“No. Just this section. Then we’ll fold the dough three times, roll it back out to the original starting size, and let it cool for forty minutes.”

  “You let it cool?” A light bulb goes on in my head. “Oh, I wasn’t doing that when I tried to make them. I would just go into folding and rolling again. That’s why it was melting, huh?”

  He nods. “Aye, you have to let the butter cool before you start working it again.”

  “So then, these take forever to make.”

  “But they’re worth it, and if you time it right, you can have multiple batches going at the same time, along with other items like the tattie scones. You could also make the dough the day before and bake them in the morning. That’s what my da would do. When things started to get slow toward the end of the workday, he’d always get the dough ready.”

  “Oh, that’s a really good idea.”

  Together we roll out the dough and then set it to the side to cool—as far away from the ovens as possible.

  “Let’s start on the tattie scones.” He pulls out a large can of premade mashed potatoes, and I gasp out loud.

  “You use premade mashed potatoes?”

  He chuckles. “Old family secret. You can’t tell the difference, and it cuts down the work significantly.”

  “Wow, the MacGregor clan, cutting corners. I kind of like it.”

  “You’ll like it a lot, because the recipe calls for a pound of mashed potatoes, and I doubt you’re going to want to peel, chop, and boil multiple batches of potatoes every day.”

  “I didn’t even think about that.”

  He gives me a chaste peck on my cheek. “Stick with me, lass—I’ll show you all the tricks.”

  He sets out everything we’ll need for the tattie scones, and even though I know he’s been weird about it, I still can’t help the question that flies past my lips. “Why are you so reluctant about baking for the coffee shop?”

  “I knew you were going to ask that today.” He checks the recipe again. “Surprised it took you this long.”

  “You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to. I was just curious. You seem to be so good at it.”

  “I am. Growing up, we always helped in the kitchen. But Callum had a passion for it. He had plans to grow the coffee shop with Da, possibly expand over into Kyle. The butteries were their bread and butter—no pun intended. Not many people will take the time to make them, but a lot of people want them.”

  “I can see that.”

  Turning around, Rowan folds his arms over his chest and leans against the counter, his eyes looking toward the open window that’s letting in a nice, cool breeze. “Growing up, it was clear I wasn’t set on working in the coffee shop. I wanted . . . other things. Da wasn’t happy about that, but he accepted it because he had Callum. They were much closer than I’ve ever been with me da. But the day Callum died was the worst day of my life, and not just because I lost my brother. I also lost my father.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, stepping in close to him and placing my hands on his folded arms.

  “Our relationship was already a bit . . . strained, but then he blamed me for what happened. Blamed me for Callum drinking, for not being cautious, for us being a bunch of eejits.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault—you couldn’t have predicted what was going to happen.”

  “He didn’t see it that way. I’m the older son, the protector, and that day, I didn’t protect my brother. It caused a huge rift in the family. Da was broken, and working in the shop every day—without Callum—just about killed him. Slowly, his spirit started to fall, his willingness to try new things vanished, and he stuck to simple things, because simple was all his heart could handle. Finally, by the time he was ready to retire, he would only serve butteries, and mainly to the locals.” He reaches out and pushes a strand of my hair out of my face and behind my ear. “I told Da I’d help him. That I would make it up to him, help him bake, make Callum’s dreams a reality.”

  He chokes up, and my heart nearly breaks. I run my hand up to his chest and press my palm to his heart, letting him know I’m here.

  “Da didn’t want my help. Said he never wanted to see me in this kitchen again. I was the one who didn’t want a part of this life, so I didn’t get to have it. And when I set out to find my own path, he shut that down too, said I needed to stay close for Maw and take care of the town. Corsekelly thrives off its own, and losing two MacGregor boys could break it. So . . . I stayed.”

  “Oh, Rowan.” I hold back the tears that threaten to fall. “I’m so sorry.”

  This man has sacrificed a lot in his life. From the outside, it wouldn’t look that way—he’d look like just another grouchy curmudgeon with something against out-of-towners, but peel back the layers and you’ll find a beautiful soul, with an equally beautiful heart, wanting to help. He’s just struggling to do so.

  “So, why change? If you’re not allowed in the kitchen, why now?”

  The corner of his lip tilts up. “Well, this stunning blonde walked into my life and begged me.” He smooths his thumb over my cheek. “I also saw the worry in Maw’s eyes before they left. She’s not the type to do something so extreme, like try to make an advert go viral. She’s always been the quiet one and speaks up when the time is right. Something must be going on for her to have brought you and Dakota in.” He looks off to the side, a clench to his jaw. “Something is going on with them, and they’re not telling me. So I figured, if they’re not going to tell me, then at least I can help you make their life’s work into something more. Restrictions be damned.”

  I take a second and move my finger up to his jaw, where I turn his head. “You’re a good man, Rowan MacGregor,” I say, gazing into his eyes.

  “It means a lot to hear you say that, lass.”

  “I believe it wholeheartedly.” I roll up onto my toes, grip the back of his neck, and bring his mouth to mine. I linger longer than I should, especially since we have a lot of baking to do, but I want him to know how important he is, how wonderful he is.

  When I pull away, he lazily smiles. “I hope you don’t plan on doing that a lot—I’m not sure we’re going to get much accomplished if you do.”

  I chuckle. “I want more cherry cake, and since you saved that for last, I think we both know there will be no more kissing.”

  “Not no more,” he says, looping his arms around my waist and pulling me in so I can’t escape.

  “Minimal.”

  He kisses the tip of my nose. “I can agree to minimal, as long as you come over tonight.”

  “As if I would be anywhere else.”

  One more kiss and he releases me. “Okay, tattie scones, let’s get to it.”

  “Hey.” I place my hand on his arm. “Thank you for sharing with me. It means a lot that you trust me with this part of your life.”

  “You make it easy, lass.”

  We turn back to the ingredients, and he shows me the next steps in preparing the dough—but the entire time, all I can think about is how much Corsekelly is starting to feel like home, how this man makes me feel more special, more important, than any person I’ve ever met, and being here, in the kitchen, with something to do, I feel . . . purpose.

  Maybe this is what I was meant to do. Where I was meant to be all along.

  “I’m nervous,” I say, wringing my hands together as we wait for a few select locals to arrive.

  “Don’t be nervous, lass.”

  We spent the entire day baking. I’m exhausted, but I’m invigorated as well. Rowan was very pleased with how everything was looking, especially the butteries, and now we’re holding a small tasting party for a few close people who know the kind of quality Stuart would provide with his baked goods.

  I haven’t tasted anything yet—I wanted to taste with everyone else. I didn’t trust myself to judge if my baking actually is any good. Rowan decided to wait with me as well.

  Also, between you and me, I was too damn nervous. The possibility of failure hangs over me, ready to rain down on me like a brilliant Scottish storm, and I’m trying to prolong things, hoping and praying the clouds will part and the success of the sun will shine through.

  We invited four people: the Murdach twins, Shona from the Mill Market, and Hamish, all of whom were avid patrons and buttery eaters before Stuart retired.

  Rowan glances down at my fidgeting fingers and kisses the side of my head. “Relax.”

  “You didn’t prep them, did you? They’re not going to be nice, just to be nice, right?”

  “Trust me, they would never do that. They’re all excited about the changes being made, but they were most worried about the baking. If you’re bringing the coffee shop back to life, they want it done right.”

  “Oh, not to add any pressure . . .”

  He chuckles. “Lass, I was there the entire time you baked, and I know you followed every direction carefully. This is going to go really well.”

  “I hope so.” I look out the window, wondering when they’re going to get here. “I just kind of wish Dakota was here. She was supposed to be.”

  “Did you tell her about the tasting?”

  “Yeah. I assumed she would be here to support me.”

  “Maybe she forgot.” Because she’s wrapped up in Isla . . .

  “She probably did.” Which doesn’t make me feel any better. I finally find something that I might be good at—might being the key word at this point; we’ll find out soon if I’m not—and she’s not here. She knows how important this is to me. I even sent her a text a while ago with pictures of all my baked goods, but I haven’t heard back from her.

  I don’t want to admit it because I think I might be acting like a dramatic teenager, but I’m starting to feel a little bitter.

  I know, I know, she’s fresh in a relationship—I should cut her some slack.

  Deep breath, Bonnie.

  You don’t need your best friend for everything.

  At least, that’s what I’m trying to convince myself of.

  “Here they come,” Rowan says. “They’re going to love it.”

  Leith and Lachlan walk in first and immediately stop at the threshold of the shop. Leith presses his hand to Lachlan’s chest. “Holy shite, it smells good in here.”

  Lachlan sniffs around and then grasps Leith’s hand. “Hell, I was just brought back to secondary school, when we used to sneak in here and steal butteries with Rowan.”

  “Told you, lass,” Rowan whispers to me before turning to Leith and Lachlan. “Take a seat, lads.”

  Hamish and Shona walk in next, and since they haven’t seen the changes we’ve made to the shop, I giddily watch the awe in their eyes as they take it all in.

  “Wow,” Shona says, “it looks great in here.”

  “Thank you,” I say, stepping up next to them. “We have some pictures of the hairy coo we still need to hang, and Rowan still needs to install the inside shutters that match the outside ones. And he needs to make some shelving for merchandise, but that’s last.”

  “It’s quite lovely,” Hamish says, taking a seat and running his hand over the new tables. “Are these from Campbell’s?”

  “Aye,” Rowan says. “He let us do some mix-matching.”

  Shona takes a seat as well. “I love it. Och, darling, Finella and Stuart are going to love these changes.”

  Pride surges through me as Rowan places a plate of our baked goods in front of everyone, as well as a small cup of tea and a small cup of coffee.

  “Bonnie made classic butteries, tattie scones, and then cherry cake. On the table there is jam and butter, and the tea and coffee, whichever you prefer.”

  “We hope to offer five varieties of tea and ten different coffee drinks,” I add. “We don’t want to do more than that. We’ll keep it simple, but with a little bit of flair.”

  “Good choices,” Hamish says, looking over the little mock-up menu we have on each table as well. “These will work well for the tourists coming in and out. Now, you’re just sticking with these three baked goods?”

  I nod. “Yes, we figured if they want more they can go to the bakeshop. We also didn’t want to step on Isla’s toes.”

  “Aye,” Hamish says.

  “Dig in,” Rowan says as he takes my hand and sits me down at one of the other tables, facing away from everyone. “Time to taste test, lass.” He hands me a plate, and I gaze down at all the hard work I put into today. Never in a million years would I have thought I’d be living in Scotland, baking traditional treats with a hunky Scotsman, but here I am, living out the wildest dream I never knew I had.

  I’m about to pick up my buttery when a long, loud moan erupts from behind me. I turn around to see Leith slouched in his chair, buttery in one hand, his eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head. “Sweet Jesus, these are outstanding.” He takes another bite. “God bless America and Bonnie.”

  I chuckle just as Lachlan has the same reaction. “Hell’s bells, these are phenomenal.” He takes a huge bite, nearly stuffing it all in his mouth.

  The nerves I was feeling quickly vanish as pleased sounds fill the coffee shop. Rowan winks at me and takes a bite of his buttery. As he chews, a smile plays at his lips.

  “Bonnie, these are really fucking good.”

  “Yeah?”

  He slowly nods. “Aye. They’re perfect, lass.”

  They’re perfect, lass. I don’t believe anything I’ve ever done has been perfect. I’ve never found that something that has made me special. I’ve never uncovered a hidden talent that set me apart from everyone else. Never once have I exceeded expectations. I’ve been average. Average my entire life.

  But to hear Rowan say something I created is perfect?

  It brings tears to my eyes. For the first time in my adult life, I actually feel accomplished. I feel like I’m contributing to something bigger than myself, and I’m not just running errands and making sure there is a certain kind of candy in someone’s dressing room. I’m actually providing a service with my very own hands—and it makes people happy.

  And even though this moment feels monumental to me, one person is missing, and I want her approval more than anything. I wish she could have seen Leith’s and Lachlan’s reactions, could have heard Shona’s kind words.

  My best friend’s—the one opinion I truly care about.

  I might have done a good job, but it feels bittersweet.

  “Bonnie, you okay?” Rowan asks. “You haven’t taken a bite yet.”

  “Oh, yeah . . . fine.” I try to push back my thoughts of my floundering relationship with Dakota and enjoy this moment. I lift up the buttery and smile. “Here goes nothing.”

  I glance at the clock one more time.

  Nine at night.

  Where the hell are they?

  I told Rowan I wanted to spend some time with Dakota when she got home from Inverness, so I skipped out on going to his place, even though I desperately wanted to. After the emotional drain of yesterday’s tasting, we both snuggled into his bed last night, and most of today, just holding each other. But now that I’m waiting for Dakota to show up, frustration washes over me—frustration that could easily be fixed by what Rowan hides under his kilt. I say that without ever having seen him in a kilt. Trust me, though, I have had fantasies of it.

  Tapping my finger on the table, I stand from one of the red couches and start to pace the quaint living space.

  I’m wearing one of Rowan’s shirts, and I can still smell his cologne on the fabric, the subtle scent occasionally calming my boiling anger.

  Well, I’m not boiling—just simmering at this point.

  Lights flash down the driveway, and I quickly run to the door and look out the window. Isla’s car moves down the gravel, and because I’ve reached a borderline psychotic level of “Is my friend dead or is she being rude and not letting me know her whereabouts?” I fling the door open and stand on the threshold.

  Isla turns off the car, and the lights fade into the darkening evening. Dakota opens the passenger door and says, “Bonnie, is everything okay?”

  Now, be calm. She might have a good explanation as to why she said she would be home around dinnertime and then shows up around bedtime.

  There could be a very reasonable explanation. Whatever you do, do not snap at her—that will put her on the defensive.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I ask, hands on my hips.

  Good job, Bonnie.

  She frowns and shuts the door to the car as Isla comes around with Dakota’s bag.

  “I’ll, uh, leave you two alone.” Isla tilts Dakota’s face toward her and places a hand on her hip before leaning in and pressing a kiss to her lips. Like the angry voyeur I am, I stand there, staring at their sweet goodbye, not even bothering to look away and give them privacy. When they step apart, I hear Isla murmur, “Thank you for last night.”

  Then she turns to me and waves. “Have a good night, Bonnie.”

  “Yeah, you too,” I say awkwardly as anger boils inside me. When I turn to look at my friend, the same anger is mirrored in her as she stalks toward the cottage, bag in hand. She doesn’t even wait for me to move, bumping my shoulder as she enters.

  I shut the door behind me and slip on my metaphorical boxing gloves.

  But Dakota doesn’t say anything. Instead, she goes straight to her room.

  “Uh, care to talk to me?” I call out.

  “No.”

  She shuts her bedroom door.

  Why the hell is she mad?

  She doesn’t get to be mad.

  I’m the mad one right now.

  Storming toward her door, I fling it open to find her texting on her phone, most likely to Isla about her psycho best friend.

  “Where have you been?” I feel like the mother of a teenager right now, demanding answers, and from the annoyed look I get from her, I really am feeling the teenage vibes.

  “With Isla.”

  Duh.

  “You said you were going to be here by dinnertime.”

  “Yeah, well, we stopped somewhere and had dinner.”

  “You could have told me.”

  “Why? You’re not my mother.”