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.
“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.