pulls me close. “Just kidding, lass. Wanted to see how you were going to react.”

  “Pissing me off isn’t doing you any favors.”

  “It has been since I met you.” He gives me the smallest of kisses and then releases me before walking over to a table and bringing me with him. We both take a seat, and he leans back, casually sitting in the chair while my body hums, ready for anything he wants to give. “Saw a man leave here with some coffee.”

  “He said he liked boring coffee, so this was the place for him.”

  “Ouch.” Rowan laughs and glances around the empty space. “So . . . what’s the plan?”

  “Plan?”

  “For the shop. What are you going to do?”

  “Oh, well, I mean . . . I have some ideas, but I haven’t started anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I wanted to run them by you first. This is your family’s shop, after all.”

  “Aye, true.” He nods at me. “Then, run ’em by me.”

  Simple as that, huh?

  Excited to share, I run to the counter, grab my notebook and pen, and sit down across from him. “Now, these are just ideas—nothing is concrete.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Well, we need to power wash these floors—they’re grimy and need a new life.”

  He glances down. “Aye. I have a power washer.”

  “That’s amazing, really? God, I love power washers. Unsung heroes of renovating. I can’t wait to blow the dirt off these—”

  “You’re not using it,” he says with finality. “I’ll do it.”

  Uh, excuse me?

  “Oh no. I’ll have the pleasure of doing it. I’ve spent way too many bored hours in here watching power-washing compilations on YouTube to not have the pleasure of doing it myself.”

  “You’ve been watching power-washing videos on YouTube?”

  Doesn’t everybody?

  “Yes, it’s quite soothing. Like raking sand in one of those sand gardens people keep on desks. It’s crazy satisfying to watch dirt be blasted away by water. I’m afraid to admit I’ve probably committed at least ten hours to watching compilations online. Paired with fun music, and you’ve got yourself a wonderful way to waste some time.”

  He blinks a few times. “You’re serious.”