“Can’t be sure.” We both laugh. “So, Penis Stone, huh? Fascinating. Our new home is famous for a castration rock. I’m kind of digging it. Iron Crowns was filmed in Scotland, then?”

  “All over. I saw that Corsekelly has a plaque in town dedicated to the Penis Stone.”

  “I’d be shocked if they didn’t.” I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “My Instagram is about to be lit.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  BONNIE

  Roundabouts stuck in: One . . . for ten minutes.

  Number of times Dakota has thrown up: Not enough fingers to count.

  Number of Scotsman interactions: One, and I’m still trying to figure out what he was trying to say to us.

  If a Scotsman taps his crotch, he might just be trying to tell you that boaby means “penis,” not that he wants sexual payment for his kind favor.

  WELCOME TO CORSEKELLY—HOME OF FERGUS

  RESIDENCE OF THE GREAT BOABY STONE

  POPULATION 360

  “What a sign,” I say as we hop back into the car after taking a picture in front of Corsekelly’s sign, which is rather large for such a small town. “‘Boaby Stone’ has a much better ring to it than ‘Penis Stone.’ Almost sounds like it’s a lucky rock or something, and if you rub your cheek on it, you’ll be granted good luck for years to come.”

  “You’re referring to the Blarney Stone, and that’s if you kiss it,” Dakota says, buckling up and holding on to the rope, which has now permanently indented our palms. “If you kissed this stone, you might get herpes.”

  “What, do you think people actually put their penises on it?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. There are pictures all over the internet of people in the cave, reenacting the scene with their wives, boaby out and everything.”

  “Ew, who wants to see that?”

  Dakota shrugs. “Iron Crowns has the largest fan base in the world. People do crazy things.”

  “Yeah, but to act like your penis is going to be chopped off, you have to have some serious trust in your wife, and you’d better make sure not to piss her off before the photo opportunity. One ‘oops’ moment and your ding-a-ling is gone forever.”

  I start up the car and pull onto the narrow paved road that takes us past slate-covered cliffs and down into the valley of Corsekelly.

  Oh my God.

  The trees lining the road part, and we are greeted by a vast expanse of glittering water, framed by gorgeous mountains, dusted in green, and sprinkled with large slate stones. It’s positively gorgeous here.

  A new chapter rests right in front of us.

  New opportunities.

  New people—hopefully nice people.

  New adventures.

  I can feel it already: the change I’m making, the confidence this decision is instilling in me. This very well might be exactly what we both need.

  “There’s the town,” Dakota says, pointing to a smattering of white clay buildings.

  “And where’s the rest of it?” I ask as we approach.

  “That’s it. It’s really small.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a town this small. No more than twenty buildings border the town’s main thoroughfare, which runs along the lakeshore and is aptly named Corsekelly Lane.

  All facing out toward Loch Duich, the buildings are constructed of white clay, decorated with rock walls, and enhanced by colorful displays of seasonal flowers hanging from cast-iron plant hooks. Compared to the houses in America, they aren’t grand by any means, and the windows and doors look far too small for an adult, but they’re charming, picturesque, and make me feel like I’ve just entered a fantasy.

  Compact and charismatic.

  “You know, the town feels more like a pit stop rather than a place to live,” I say to Dakota, who’s busy staring out the window, taking in Corsekelly just as much as I am.

  “But there is nothing touristy about it besides that tour bus parked in front of . . . I think that’s a hotel. That’s kind of nice. It will feel like we’re tucked away.”

  “True.” I nod. “And I love the wooden signs hanging above every door.” Driving extra slow, I read them out loud. “FERGIE’S CASTLE. THE ADMIRAL. UNDER THE GOAT’S KILT INN—bet that doesn’t smell very good.” We both laugh, and I steer us down the stone-paved road. “THE MILL MARKET, BUBBLES LINEN BASKET, PARLAN’S PUMP PETROL, MURDACH’S WEE BAKESHOP, COFFEE . . . wait, coffee? Is that . . . that ‘coffee house’?” I ask, grimacing as we draw even with a lackluster building.

  Framed in white clay like the rest of the town, its only distinguishing features are a red door and a sign above it that spells out COFFEE. Two weathered picnic tables rest under each red-framed window, but that’s as far as the charm goes.

  Uh, we left Los Angeles for this?

  It looks like the door is one gust of wind away from being torn off its hinges.

  Where’s the charm?

  Where’s the cute wooden sign?

  Where’s the plaid? Shouldn’t there be plaid somewhere?

  For heaven’s sake, where is the plaid?

  “Yes, it is,” Dakota says, not even fazed.

  “Wow, they sure know how to advertise their wares.” I chuckle. “Where’s the cute name?”

  “They’re direct. That has to be admired. Finella said there’s parking around the corner, where we’ll be staying.”

  “Okay.” I round the corner and follow a gravel driveway that takes us under a canopy of trees. “Are we going the right way?” I ask as the road gets tighter and tighter.

  “I think so. She said the cottage is just past the trees.”

  Driving no more than ten miles per hour, we bump along the road and finally reach a tiny white clay cottage with a thatched roof.

  “Umm, did we just drive into a Disney movie and I didn’t notice?” I ask.

  A thatched roof . . . a legit, real, thatched roof. I think the last time I saw one of those was in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

  And . . . is that a . . . ?

  “Oh hell no.” I shake my head, pointing to the well that’s right next to the house. “Does this place not have plumbing? I did not sign up to fetch the water for the bath.”

  “It has all the amenities we need,” Dakota says, opening her car door.

  I grip her arm and keep her in place. “When you say ‘amenities,’ does that include running water?”

  “Yes,” she says, exasperated. “You act like our plane was a time machine and I brought you back to the Middle Ages.”

  “Sorry if I’m startled by a thatched roof and a well, but that’s a legit concern. Did you see the gas station back there? I’m not sure it even works.”

  “It’s called a petrol pump, and it works. This isn’t LA, Bonnie, something you should keep in mind. This is a simpler way of living. Relax and enjoy the slower pace.”

  She’s right. Before making assumptions, I should really get to know the place first.

  I’m here for adventure.

  I’m here to figure out what I want to do with my life.

  And making prejudgments is not going to do me any good.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I let out a deep breath. “The road trip was long, and my hand is sore from holding the rope. I promise once we get some food, I’ll be much better.”

  Just as we exit the car, the front door to the cottage opens, and a short lady who looks to be in her sixties steps out. She has dark-brown hair, peppered with silver streaks, and an apron cinched around her waist.

  “You must be Dakota,” she says, walking over with a welcoming smile.

  Dakota was right—a very pretty accent, and one I can easily understand.

  Thank God.

  “Finella, it’s so great to finally meet you.” Dakota hugs the woman and then beckons me over. “This is my best friend, Bonnie.”

  “Aye, Bonnie, ’tis a beautiful name. Means ‘pretty’ here in Scotland, and it seems to fit you perfectly.” She looks me up and down with a kind smile.

  “Oh, thank you. I’ve been told I’m one-sixteenth Scottish.” I smile.

  “Is that so?” She raises an eyebrow. “How lovely.”

  I feel a surge of pride to be standing in the lands of my ancestors. “It’s good to be home, where my ancestors once walked. I can truly feel their presence.” When I glance at Finella, I catch the smallest of smirks on her lips. Okay, sure, I’m only one-sixteenth Scottish, but that means something. I take in a deep breath. “It’s nice to meet you, Finella. I can’t get over how green it is here. Coming from a dry environment, it’s refreshing to have nature all around us.”

  “’Tis beautiful here.” She rests her hands on her hips, a wry smile tugging on her lips. “We’ll miss it, but we’re excited to go on a much-needed holibags.”

  Holibags?

  What the hell does that mean?

  “Come, come,” she says. “We’ll talk more inside. You two must be hungry. I’ve fried up some haggis for you with some tatties and neeps.” She grabs both of us by the hands and guides us into the cottage. As we step inside our new home, I’m shocked at just how spacious it is. Off to the right is a stone fireplace and wood-framed hearth with a cast-iron stove in the middle. Two red couches sit on either side of the white-walled room, facing each other, with an oak coffee table in the middle.

  To the left is a tiny kitchenette equipped with a two-burner stove, minifridge, and sink. Minimal cabinets, and instead of doors under the sink, the nook is blocked off with a white-and-red-checkered curtain. Okay, that’s kind of adorable. To the back is an open door leading to a narrow set of stairs. No pictures adorn the walls, and there are no decorations to speak of. The rest of the space is dominated by a two-person dining table, laden with dishes of food. Quaint, but just enough.

  A hell of a step up from our one-bedroom, window-barred, cracked-ceiling apartment in Los Angeles, that’s for damn sure.

  “Hope you enjoy the space,” Finella says, pride puffing her chest.

  “It’s lovely,” I say.

  “Perfect,” Dakota adds.

  “Now, there’s one bedroom on the ground floor and one upstairs. Bathroom around the corner. We keep a bucket next to the toilet, and if you go number two, we ask that you use the bucket to help flush it down.”

  I glance at Dakota, whose eyes widen with humor. I hold back my snicker, not wanting to be rude. But come on . . . a toilet bucket?

  Yup . . . lovely.

  “The fridge has some food in it,” Finella continues. “Not too sure what ya girls like, but it has the basics. The Mill Market is down the street. Shona knows you’re coming, so she can help show you around and order you anything you might need.”

  “Shona is the owner?” I ask.

  “Aye.” Finella sits us both down at the table and ladles out food. Balls of fried something that must be the haggis—whatever that is—and two mashed-up-looking things. The tatties and neeps, I suppose. “Everyone in Corsekelly knows you’re coming. The town is quite welcoming to newcomers, and they’ve already promised me and Stuart they’ll take good care of you while we’re gone.”

  “Thank you,” Dakota says, picking up a fork and digging right in. I pick up my fork as well but wait for her to taste the food first. When she doesn’t seem to balk, I give myself the green light to eat up. “This is delicious, Finella.” The tatties and neeps are mashed with a hint of nutmeg flavoring. Interesting but delightful. And the haggis has an oaty texture with a hint of pepper and a crumbly sausage feel.

  I think I can get used to this.

  “Thank ye. ’Tis an old family recipe. My Rowan’s favorite.”

  Rowan. Is that someone’s name?

  “You won’t see much of him,” Finella continues. “Quite busy being the handyman around town.”

  So it is someone’s name.

  “Is Rowan your son?” I ask.

  “Aye, he is. Strapping lad, though a tad grumpy, and keeps to himself. He does fancy himself a blonde, though. Especially a bonny one.” She wiggles her brows, and I feel my face flush.

  “Hear that, Bonnie? Strapping,” Dakota says with a smile.

  “Are either of ya attached?” Finella asks.

  “Both single,” Dakota answers.

  “Is that so.” She smiles widely.

  “I’m not ready to date, though,” Dakota quickly says. “I had a bad breakup with my girlfriend about a year ago. Still nursing those wounds.”

  “Och, ya fancy the lasses? You should meet Isla Murdach—she runs Murdach’s Wee Bakeshop. I’d think she’d take kindly to you.”

  Now it’s Dakota’s turn to blush. I nudge her under the table with my foot. “Hear that? She’d fancy you.”

  “Not looking for a relationship,” she says.

  “Me neither,” I say quickly. Who knows who this Rowan guy is—I’m almost certain I don’t want anything to do with him. The whole grumpy thing doesn’t work for me.

  “So what brings you to the Highlands, then? On your application, you said adventure.” Finella studies us both. “But I see darkness in your pretty eyes. There’s more to it.”

  “A break,” Dakota confesses. “A break from it all.” And I know exactly what she means. She needs a break from the memories, from the chance of running into her ex. She needs to clear her head.

  Just like me.

  “A moment to breathe,” I say. “To figure out what I’m doing with my life.”

  Finella smiles and clasps her hands together. “Then Corsekelly is the perfect place for the both of you.”

  Gravel crunches under our shoes as Dakota and I follow Finella down the tree-lined lane to the coffee house. A light sprinkle of rain starts up, and I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt.

  “Nay, not to worry about the rain, lass,” Finella says. “It’s a given here in Scotland. Embrace it.”

  Well, if that’s the case, I lower my hood and let the droplets of water scatter over my head and face. If I’m going to be here for six months, then I really should live like the locals.

  “Here she is,” Finella says as we round the bend and approach the coffee shop. “She might not be pretty on the outside, but she’s warm on the inside.” She opens the door, and to my surprise, the shop is completely empty—no one working, not a single soul in the building.

  Even more shocking: the place is practically barren.

  Two tables, each with two chairs, sit haphazardly in the middle of the room, looking like they were carved by a ten-year-old. Nothing decorates the walls, and the old wooden floors are coated in dirt and goo. To the left is an empty pastry case, and behind the counter are two coffee thermoses.

  No espresso machine.

  No fancy menu.

  Just . . . coffee.

  Umm . . .

  “We open at ten and close at four.”

  “You open at ten?” How on earth do they open at ten when I was ordered to get coffee at six in the morning?

  “Aye, not much activity in the area until ten. Most businesses around here open at nine and close no later than six, besides Fergie’s Castle, the pub. The Admiral, our local eatery, will close at six on the weekdays and seven on the weekends, so if you’re craving—what do you Americans call it, ‘dinner’?—be sure to plan ahead. Fergie’s will have some generic pub food, but it can get rowdy once the town shuts down and everyone gathers for a whisky.”

  “Wow, okay. Good to know,” I say, just as my stomach does a weird somersault at the mention of food. Oof. That didn’t feel good.

  “We’re closed on Sundays—almost the whole town is. The tour buses don’t drive through here on Sundays, so we all take the day off, besides the pub. Hamish always has the pub open.”

  “Tour buses come through here?” I ask as Dakota walks around the small space, arms crossed, surveying our new job. There’s no doubt she’ll be able to keep up with her graphic design work while we’re here. From the looks of the two coffee thermoses, it seems like I might have some spare time on my hands as well.

  “Aye. For the Boaby Stone. We are quite proud of it, actually. Shona down at the market screen prints Boaby Stone T-shirts. ‘I kissed the Boaby Stone,’ they say. Quite clever. Stuart and I have a matching set.”

  Yeah, I’m going to need one of those. “I love a good penis shirt.” Dakota elbows me in the side. I glance at her and shrug. “What? I do.”

  “Have you watched Iron Crowns?” Finella asks.

  I’m about to answer when my intestines gurgle. An instant sweat breaks out on the back of my neck.

  Uh, that doesn’t feel right.

  Not at all.

  We might have a situation brewing.

  “I have,” Dakota says. “Haven’t gotten to the Boaby Stone part yet. Can’t wait for it.”

  “Thrilling. They show his actual boaby, ya know. The actor didn’t have a stand-in. Sir Richard MacLain is quite endowed, I must say. Such a shame they pretended to castrate him.” Finella sighs and goes to the counter. “Really simple here. Dark roast and decaf. We also have some hot chocolate packets if the kids want any. We haven’t had food here in a while. Stuart used to bake, but he’s slowed down a bit.” Finella grows quiet just as my gut churns, the sound deafening in the small coffee shop.

  Both Dakota and Finella turn to me, brows raised.

  I smile uncomfortably. “You know, I don’t think something is settling right.”

  “Don’t sound like it.” Finella eyes me up and down. “Are ya allergic to sheep lungs?”

  “Uh . . . not that I know of.”

  “Heart? Liver? Stomach?”

  “No . . . why?” I swallow hard, fear itching up the back of my neck.

  “Och, that’s haggis, lass.”

  Bile rises in my throat, and I pray I don’t lose it all right here, in the middle of this dirty, unswept floor.

  “Sheep stomach?” I ask, quietly.

  “Aye, and liver, heart, and lungs. Quite good.”

  Oh GOD.

  Smiling politely, I take a step back. “You know, I think I’m going to head back to the cottage and, um—” I burp and I pray to the holy heavens I can keep it together. “I’m going to go take a shower. Wash the airplane off.”

  Finella sees right through me.

  “Aye, remember to use the water bucket.” She gives me a wink.