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.