“Yeah, it is,” I say, feeling a little lighter. “But why do I still feel like I’m missing something?”

  “Because you are, and it will take some time to figure out what that is, but while you’re here, with all this beauty in your backyard, you should try to find that missing puzzle piece.”

  “You’re right.” I sigh and again lean back on my hands, stretching my legs out. “Do you think this trip is going to change us?”

  “Us, as in our friendship? Never. But us as in individuals? I hope so.”

  She rests her head on my shoulder and I rest my head on hers, letting the birds fill the silence with their morning songs.

  I truly hope Dakota is right.

  “Aye, they’re dead,” a voice says as something stiff and hard pokes me in the shoulder.

  “Should we call the police? Look for a medic?”

  Poke.

  Poke.

  Poke.

  “What are you doing?” I mumble, shifting, only to feel a million needles pierce my back.

  Oh dear God, my ass is numb.

  “Och, she’s alive,” someone calls out. “What about t’other one?”

  The sun is blazing on me as I try to open my eyes. Lifting one hand in front of my face, I block out the intense rays and squint them open. Dakota is lying near me, her head resting on my lap.

  “Dakota.” I sit up and give her a gentle shake.

  “Hmm . . .”

  “Wake up. We fell asleep on the rocks.”

  “What?” She tries to open her eyes as well but must realize—like I did—that Scotland resides on the surface of the sun. “Oh God, why is it so bright?” She sits up and blinks at our surroundings.

  I do the same.

  Our backpack’s contents are strewn about the rocks, along with our bodies. Our thermoses of coffee have been tossed to the side, and our feet dangle above the lapping water, just begging to be dragged in.

  “What time is it?”

  “Half ten,” the voices above us answer.

  “Half ten?” I ask, my mind mush. “What is that? Half of ten? So, five in the morning? Good God, it’s this bright out at five in the morning?”

  “Nay. Half ten.”

  I finally turn and spot two older-looking women standing over us. They both have red hair and matching concerned expressions. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what ‘half ten’ means.”

  “The Americans,” one of the women scoffs.

  “Aye, they are bonny, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, that’s me, Bonnie—and you are?”

  “Full of themselves too.” They chuckle together and reach out, giving us a helping hand. “I’m Innis, and I run the inn here. This is Shona—she owns the Mill Market.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, straightening up as much as I can, even though I can’t feel the entire back side of my body. “This is Dakota, and I’m Bonnie.”

  “Oh, Bonnie is your name?” Innis asks. “Aye. Nice to meet you. Are ye Scottish?”

  “One-sixteenth,” I say, puffing my chest. I watch Innis and Shona exchange a quick look of amusement.

  “Well, then, the coffee shop is in good hands, even if you are tardy to open.”

  “What?” Dakota and I say at the same time.

  “It’s half ten,” Shona says. “We went to get a cup but noticed it was closed, and then we saw two lifeless bodies down here by the rocks and decided to investigate. We thought you were dead.”

  “What does ‘half ten’ mean?” Dakota asks, looking panicked.

  “Ten thirty.”

  “Oh my God,” we both say. Quickly, we gather our things and take off toward the coffee shop, but not before thanking the ladies. They just laugh at us as we sprint up the gray brick road and straight to the coffee house, where . . .

  Oh crap.

  Standing tall, his arms crossed over a red-and-black-plaid shirt, is none other than Rowan MacGregor, as I’ve learned is his last name.

  His eyes narrow and we run toward him, and I know I’m about to be met with a whole storm of grumpy.

  “Taking it light on the job?” he asks.

  I take a moment to catch my breath as he glowers down at me. “We were eating breakfast by the loch and fell asleep on the rocks.” I clutch my aching back. “It was an accident.”

  “My parents trusted you to take care of their shop while they’re gone, and this is how you act on the first day?”

  “We’re so sorry,” Dakota says, jogging to my side. “It was not our intention to slack. We’re just tired and jet-lagged, and the birdsong and lapping water were so peaceful, and we just couldn’t help ourselves.” There she goes, rambling. She gets that from me.

  Rowan looks Dakota up and down, but it doesn’t feel like the same intense perusal he gave me yesterday while I wielded my broom.

  “And you are?”

  “Dakota.” She holds out her hand, but he doesn’t take it. Ugh, he’s so freaking rude. “You must be Rowan.”

  “Aye. And you must be the responsible one.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, hands on my hips. “I’m responsible.”

  His intimidating eyes flash toward me for a brief second before he focuses back on Dakota. “Me maw and da asked me to stop over at the shop today to make sure you two were all set with everything you need. To my surprise, you weren’t here.”

  “Not on purpose. We would never disregard your parents like that,” I say.

  His eyes remain trained on Dakota. “I don’t babysit. I told my parents I won’t be babysitting you two, but it looks like I might have to, judging by how day one is going.”

  “No, you won’t,” Dakota says, using her best mom voice. “This is all an honest mistake. I promise, we will be better.”

  “We don’t have to prove anything to him.” I fold my arms over my chest.

  “Bonnie,” Dakota says, chastising me.

  Rowan shifts in front of us, hands falling to his hips. Challenging.

  “What? He’s being rude. It was an honest mistake. He doesn’t have to be so mean about it. I see his intimidation tactics. The way he towers over the ‘wee lasses,’” I say in my best Scottish accent. “I see right through you, Rowan.” I move two fingers between my eyes and his, but he doesn’t flinch, not even a blink. “I won’t stand here and let you attempt to intimidate us. No, sir.” I push past him, my shoulder brushing his, the stone of his arm sending my shoulder back as I continue forward. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some coffee to make. Come on, Dakota.”

  From behind me, I hear Dakota say, “I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  I watch through the front window as Rowan angrily walks away. “You don’t have to suck up to him,” I say as Dakota steps inside and the door swings shut behind her.

  “He’s Stuart and Finella’s son. I think it would be helpful if we were nice.”

  “Why? He’s not being nice to us.”

  “Because what if we need help with something? He’s the handyman, isn’t he?”

  “We’ll be fine. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Dakota strides behind the counter and starts scooping ground coffee into the coffee maker. “These are centuries-old buildings—pretty sure anything can go wrong, especially when you put words like that out into the universe. You’re just asking to be jinxed.”

  “Please. We have all the luck on our side, remember? We’re going to go rub our faces on the Penis Stone. That’s all the luck we need.”

  “Once again, it’s not the Blarney Stone. It’s where a man’s dick was chopped off.”

  “In the name of women,” I declare, raising my fist. “Trust me, we are going to be completely fine.”

  “Why do I let you talk?” Dakota asks, pressing her hand to her face as we stare at the kitchen faucet—which is turned on and completely dry.

  “Are you alluding to me jinxing us?” I ask, hoping to the high heavens that I didn’t.

  “I don’t know. You go and piss off the handyman, then after a long, boring day at the coffee shop, we come home to no running water when the water was just fine earlier today and yesterday.”

  I gasp and spin toward Dakota. “Oh my God, do you think this is sabotage?” I start moving around the cottage, sniffing the air, running my fingers over the surfaces. “I can smell him. He was here.”

  “You can’t possibly smell him.”

  “I can,” I insist.

  “Then what does he smell like?”

  “A kilt,” I answer, not even thinking about it.

  “You’ve never smelled a kilt in your entire life.”

  “False,” I say, running my nose over the back of the couch . . . oof, musty. “Last fall, Bath and Body Works sold a candle called Scottish Kilt. That’s what Rowan smells like.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “Have I?” I ask. “Or have I cracked the code on this man?”

  “You’ve lost it.” Sighing, Dakota grabs her phone and pulls up her contacts.

  “I don’t think calling your dad is going to be helpful right now. Not sure he knows much about Scottish plumbing.”

  “I’m not calling my dad.” She holds the phone up to her ear. “I’m calling Rowan.”

  “You have his number?” When the hell did she get that?

  “Finella gave it to me in case we needed anything,” Dakota says. Ahh, that makes sense.

  Wait . . . she’s actually calling him.

  “No, you can’t call him. That’s exactly what he wants you to do. We can figure this out on our own.” Hurrying to the bathroom, I grab the toilet-water bucket and charge out of the cottage to the well.

  Now, to be honest, I’ve never seen a well in person, but I’ve seen them being used on many a TV show and movie, and when I say “many,” I’m pretty sure it’s only been Disney movies, but that’s beside the point. Those badass bitches knew exactly what they were doing when they were fetching water.

  Squatting down beside the short stone well, I lean my head under the well’s little thatched roof and peer down the hole.

  Pitch black.

  “Hello?” I call down, just to check that there aren’t any trolls or gremlins lurking below. The Scottish are known for their fables and storytelling so, you know, just have to make sure. “Anyone home?” I ask, laughing to myself.

  When there is no response, I take that as my cue to use the bucket.

  “See, we don’t need him,” I mutter to myself. “We can just get our own water.” Not ideal, and yes, I swore I would need modern plumbing when we first pulled up to the cottage, but I’ve become one with Scotland today. Sleeping on the rocks by a loch—ha!—will do that to you.

  I pull down the rope that’s attached to a pulley system and tie it securely around the handle of the bucket. I make sure to yank it a few times to test that it’s completely secure. Don’t need to lose our toilet-water bucket.

  Once I feel it’s ready, I let the bucket dangle over the well before grabbing the pulley’s handle and turning it. The bucket lowers a few inches.

  “Aha!” I yell, looking behind me to the cottage and spotting Dakota in the front window, phone still held up to her ear. “Look, Dakota, I’m fetching us water. Get a picture for the Gram.”

  I turn the handle a little bit more and marvel at how smoothly it’s lowering the bucket. It’s as if I was born to fetch water.

  “We’ll be taking baths in no time,” I call out, even though the thought of doing this multiple times to fill the tub isn’t at all appealing.

  Ugh, and to think families used to share the bathwater. I can’t even begin to think of all the dead skin floating around.

  Dakota and I are close . . . but we’re not that close.

  “Just got off the pho—Bonnie, what the hell are you doing?” Dakota asks from behind me.

  I pause my work and crane my neck around, flashing her a grin. “Did you not hear me? I’m fetching us water. We don’t need Kilty McGrumpyshire to come over here and save the day. We are survivalists—we can make it on our own.”

  “Your form of survival is Uber Eats.”

  “Takes a smart woman to know where to get the best food, still warm, and for a good price.” I tap the side of my head. “Call Kilty back and tell him we’re good.”

  “I’m not calling him back—and why are you calling him that? You haven’t seen him in a kilt. You don’t even know if he owns one.”

  “Okay, let’s not be naive,” I say, lowering the bucket even deeper. “He smells like a kilt, he’s grumpy, and . . . I don’t know, ‘shire’ has a nice ring to it. Kilty McGrumpy—huh.” I frown, sensing a shift in the rope. “I think I just hit something.”

  “What do you mean you just—?”

  An ear-piercing screech fills the air, and before I can look over the edge to assess what’s knocked my bucket, a mass of blackness comes barreling out of the well, straight toward me.

  I fling myself back on the ground as what must be hundreds of bats pour out of the well like a tidal wave of God’s fury crashing down on us.

  Now, there is only one way to describe the sound that flies out of my mouth as a bat’s wing clips me across the forehead: the war cry of a pig in heat as the farmer steals its trough right out from under its nose.

  It’s feral.

  It’s disturbing.

  It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard fall past my lips.

  And it isn’t just one scream.

  It’s several.

  “Ahhh! . . . snuff snuff . . . ahhhhhh bababa ahhhh snuff.”

  Oink.

  (Not really, but an oink wouldn’t surprise me at this point.)

  “They’re eating me alive!” I cry out to Dakota, who is nowhere to be seen. “They want my brains; they’re begging for the sweet juices of my intelligence.” I swat at the air before trying to army crawl across the ground. This tactic fails miserably as bat after bat dive-bombs me. “I just wanted water. Don’t kill me for wanting to stay hydrated. Ahhhh!”

  Still screaming, I cover my face with my hands, deciding that this is how I die. Then, to my horror, a giant bat scoops me up by the pants and lifts me off the ground.

  “Don’t take me to your lair. Please, I’m not ready for Dracula. I have the devil’s blood—it’ll make you sick. Blood infused with garlic. So much garlic. Please spare me. Spare my life.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” a deep Scottish voice demands.

  I lift my hands from my eyes and look up to find Rowan carrying me to the house and then tossing me through the door, which he quickly slams behind him as he, too, enters. I scramble off the floor and to my feet. My blonde hair is a windblown—or bat-blown—mess, scattered across my forehead, whipping against my face and tangled into knots.

  I stand up straight and lift my chin before I slowly push a chunk of hair out of my eyes. “I had it handled out there.”

  Dakota is standing to the side, covering her mouth and chuckling so much that I can see her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

  She will hear about my displeasure at her reaction later. Right now, I have to deal with a Scot.

  “No, you didn’t,” he retorts. “You sounded like a horse getting its leg chopped off.”

  Huh . . . that would be another accurate way to describe the sounds coming from my mouth.

  “Well, pardon me for expressing my discomfort as a million bats tried to bury themselves in my hair and take me to their master. Next time I’ll be sure to giggle and act more ladylike.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt,” he says, and his reply makes me really, really want to kick him in the shin.

  “Why are you so surly all the time? Got your kilt all twisted in your crack?”

  He looks down at his jeans and back up at me. “I’m not wearing a kilt.”

  “Metaphorically.”

  “Aye, so would it be metaphorically the same if I asked whether or not your cowboy hat was screwed on a little too tight?”

  “Not all Americans wear cowboy hats.”

  “Which proves his point,” Dakota says from the side of her mouth. I glance at her with narrowed eyes—she seems to be having too much fun watching this interaction.

  “That’s neither here nor there,” I say, straightening my shirt. “We don’t need your assistance. We are perfectly fine using the well water. Now, if you would please scurry—”

  “That well has been dried up for years.”

  Huffing, I fling my arm toward the well in frustration. “Then why have it there? Collecting bats? For unsuspecting people who think they’re providing a service by fetching water?”

  “It’s decorative. Maw says it adds charm for tourists like yourself.”

  Well, Finella is correct about that. Definitely completes the look of the thatch-roofed, fairy-tale cottage in the woods.

  But in terms of convenience, it’s quite confusing.

  “It’s also written in the guest book, if you read it.” He nods toward a binder on the coffee table.

  “I fell asleep on jagged rocks in the middle of a strange town this morning,” I say, cocking my hand on my hip. “Do you really think I have the stamina to power through a house manual?”

  “It’d be the responsible thing to do, but och, you’re not the responsible one, now, are ya?”

  I turn to Dakota and jab a finger toward Rowan. “I told you he was rude. Rude and grumpy and mean and . . . smells like a kilt. Seriously, go smell him.”

  “What does a kilt smell like, per se?” he asks, arms still crossed over his barrel of a chest.

  “Like a freaking Bath and Body Works candle. Honestly, who are you people?” Walking toward the sitting area, I throw my hands up to the sky and then fling my body onto the couch, where I sit petulantly.

  “Uh, she’s tired and needs a bath,” Dakota says, stepping up as the peacemaker. “We’d be grateful if you could check out the water for us.”

  “Aye,” Rowan says. I can feel his gaze on me, but I don’t give him the time of day. No, sir, you can stare all you want. I’ll keep my eyes trained on this tiny piece of black lint that has fallen on my pants. I pick at it and roll it between my fingers.