“Dakota, learn the ropes,” I say, wafting my finger around the room before taking off at a brisk power walk to the cottage.

  “Ask what’s in it before you eat it from now on,” I say to myself in the mirror.

  I’ll spare you the details. Let’s just say I’ve made my mark here in Scotland.

  Jet-lagged, freshly showered, and ready for a pillow, I brush out my long blonde hair and run some wave serum through the strands to capture my natural curl. After brushing my teeth—twice—I’ve wrapped the plain white towel provided in the bathroom around my chest and have taken a deep breath just as the front door opens and closes.

  Dakota.

  She’s in big trouble.

  She’s the one who did all the research—she should have warned me about the haggis.

  With what little fight I have left in me, I toss the bathroom door open and stomp into the kitchen, only to find a towering man leaning against the sink, eating one of the haggis balls.

  “Oh my God!” I shout, securing my towel even tighter around my torso. From the corner of my eye, I spot a broom and snatch it up, pointing the brush end at him. “Don’t you dare come any closer.”

  He’s unfazed.

  Still leaning against the counter, haggis ball in hand, he stares me down. “Who the hell are you?”

  Well, kick me in the crotch and lay me down to rest. He has to have the most delicious voice I’ve ever heard.

  Full of timbre, with rolling r’s and a heavy dose of masculinity. It’s odd to say, but his voice basically says, I work with my hands and know how to use them as well.

  I’m tempted to rest my head against his chest and ask him to speak, just so I can feel the rumble of his voice over my body, but realize that’s the exhaustion talking.

  I snap myself out of my Scot-induced daydream and hold up the broom. “That’s none of your concern. You’re trespassing. If you don’t leave in three seconds, I’m calling Finella.”

  “Aye, when you do, tell her the haggis is dry.” He pops the rest of his ball in his mouth and chews. No smile, no humor in his face, just overall surliness.

  “That’s awfully rude.”

  “’Tis the truth.” He dusts off his hands. “You a tourist?”

  “Like I said, that’s none of your concern. I suggest you leave before I put this broom to good use.”

  “Ya going to sweep me away? I’d like to see ya try with those scrawny arms.”

  Well, isn’t he terribly unpleasant.

  “Don’t be too quick to judge. I pack a heavy punch. I could blow you right out of your shoes.” I raise my fist in the air, but I quickly retract it when I notice it’s shaking slightly.

  I may act tough, but I also know when I’m beaten in size and stature.

  The stranger crosses his arms over his brawny chest and studies me, his devilish green gaze roaming my body. It feels like his eyes are a sponge, soaking up every last inch of me until I’m completely dry.

  Uneasy and exposed, though never one to back down, I attempt to provide him the same treatment, but it just makes me weak in the knees.

  He’s wearing dark-wash jeans, cuffed right above the top of his brown boots. The denim is stretched tight around his thick thighs, and his forest-green T-shirt does nothing to hide the rippling muscles underneath the fabric. Nor do the sleeves even attempt to disguise the boulders in his biceps or his sculpted shoulders. But what’s really catching my eyes is the intricately woven tattoo that encircles his wrist like a watch and travels up his arm, all the way under his sleeve. And that’s just his body. His face is a whole other story. Thick scruff lines his square jaw, and his brown hair is buzzed on the sides, with the slightest wave to the longer strands on top. His deep mossy eyes penetrate me better than Harry did the last time we had sex.

  My, my, my . . .

  “Get your fill?” he asks, startling me out of my swoon and right back into defense mode.

  “I should ask the same of you,” I say, stepping closer and brandishing my broom.

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he answers with such boredom in his voice that I’m mildly insulted.

  “You’re rude,” I snap.

  “I know.”

  Okay . . . well, at least we’re on the same page about that . . .

  “It would behoove you to leave the premises before I call the cops.”

  “Aye, and what’s the phone number for the cops?” he challenges with a triumphant glint in his eyes, though his lips remain flat, unaffected.

  I roll my top teeth over my lip, my stomach dropping. I really didn’t do any research before I came here—that was not smart on my end.

  “Uh, 911?”

  “Eejit tourists,” he mumbles, shaking his head. He pushes off the counter, and his chest meets the bristles of the broom. “Get dressed and leave. I’m sure Finella doesn’t want you staying longer than you’re supposed to.”

  “I’m supposed to stay for six months,” I shoot back.

  One brow crooks to the sky. “What?”

  “Six months,” I repeat, holding my chest high, glad my towel has yet to even loosen. “I’ll be staying here, in this cottage, so if you would please leave, that would be—”

  “What the hell are you doing here for six months?”

  “Why are you so nosy?”

  His chest presses deeper into the bristles. Stand tall, Bonnie, don’t let him intimidate you. “Because Finella is my maw, and I want to know why you’re staying in her cottage.”

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  This is Rowan?

  Well, Finella wasn’t spinning any Scottish fables about her son. Strapping indeed.

  And a tad grumpy.

  Ehh . . . a whole lot grumpy, from the way his eyebrows sharpen as he stares at me.

  “You must be Rowan,” I say, still keeping the broom between us. Less for protection and more out of pride—and to ensure I don’t try to lick his biceps or anything.

  Because yowser, those biceps.

  Yup, strapping . . . very, very strapping.

  No, doesn’t matter if he’s “climb me like a tree” kind of hot; he’s being a jerk. Stand your ground.

  “And you are . . .”

  “Bonnie,” I answer. “Bonnie St. James. I’m one-sixteenth Scottish.”

  “Aye.” He looks me up and down with annoyance, eyes blazing across my skin. “And why are you here for six months?”

  “My best friend and I are here to take care of the coffee shop while your parents are on vacation. Honestly, don’t you communicate with them? Or do you just criticize your mom’s cooking?”

  His brow lifts but then quickly returns to neutral as he steps away from the broom and brings his hand to his jaw, studying me some more.

  Wait . . . did he really not know his parents were about to go on vacation? It seems odd to me. Wouldn’t that be something they’d tell him?

  “Didn’t you see the advert?” I ask.

  “I did,” he answers calmly, almost too calmly. “Wasn’t aware the position was filled.”

  “Well, it was. By me and Dakota.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He gives me another once-over, as if sizing me up for a fight.

  I have my pride, but I’m almost positive if he flicked me with his thumb and index finger, he could shoot me all the way to the loch, towel flapping in the wind like a white signal of surrender.

  “Stop that.” I poke him with the broom.

  Stagnant. Unwavering. He doesn’t even blink an eye.

  “Stop what?”

  “Checking me out.”

  “Trust me, lass, if I was checking you out, you’d know it.”

  God, he’s . . . rude.

  “I heard Scotsmen are quite hospitable—seems that’s not the case with you.”

  “Never been one to conform.”

  Irritated, I jab him with the broom again. “Unless you have anything else to say, you can leave now.”

  Running his hand over his jaw again, he steps away from the broom and, without a word, strides out of the cottage. The door clicks shut behind him. I lower the broom and let out a deep breath, catching through the kitchen window his tall frame walking away.

  Well, isn’t he what historical romances are made for?

  The swoony Scot.

  Hottie in the Highlands.

  Killing Hearts in a Kilt.

  Thankfully, according to Finella, he’s not around much.

  Hopefully that’s the only interaction I’ll have with him for the next six months, because I couldn’t imagine dealing with that surly attitude for the duration of my visit. He was brimming with negativity—at least that’s what it felt like—and I’m on a new path, a search for purpose. I can’t be riddled with Scottish tempers.

  Nope, this is the start of something new, and it won’t involve Mr. Rowan McMuscleMan.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ROWAN

  I don’t want to do this.

  It’s glaikit.

  You can’t force me.

  You’ve got to be kidding me . . .

  Fine.

  Run-in with American: One.

  Uncommunicative parents: Two.

  Annoying author making me do pointless shite I don’t want to do: One.

  There . . . happy?

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  When were they planning on telling me they found people to look after the coffee house?

  And what for?

  I push my hand through my hair and round the bend where my parents’ house is tucked away up against a mountain. When the white stone building comes into view, I throw my pickup into park and stare at it.

  What the hell were they thinking?

  Hamish down at the pub was the one who asked about the advert my parents submitted and the worldwide attention it had received. The advert I had no idea about. That was embarrassing enough, but to not be told that they’d actually found two lasses to take over the coffee shop? That’s fucking ridiculous.

  As anger settles over me, tensing my shoulders and neck, I push through the door of their quaint house. At the sound of my steps, both my parents startle on their black leather sofa in the living room, their bodies jostling against each other. The iPad they were holding tumbles to the floor with a thud.

  “Jesus, Rowan, you startled us.” Maw presses one hand to her heart and one to my da’s thigh.

  I slam the door shut. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?” Maw asks, feigning innocence, but I know her sweet whisky-brown eyes conceal some severe calculation.

  “The two Americans.”

  “Aye, did you meet them? Bonnie is quite the looker, isn’t she?”

  “When were you going to tell me?” I say, ignoring her.

  My da lowers his glasses on his nose, his usually strong body looking withered under his tartan shirt. The past few months have been alarming, to say the least. There has been a distinct decrease in Da’s muscle mass, in his energy levels and food consumption. Foods that he used to love he barely touches now. He even passed up some empire biscuits a few weeks ago, which first tipped me off that something might be going on. The other day I asked Maw if Da was okay, and she said he was fine, just eating healthy, which was why he’d lost so much weight. But he doesn’t look like he’s just lost weight—he looks frail.

  “Tomorrow, when we leave,” he says in his authoritative voice.

  I grew up with that voice, constantly chattering in my ear, molding me into the man he wanted me to become, a man he could be proud of.

  Strong.

  A man who takes care of his home.

  A man who’s proud of his heritage and his family name.

  And yes, I do take pride in where I’ve come from, my heritage and the family name, but I want so much more from this life. I need so much more from this life, and I haven’t been able to consider an alternate route from what my da has planned for me.

  “You’re leaving tomorrow? So . . . what, you were just going to pack your bags and take off with barely a goodbye?”

  “We were going to say goodbye,” Maw says, rising from the sofa and walking over to the entryway, where I’m still standing, my feet feeling like stone. She pats me on the cheek. “Did you eat?”

  Is she kidding me right now? “Maw, I don’t even know why you’re leaving in the first place. You’re being so goddamn secretive.”

  “No, we’re not. We’re going on holibags. That’s all you need to know.”

  “No, I need to know where you’re going. What if there’s an emergency? Are you even going to take your phones with you, or are you going to go completely rogue?”

  “Don’t be silly—of course we’ll bring our phones.” Maw moves to the kitchen, where she starts fixing me a plate.

  I turn to my da. “Was this your plan, to keep it all a secret?”

  It’s common knowledge in town that I don’t necessarily get on well with my da. We have our grievances, our differences, and ideas of what my future should be. I wanted to focus on my craft, leave Corsekelly, find my own life, my own future. And Da . . . well, he said he wanted nothing to do with me leaving and claimed abandonment of my family and the town that played a huge part in my life.

  Disrespectful.

  Irresponsible.

  Hurtful.

  All words Da used when I confronted him about my decision. And as he spouted off his distaste for the mere notion of me leaving, I saw pain in his eyes. Raw and real.

  I asked him for his truth, why he was so hurt about me leaving—truly hurt.

  He masked up, shut down, and reminded me of what we’d lost already as a family.

  Guess who won out regarding what I did with my life? All I can say is, it’s not my idea to stay in Corsekelly as the town’s repairman, going from house to house replacing faucets, cleaning gutters, and even cutting the grass. But that’s what Da wanted. And after everything that happened . . . well, let’s just say I owe him. I’ll leave it at that.

  “Don’t you raise your voice with me,” he says, shifting on the sofa and wincing at the same time.

  A few months ago, Da stopped working at the coffee shop, leaving all the work to Maw. He insisted on taking a much-deserved break after thirty years of serving coffee to the locals and tourists. But Maw couldn’t keep up with the demand of baking and serving customers. The coffee shop has languished without him.

  “I’m not raising my voice,” I say, my voice rising. “I’m just trying to understand all of this.” I look my da dead in the eyes. “Are you sick and you’re not telling me?”

  “No,” he says gruffly, standing from the sofa and making his way to the kitchen, where Maw hands him a plate. “We just want to take some time off, and we don’t need to clear that decision with you.”

  I run my tongue over my teeth, corralling my anger. “That’s fair, but I’d appreciate you respecting me enough to inform me about your plans. I’m your son, after all.”

  As the tension builds between me and Da, Maw hurries over and presses a plate into my hand. “Sit, eat, and we’ll tell you all about the trip.”

  Keeping my eyes on Da, I take the plate and find a seat at the table in the kitchenette.

  Shaky hands.

  Unhealthy skin.

  Sunken eyes.

  Whatever they’re about to tell me, I know there’s so much more that they’re not going to give away.

  “About damn time,” Lachlan, one of my two best friends, says as I push through the semicrowded pub. “Leith and I are starting to get sick of staring at each other.”

  “Surprising, given how narcissistic you both are.” I take a seat at the high-top table they’re sharing.

  Leith and Lachlan Murdach.

  Identical twins and proud owners of Bubbles Linen Basket, the town’s launderette. They’re also becoming incredibly famous online for the personal-training videos they post every Sunday. Decked out in their kilts and nothing else, they use Scotland’s terrain to work out. Logs for bench pressing, stones for push-ups, hurdling fences for cardio—blurred under the kilts, of course. I saw the unedited version and nearly threw up in my mouth. They thought it would be funny to skip the underwear that day.

  Another man’s jiggling boaby is something you can’t unsee.

  “You seem extra irritated today,” Leith says, handing me a tumbler of whisky. “Does this have to do with the two Americans who came strolling into town today?”

  I down my whisky and set the glass on the table, not giving them the satisfaction of my answer.

  “I think it does,” Lachlan says. “Word on the street is they’re blonde and bonny.”

  “Bonny” doesn’t even begin to describe it.

  Bonnie.

  Ice-blue eyes, unlike any I’d ever seen before, studied me, devoured me in one slow perusal. Platinum-blonde hair fell over her shoulders and past her plump breasts, which were barely secured by a towel.

  And the arrogance she exuded—the woman was half-naked and using a broom as a weapon, but she was still proud, stubborn, determined. I wasn’t prepared for the wave of interest that wrapped around my limbs and sank into my bones. Nor was I ready for the headiness that flushed through my body when her eyes connected with mine.

  But then she mentioned my parents’ imminent departure. I was quickly distracted from her beauty and was put on high alert. How could she know more about them than I did?

  A stranger.

  “Have you met them?” Leith asks, looking far too excited.

  “One,” I say, wishing I hadn’t gulped all my whisky down.

  “And . . .”

  I shrug. “She wasn’t bad.”

  Throwing his head back, Leith lets out an obnoxious laugh and shoves my shoulder. “Don’t buy it.”

  Yeah, neither do I.

  Ignoring him, I drag my hand over my face. “Did you know my parents are going to be gone for six months?”

  “Figured as much,” Lachlan says. “That’s what was in the advert—didn’t you read it?”

  Apparently not well enough.

  “They’re headed to Europe,” I say. “Traveling around from country to country by train.” At least, that’s what they told me. I twist the empty tumbler between my hands, recalling the vague details I dragged out of them.