“No, I was trying to drive on the wrong side of the road when we arrived. Wasn’t really sightseeing.” I slowly start inching closer to Dakota, keeping the chair held up as a barrier. “So you’re telling me this goat is idolized by the town?”

  “Given that a lot of the businesses are named after a goat, I would say yes.”

  “Which means we need to handle this extraction delicately. Got it. Well, I volunteer you. Animals like you more; they can sense your ability to connect with them.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since that goldfish at the pet store followed your finger.”

  “It was trying to eat my finger.”

  “Doesn’t matter, the goldfish thought you were good enough to eat. So go ahead; don’t be nervous. I’m sure—”

  “Fergus, old lad, there you are,” Lachlan says, striding into the coffee house, followed closely by Leith. Shirtless and wearing matching kilts, they both give him a pat and then take in the horrified looks on our faces. “Awright, lasses. Everything okay?”

  “They seem to be scared of Fergus,” Leith says, stroking the now-silent goat on the back of the neck.

  “Scared of a wee goat?”

  Carefully I set the chair down, not wanting to provoke the beast. “He startled us with his boisterous hello.”

  Lachlan and Leith both laugh, and I shamelessly watch as their thick pecs and defined abs bounce up and down. The Murdachs have good genes, that’s for damn sure.

  “Aye, he sure knows how to announce himself,” Leith says, patting Fergus on the back. “But he comes from an impeccable lineage that saved this very town. We would be lost without him. Back in 2001, his father’s life was threatened by the outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease, but it didn’t spread to the Highlands, thankfully. We were nervous, though—it wreaked havoc on England’s agriculture.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that,” I say as Dakota hops off the counter.

  “Want some coffee?” she asks, acting as if she wasn’t just terrorized by a farm animal.

  Leith holds up his hand. “We’re about to go do a training video for our followers. But thank you. We were just stopping by to grab Fergus—he’s a celebrity on our videos—and to see if you lasses wanted to go on a hike with us on Sunday. Picnic up at Corsekelly Castle, like I mentioned in the pub.”

  “Training video?” I ask.

  “Aye, personal training. The Training Kilts,” Lachlan says. “If you ever see us hopping around town carrying logs and acting like fools, it’s for a training video. We sell training packages with accompanying kilts—and we’re building quite the fan base. Which reminds me, Dakota, would we be able to pick your brain about some new graphics for our website?”

  “Of course. Anytime. We’re, uh, not very busy here.”

  “The coffee shop is never too busy. Shame,” Leith sighs. “Stuart put his heart into this store.”

  “Was it different before Stuart left?” I ask, surprised.

  “Aye. Stuart used to sell these delicious butteries with homemade jam. He would sell out by noon. That’s all it was—simple coffee, butteries, and his classic storytelling. Word got round, and tour buses would clear him out. He built quite the happy life. Then he retired, and Finella couldn’t keep up. I’m glad they’re on holibags. They need it.”

  “Butteries? What are those?” I ask.

  “Ehm, like a flattened croissant,” Leith answers. “Traditional butteries are hard to come by. They’re supposed to be made with butter and lard, but the mass producers started using palm oil, and they’re just not the same.”

  “They sound good.”

  “They look like hell. Lot of Scots call them the ‘roadkill pastry,’ because they look like they’ve been run over by a car, but have one toasted with some jeely, and I’ll tell ya, you’re in heaven.”

  “I’m sad he doesn’t make them anymore.”

  Leith sighs and gives the coffee house another look. “Remember when this place used to be full? Maybe when Finella gets back, she’ll have a renewed spirit.”

  “Hopefully,” Lachlan agrees and then claps his hands together—prompting Fergus to scream again. The boys laugh, while Dakota and I clutch our hearts. “So, Sunday . . . are you lasses up for a hike?”

  I glance at Dakota, who smiles and shrugs. “Sure,” I say. “We really don’t have any plans. Should we bring something?”

  “Isla is packing the food. Just bring some water for yourself. Meet you at half ten at the bakeshop.” Lachlan gives us a wave, and then both boys take off.

  Once they’re out of earshot, I turn to Dakota and give her a playful grin. “Hear that? Isla is packing us food. Maybe she’ll let you taste her muffin.”

  “Grow up.” Dakota chucks a rolled-up napkin at me.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Dakota says as she shuts the door to the cottage.

  “Damn you, dough!” I scream. I flop back on the kitchen floor and sit cross-legged, my hands extended so I don’t get any of the butter-lard mixture that’s caked on my hands anywhere.

  “Uh . . . what is happening?”

  “I’m trying to make butteries,” I say, just about ready to throw a fit.

  “Is that why you wanted to leave the shop early?”

  “Yes,” I answer, exasperated. “I found a simple recipe online, went to the Mill Market, where Shona helped me collect the ingredients, and then I came back here, confident that you’d be coming home to fresh, warm butteries.” I toss my arm toward the pile of melting dough on the counter. “But that is my third attempt, and I honestly think I might throw it down the well.”

  “Why are you trying to make butteries?”

  “I don’t know. The way Lachlan and Leith were talking about them, I thought it would be fun to get domestic, you know? I make boxed cake all the time; why not try something new?”

  “Bonnie.” She walks over and squats down so we’re eye to eye. “You know I love you, but boxed cake is completely different from a homemade pastry.”

  “Uh, I do two-tiered boxed cakes. That’s special and challenging.”

  “Yes, but it also only requires you to measure correctly and stir. It doesn’t call for yeast and whatever goop is all over your hands.”

  I glance down. “It has been slightly more difficult.”

  “I can tell.” She sweetly rubs her hand over my shoulder. “It’s so nice that you were trying something new, though.”

  “Yeah, I guess it’s something new.” I start to perk up. “Hey, look at me stepping out of my comfort zone.”

  “I’m very proud of you.”

  I rise to my feet and stare at the mess on the counter.

  “You know, I think I’m going to make this my mission. I’m going to master the buttery while I’m here. And I’m going to bring it back to America and open a buttery food truck, with homemade currant jam. And people from all over the country are going to come to my food truck and ask me to butter their buttery, and then movie sets will catch wind of my butteries and hire my truck to come feed their team, and when the assholes who fired me come to the truck, I’ll tell them I just ran out and that maybe if they hadn’t been so rude to me, I would be able to find some extras in the back for them.”

  “Wow, spent some time thinking about this?” Dakota chuckles.

  “No, it all just flashed in front of me.”

  “You’re ridiculous, but I love you.”

  I go to my dough on the counter and poke it. “It just keeps melting and I don’t know why, but I’m going to figure it out. Who knows, maybe I can bring some to the picnic this Sunday. Surprise everyone.”

  “I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling renewed. I can do this. I’ve got to channel my inner baking skills.

  This time Sunday, I’m going to have quite the surprise for our new friends.

  “How’s it coming?” Dakota asks, stepping out of her room, empty bowl in hand.

  “Butteries can go to hell.”

  “That well, huh?”

  “No wonder the Scots call them the ‘roadkill pastry’—that’s where they belong, next to all the other lonely carcasses. I’m a failure.”

  I stare down at my creation. Flat as a pancake, with butter oozing out the sides, it is very displeasing to the eyes.

  “Don’t give up, Bonnie. I know you can do this.”

  “Your enthusiasm is only irritating me.”

  “Fine. You suck at life.”

  I look up at my best friend, my brow furrowed. “Hey, now, that was just mean.”

  “Tough love, baby.”

  “Oh my God, Bonnie, is the cottage burning down?” Dakota says as she flies through the front door, still holding her keys from closing up the coffee shop. She waves a hand in front of her face, clearing out the smoke.

  “No,” I groan, feeling defeated as I sit on the floor with my back against the fridge, an oven mitt on one hand. “Just the butteries going up in flames.”

  She coughs and picks up a book, then tries to wave the smoke out of the cottage with it. “What happened?”

  “I think too much lard. Something dripped and burned in the oven, and now it’s smoking me out. I think it’s a sign. Butter and lard don’t want me anywhere near them.”

  “How did they come out?”

  I stand and bring the baking sheet over to her. Congealed into one giant liquid mess, the “butteries” are once again melted and burned. They definitely look like roadkill, but not in the charming way I’m sure Lachlan and Leith meant.

  “Huh . . . well, those don’t look appetizing.”

  “Thank you for pointing out the obvious.”

  “Keep trying.” She gives my shoulder a pat. “Make butteries your bitch.”

  Hmm . . .

  “Think they’d respond to some good old-fashioned tying up and whipping? Haven’t tried that yet.”

  “You never know until you try,” Dakota says on a laugh.

  “I’m about to become their madam. Safe word . . . ‘boaby stone.’”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ROWAN

  Authors I can’t stand who are making me do this: One.

  Looking forward to a much-needed break from the blonde tornado who spun into my life. Also, waiting desperately for Shona to restock Curly Wurlys at the market.

  “What are we waiting for?” I ask, glancing around the group and adjusting the rucksack on my back. “Everyone’s here.”

  Lachlan, Leith, and Isla exchange glances. Within a second, I know the Murdachs have planned something and they’re trying to decide who should break the news to me.

  “Your turn,” Leith says to Lachlan. “I told him about Hamish and the electric outlet near the sink he needed to fix.”

  Lachlan looks at Isla. “I told him about Fergus pooping in his shoes.”

  “This wasn’t my idea,” Isla says, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Leith grumbles and turns to Lachlan. “Rock, paper, scissors. Seven out of nine, loser tells him.”

  “Seven out of nine? That’s absurd,” Isla says. “Do three out of five.”

  “Do sudden death, or I kick all of your asses,” I say, growing irritated.

  “Even mine?” Isla asks, innocence in her usually steely eyes.

  “Aye, even you.”

  “Fine.” Leith and Lachlan hold out their hands. They count off and Leith wins with rock.

  Lachlan groans and is opening his mouth to make his confession when a voice behind me calls out, “We’re here.”

  I turn to find Dakota and Bonnie walking up to us, each of them carrying a water bottle at their side. When Bonnie locks eyes with me, I see my thoughts mirrored in her expression.

  What is she doing here?

  What is he doing here?

  “Sorry we’re late,” Dakota says. “Bonnie lost her other shoe, and we couldn’t find it. Somehow it ended up in her bed.” She flashes a smile at Isla.

  “You’re right on time,” Isla says, walking up to Dakota and giving her a hug. I watch the surprised expression on Dakota’s face soften into happiness. Isla quickly hugs Bonnie as well and clears her throat. “The boys and I were talking, and since you lasses are new to the route, we’re going to buddy up.”

  Uh, we did not discuss that.

  “Leith and Lachlan are going to lead the way,” Isla continues. “Dakota, you can buddy up with me and we’ll go second, since the terrain is a little rocky. And, Bonnie, you can walk with Rowan. He’s sturdy, so if you slip, just grab any of his muscles.”

  “Including the one in his pants,” Leith says, and Isla slaps him on the back of the head.

  “Ignore him.” Leaning against the bakeshop are two hiking sticks. Isla hands one to each girl. “These should help during the steep parts. It will be challenging, but I promise it’ll totally be worth it, especially since I packed some fresh shortbread for us for when we get to the castle.”

  “Sounds great,” Dakota says, looking far more excited than Bonnie, who’s staring daggers at me as she grips her hiking stick.

  How convenient that I get matched up with Bonnie. This situation smells of meddling friends who think they know better than me.

  Isla waves a hand at her brothers. “Leith and Lachlan, lead the way.”

  They take off, and we all file in line through an alley between the stone buildings, two by two by two, like a herd of hairy coos making our way up toward the castle.

  At first, Bonnie and I don’t say anything to each other.

  It’s awkward.

  Uncomfortable.

  And this is not how I planned on spending my Sunday.

  Meanwhile, Leith and Lachlan are laughing up ahead, while Dakota and Isla seem to be deep in conversation.

  Once we make it out of town and start onto the footpath that leads to the castle, I start to feel Bonnie brushing against me and grumbling something under her breath. Ignoring her, I continue to walk, trying to at least enjoy the silence. That’s until . . .

  “Can you stop hogging the trail with your mammoth body?” Bonnie says, shoving me with her shoulder, but given our size difference, she doesn’t move me an inch.

  “I’m just walking.”

  “You’re manspreading.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I don’t know—you tell me. You’re the one walking like a Neanderthal with his arms all puffed out, knocking me into the bushes.”

  “I’m not manspreading; this is just the size of my body.”

  “You’re too big.”

  I snort. “I’ve never had that complaint before.”

  “Ugh, I should have seen that coming.”

  “For someone who’s in a foreign country with a plush job, you seem to be cranky all the time.”

  “I’m not cranky, just . . . irritated.” She blows out a long breath.

  “You get irritated that easily?”

  “Well, yes, but your manspreading is not the only reason I’m irritated.”

  “I’m not manspreading,” I repeat, glancing down at her. Her ponytail sways from side to side with each of her steps, and she looks cute in her leggings and tank top, a jacket tied around her waist. I half expected her to be one of those girls who shows up for a hike in heels, but she’s not. When she doesn’t say anything after that, I figure I might as well pry. This is a long hike, and walking it with someone who is silent is going to be painfully awkward. I hate to admit it, but . . . even though I enjoy silence, I also hate when I can feel people are mad. Takes away from the peace I’m trying to capture while hiking. “Why are you irritated?”

  “Do you really care?” The hostility is clear in her voice, but I can also sense she wants to get this off her chest. Contrary to what she must think about me, I’m not a complete asshole.

  “Try me.”

  She doesn’t answer right away but instead falls silent, the crunch of the ground beneath our feet the only sound either of us is making.

  Finally she says, “I was trying to make something to bring to the picnic today. You know, contribute to the group, since the Murdachs were so kind to invite us.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “It didn’t go as planned.”

  “Mess up?”

  “Six times.” She sighs heavily. “Six freaking times, and I swear, on the sixth I almost burned down the cottage. Dakota came home to smoke filtering out the front door and windows.”

  “What were you trying to make?”

  “Butteries.”

  “Butteries?” I ask. Haven’t had those since . . . well, since Da stopped working at the shop. “Why were you trying to make those?”

  “Lachlan and Leith came to the coffee shop the other day to invite us on the hike. They were also looking for Fergus, who announced himself with an ear-piercing scream minutes before they arrived.”

  “Fergus has a set of pipes on him.”

  She chuckles, and the sound actually puts me at ease. For a moment, I feel the tension dissipating between us. “He sounds like an actual human, and it’s startling. I thought some psychopathic Boaby Stone–loving tourist was coming to murder us.”

  That makes me grin. “We’re used to him by now.”

  “Not sure I’ll ever get used to that.” She trips over a rock, and I grab her arm, steadying her. She glances up at me, and those eyes nearly gut me as she says, “Thanks.”

  Clearing my throat, I quickly look away. “Sure.”

  “Anyway, they were telling us about what the shop was like before your dad retired—how it was always full of customers, thanks to the butteries he’d bake.”

  “Aye,” I say. And it could still be full if Da wasn’t so stubborn. “He’d sell out by noon, thanks to all the tourists. He started making a special batch for the locals and opening an hour earlier, just so they could get their fill before the buses started rolling through.” I run my hand over my jaw. “I can’t tell you the last time I had a buttery.” I lift up a tree branch for us to duck under as the path starts to become more cumbersome. The others are farther up ahead, spaced evenly, and it doesn’t bother me. It’s kind of nice hanging back and walking with Bonnie, though I’d never tell her that. She’d gloat too much—I know I would.