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.