Bending down, I pick her up and toss her over my shoulder.

  “What the—put me down at once. I demand it!”

  “Your time here is up,” I say, bringing her to the table, where Dakota’s just finished paying the bill.

  “You aren’t the boss of me. I’m a grown woman. I make my own decisions.”

  Dakota quickly says goodbye to everyone before following me out the door.

  “Dakota, tell this Highland beast to put me down at once.”

  “It’s time for bed, Bonnie,” Dakota says, and I’m grateful she’s on the same page as me.

  “I was just starting to have fun,” she whines.

  “You were poking Rowan’s ass.”

  “Accidentally,” she complains, still draped over my shoulder as I trudge down the road, the sun finally starting to set in the west. She’s not heavy, but I’m still grateful Fergie’s is close to the coffee shop, and we’re soon turning down the gravel driveway. “You saw the way he was dancing. There was no sway in his hips at all. I was simply waking them up.”

  “You’re going to be hurting tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep,” Dakota says. “We can’t be late again.”

  I pause. “Och, do you want me to drop you off on your sleeping rocks to pass out? Seems like you sleep well there.”

  “You’re an asshole,” Bonnie mutters while Dakota chuckles.

  That puts a smile on my face.

  I pull my shirt over my head and toss it into the hamper. Slipping my boots off, I tuck them away where they belong and then remove my socks. As I walk out of my bedroom, I take one quick glance in the mirror and notice how rumpled my hair is.

  It wasn’t from me pushing my hand through it.

  No, it was a little gift from Bonnie. Once it became clear I wouldn’t put her down until she was in her bed, she decided she’d mess with my hair, sticking it on all ends.

  “Take that and that and that,” she said, over and over again while digging her fingers through the thick strands.

  Hell, it felt fucking good.

  She thought she was annoying me, but in reality I was hoping she’d keep doing it. And that’s how I knew I might be a bit sloshed too.

  I walk into my kitchen, grab the glass that I keep next to the sink, fill it up with some tap water, and guzzle it down, only to fill it up again.

  Too wired to even consider going to sleep, I push through my front door, the evening air putting life into my chest while I walk over to my shed. Crickets chirp in the distance, and my front door light illuminates my path as my bare feet close the distance.

  Slowly, I unlock the shed door and slide it open. I flip on the light I installed a few months ago when I realized I do my best work at night.

  My small but comforting space comes to life from the overhanging light, instantly relaxing me. Shelves of drying projects, half-glazed pots, and finished products line the walls. My kiln, which I replaced last year after my first one broke down, sits in the corner. And then there’s my wheel, my place of solace.

  It’s been a long fucking day of repairing things here and there before giving my parents a quick send-off. I didn’t get much more than a hug from my maw and a grunt from my da. After that, I helped some of our older residents with menial tasks, and then, of course, assisted Bonnie and Dakota. I’m exhausted but exhilarated at the same time.

  I take a seat, set my glass down, dip my hands in water, and then grab a chunk of clay. I set it on the potter’s wheel in front of me, where I spiral wedge it, letting out the air bubbles. The feel of the clay beneath my fingers soothes my busy soul, giving me the chance to clear my mind and just breathe. I turn on the wheel and slowly start to move my hands over the clay. Normally I listen to music while throwing, but the sounds of the night filter through my shed instead, and I get lost.

  My annoyance at my parents and their evasiveness washes away.

  The irritation of doing a job I hate, to appease my duty-driven father, disappears.

  The anguish of not living the life I want slowly vanishes.

  The horror of my past fades.

  All that’s left are my hands and my clay . . . and Bonnie.

  Fuck.

  Those eyes, that attitude, that smile.

  I dip my fingers into the center of the clay, forming a hole.

  Her brazenness, her quick wit, her eagerness to dance with me.

  My teeth pull on the corner of my mouth as I round the clay back together.

  She’s proud, like me. Defensive like me. Stubborn . . . like me.

  I press my thumb down, savoring the feel of the clay gliding under my skin and forming another bowl shape.

  I think I might have met my match—and she’s wrapped up in a tiny, feisty, all-American package.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BONNIE

  Cake consumed today: None, but that’s about to change.

  Days since last male-induced orgasm: Seventy-three? Seventy-four? It’s getting up there.

  Hangovers: One massive head-cracking hangover.

  Annoying Scottish men who treat women like potato sacks: One, but God does he smell good. Like a really sexy pheromone-filled kilt.

  I don’t know what they put in their beer over here, but golly is it strong. Did I poke an ass last night?

  “You’re walking too fast, and my retinas are bleeding.” I shield the sun from my eyes as Dakota drags me along the stone-paved street, away from the coffee shop. “I demand to know where you’re taking me.” Instead of answering, Dakota comes to an abrupt stop before a teal door.

  I blink at the door, struggling to truly see anything in this godforsaken sunlight—I thought Scotland was all rain and clouds; bunch of turd wash that is—before Dakota opens it and pushes me inside. I stumble into the sweetest-smelling room I’ve ever been in.

  Two bakery cases rest next to the intricately carved counter—a Murdach clan crest shaved into the middle. On the other side of the beautifully wood-paneled space is a high bar attached to the wall with accompanying seats for those who want to eat in the bakery. There isn’t much decor, but there doesn’t need to be, given the wood-stained corbels in the corners and the wood-slatted ceilings.

  Adorable.

  “Hey, ladies.” I look up to find Isla walking toward us, an apron around her waist and a towel in her hands. “How are you feeling?”

  Isla is adorable too. Really freaking adorable. Vibrant red hair brushes her shoulders, and she has these steely eyes that she barely highlights with a touch of mascara. A light splattering of freckles decorates her nose, and the smallest of nose rings glimmers in the light.

  When she walked up last night and Rowan introduced us, I gauged Dakota’s reaction—blushing cheeks and light smirk—and I knew my best friend was a little smitten.

  I don’t blame her. Isla is a bombshell with a sweet accent. Every word that comes out of her mouth is like a melody.

  And, most importantly, she owns a bakery, which means . . .

  “Caaaaake,” I groan like a woman looking for water in a desert.

  Isla chuckles. “That good, huh?”

  Dakota places her hand on my back. “We need a little pick-me-up for this girl before we head over to the coffee shop.”

  Why the bakery is open before the coffee house, I have no idea, but right now this is working in my favor.

  “I think I can help you out with that.” She works her way behind the counter near the bakery cases. “You’re looking for cake? Or breakfast.”

  “Both,” Dakota answers as I slink over to the food display. One side is full of what look like Hot Pockets, and the other contains a plethora of pastries and yumminess. I float over to that side.

  “Well, we have some breakfast pies. All have egg in them, and then we add different things like spinach, bacon, haggis.”

  I hold my hand up. “No haggis, please . . . no haggis.”

  Isla chuckles. “Aye, it’s an acquired taste.”

  “What’s that cake?” I ask, pointing to a round loaf with almonds decorating the top.

  “That’s Dundee cake. A Scottish specialty. I actually won second place at the Highland Games for mine. It was the first time they had a Dundee cake competition—it’s usually just shortbread, which I placed third in.”

  “Wow, that’s incredible,” Dakota says. “If that’s the case, we’re going to have to try both.”

  “Not so fast,” I say and raise a brow at Isla. “What’s in the Dundee cake?”

  She smiles. “It’s a much tastier version of America’s fruitcake. But this is made with currants, sultanas—which are white grapes—and almonds.”

  I tap my chin. “Yeah, I feel like I would like that. Wrap it up.”

  “And the shortbread?”

  Dakota nods. “And two breakfast pies, egg and spinach. We need protein too.”

  “I need cake first. I swear the withdrawal is real.”

  As she packs up everything, Isla asks, “Did you have fun last night?”

  Dakota leans against the counter, taking over the conversation, and if I weren’t so hungover I would make it hard on her, tease her like any other good friend, but I give the girl a break. Also, it’s nice to see her stepping out of her comfort zone.

  “We did. The music added to the whole mood.”

  “You should have danced.”

  “I didn’t have enough drinks in me to get out on the dance floor.”

  “Hasn’t stopped you before,” I mumble. Dakota shoots me a look, and I slump against the counter. Be nice, I silently chastise myself. She has the money to buy the cake.

  “Maybe another night, then,” Isla says as Dakota hands her a credit card. “Nay, we’ll open a tab for you.”

  “Ohh, a tab, I like the sound of that,” I say, perking up while Isla hands Dakota a paper bag full of our treats.

  “Do not let Bonnie add anything to the tab or start her own,” Dakota says, looking Isla directly in the eyes. “Do you understand? If given access to such a privilege, she will run us into the ground. Her obsession with cake is borderline lunacy.”

  “Ha, as if you don’t have the same problem.” I point my thumb toward Dakota. “Loves cake . . . but obsessed with muffins.” I wink, and Dakota knocks me in the stomach with her elbow.

  Okay, I deserved that.

  Isla smiles playfully and winks. “Pretty obsessed with muffins myself.”

  And oh my God, the way Isla stares my friend down . . . I swear on the Dundee cake, a wave of butterflies erupts in my stomach.

  Dakota’s cheeks redden, and she fumbles with the bag as she walks backward to the door. “Yeah, muffins . . . ahem,” she says, clearing her throat, and be still my heart she’s so nervous. “Muffins are good.”

  “Especially when licked, right?” I say, because why not, at this point? Already in the doghouse.

  “Especially,” Isla says, laughing as she starts wiping down the counter. “Have a good day, lasses.”

  “You too, Isla.” I give her a wave and take Dakota by the arm, ushering her out the door and onto the street.

  She’s silent as we make our way to the coffee shop, but the minute we’re inside and the door is shut, she pounces on me.

  “What the hell was that back there?”

  “What was what?” I snag the bag from her and set it on one of the shop’s two tables as I sit down in one of the matching chairs. Not even bothering with any kind of finesse, I dive into the bag and pull out the Dundee cake. I tear off a piece and stuff it in my mouth. “Holy Highlands, that is delicious.” Almond flavoring washes over my tongue, followed by hints of orange and sweet raisin. “Want a piece?” I hold up the round cake to her, but she just stares me down.

  “Bonnie, that was humiliating back there. Licking muffins? Could you be any more obvious?”

  “I could have said licking vaginas, but I kept it classy.” I take another bite as I melt into my seat. I think I’ll be having a love affair with Dundee cake while I’m here.

  “That was not classy.” She presses her hand to her forehead and starts pacing. “God, what she must think of me.”

  “She’s probably thinking, ‘When can I take the stiff blonde out on a date?’”

  “She was not thinking that.”

  “Uh, she totally is. From the way she was eyeing you last night and the playful banter this morning, oh yes, ma’am, she’s definitely wondering when she can ask you out.”

  Dakota pauses and sets her hands on her hips. “You really think so?” The smallest of smirks plays on her lips. And God, I’ve missed that mischievous smile, the one that shows just how excited she is despite her best efforts to hide it. I haven’t seen it in a while, not since Isabella broke her heart.

  “Yup. Only a matter of time before she comes over here and asks out my beautiful best friend.” I hold out a piece of the Dundee cake, and this time she takes it. “Honestly, Isla is a hot piece of Scottish ass.”

  Dakota’s cheeks redden, and she sits down next to me. “She’s really pretty, isn’t she?”

  “Totally. Her freckles are cute.”

  “I really like her freckles,” Dakota says with excitement. “And her voice.”

  “Oh, look at you—you’re so smitten.”

  “Not smitten, just . . .” She shrugs, and I push her shoulder.

  “You’re smitten, and I like it. This is a good thing.”

  “What if she does ask me out?”

  “Uh, you say yes and go out with her. Are you kidding me, Dakota? You need this. Even if it’s a vacation fling. You’ve put yourself in this nondating box ever since Isabella broke up with you, but now it’s time to get out and open up to new possibilities. This is important, the first date after the breakup. If anything, it gets you back in the game, and that’s what I want to see—my girl happy.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She sighs and takes a bite of the cake. “She really is pretty.”

  “Total smoke show,” I say, dropping crumbs into my mouth as I tilt my head back.

  “You know I’m going to make your life a living hell whenever Rowan is around, though, after that whole bakeshop scene.”

  “What? Why? The circumstances are completely different.” I stand up from the table, walk over to the two coffee thermoses, and start making coffee. How this place is still open with only two options, I have no idea. “I don’t like Rowan, but you like Isla.”

  “Oh, please,” Dakota scoffs. “You can’t tell me you don’t find him attractive.”

  “I mean, yeah, is he all brawny and beautiful to look at? Sure. But that only takes you so far. You need a connection, and the only thing connecting us is stubbornness.”

  “Mark my words, I think you two are going to hook up . . . multiple times before we leave Scotland.”

  “Ha! Never. Not interested. Plus, I’m not here to hook up—I’m here to find my passion.”

  “Maybe your passion is Kilty McGrumpyshire, and you don’t even know it.”

  Doubtful.

  “Is that the third tour bus that’s come into Corsekelly today?” I ask, standing from my chair. I walk over to the propped-open door and stare down the tourists, who don’t even look our way. “Why aren’t they coming in to get some coffee? Are they really just here for the Penis Stone?”

  “It is odd that we haven’t seen one person today besides a few locals,” Dakota says, furrowing her brow. “Just like yesterday. Makes me feel uneasy. The sign blatantly says COFFEE. It’s been a drizzly day—why don’t they want anything to warm up with?”

  “Exactly what I’m saying.” I toss my hands up in the air and head back into the shop, where I sit at one of the uneven tables. “I don’t think I can take six months of this boredom. At least you’re getting work done. I’m just sitting here on my ass taking career assessment quizzes that have turned out to be more depressing than anything.”

  “What are they saying?” Dakota asks, shutting her computer.

  “That I have great organizational skills and should be an assistant.”

  “Oof, that’s harsh.”

  “Tell me about it. Last thing I wanted to hear today.” Groaning, I slouch in the chair and glance around the bleak space. “Finella is a nice lady and all, but could she add some charm to this place? Anything to liven up these serial killer–white walls. Look at these tables: it’s like they were constructed by someone just learning to use a hammer. And the floors, I mean—”

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”

  “Mother of Jesus!” I scream, clutching my heart, my eyes snapping to the open door. I gasp. A goat stands on the threshold. What the ever-loving—

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” it screams again, startling me right out of my chair and onto the floor with a thump.

  “Satan’s beast,” I say, scrambling to my feet and holding one of the dilapidated chairs in front of me. “Why does it sound like a human?” I brandish the chair in the goat’s direction. “Back, you. Back. Hee-ah, hee-ah.”

  But the goat doesn’t move. It just screams again, this time with a bit of a moan to it, and I’ll be honest—the sound makes me 90 percent scared for my life and 10 percent horny.

  It steps into the shop, and I back up against the wall, chair out in front of me, ready for any sudden movements.

  “Dakota, do something. It clearly wants to communicate with us.”

  Dakota is up on the counter, arms wrapped around her tucked-in legs. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Talk to him, see what he’s come for.”

  “Do you think I developed magical goat-speaking powers overnight?”

  “Maybe,” I say, clucking at him now, but he just steps deeper into the shop. “Oh God, he’s going to make this a thing. Scaring the Americans with his screeches. I can sense it.”

  “I wonder if this is Fergus,” Dakota says.

  “Who’s Fergus?”

  “The town goat. Centuries ago, during one of the Scottish uprisings, Corsekelly was about to be attacked when a goat came screaming into town, waking everyone up. They were able to escape before they were killed and then rebuild Corsekelly after the enemies burned down their homes. Fergus is a direct descendent of that hero goat. Didn’t you see the goat statue out in the town square?”