The lint here is hard.
There are so many little differences between Scotland and the US. I’m sure that’s what it will be like for the next six months: discovering all these delightful cultural differences.
“You’re rolling bat poo between your fingers,” Rowan says as he walks toward the door.
“What?” I squeal, tossing it to the ground.
“Aye, it’s all over your clothes. I’d change if I were you.”
“Oh my God!” I yell as I scurry up the stairs to my bedroom.
CHAPTER SIX
ROWAN
Number of unruly Americans saved from bats: One.
Seeing Bonnie flail about on the ground: Day made.
“Wh-why are you still here?” Bonnie says, coming out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head.
In all my years, I’ve never seen anything quite as comical as Bonnie being attacked by bats in front of the cottage. I was just around the corner when Dakota called, and then I heard the bats’ telltale screeching. I knew trouble was waiting just beyond the trees.
Sure enough, there was Bonnie, rolling around the ground, screaming and spewing off things like Don’t drink my blood, it’s American—you’ll think it’s too sour.
Humor beating through me, I lifted her up by her pants and brought her into the house. Light little thing that she is, she thought I was a goddamn bat carrying her away. Jesus, this lass.
“Clog in the pipes,” Dakota answers from the couch. “According to Kilty McGrumpyshire, the cottage hasn’t had a resident in a few months, which means the pipes are still getting acclimated to people using them again.”
Kilty McGrumpyshire?
“Dakota,” Bonnie hisses. “Don’t call him that to his face. That’s a behind-the-scenes nickname.”
“Well, now it really isn’t,” Dakota says on a chuckle. She’s pretty cool. Relaxed. Doesn’t seem to get her hairs standing on all ends like her friend. While I’ve been working on the pipes, Dakota has been working on her computer. She told me she’s a graphic designer, which I thought was pretty cool. I’ve always had a fondness for using the creative bone in your body.
I stand from my squatted position under the sink and dust off my hands. “You should be all set.”
Dakota sets her computer to the side. “Thank you. We really appreciate it. Don’t we, Bonnie?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Bonnie rolls her eyes.
I grumble a slew of Scottish curses under my breath while packing up my things. Stubborn. She’s so fucking stubborn.
“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Dakota asks.
“Dakota,” Bonnie hiss-whispers.
“What?” she snaps as if I’m not in the room. “He fixed our plumbing so you didn’t have to smell like loch and batshit anymore.”
“A wee tip—in Scotland we call our evening meal ‘tea.’” I catch Bonnie rolling her eyes before I focus back on Dakota. “But anyway, what are ye serving?” I ask, just to push Bonnie’s buttons.
“Uh . . .” Dakota stands from the couch and goes to the kitchen, where she paws through the barren pantry. “We can order something.”
“Aye, you think so?” I ask. “Where ye ordering from at eight at night?”
“Ugh, I forgot everything closes around here. Well, we can go to the market quick and—”
“Closed,” I say.
“Well . . . we . . . uh . . . Bonnie, grab the box cake you brought with you. We’ll bake that quickly, and we can all share that.”
“Oh hell no. He’s not worthy of my box cake.”
I hold back the chuckle that bubbles up inside me. Eyes trained on her lower half, I say, “Definitely not interested in your box . . . cake.”
“Did you hear that?” Bonnie asks Dakota, pointing at me again. “He was referencing my vagina.”
“Good God, Bonnie, he wasn’t!”
“Nah, I wasn’t. I was talking about your fud.”
“Gah, even worse.” She stomps her foot.
“Do you even know what a fud is?” I ask.
She goes to open her mouth, but she pauses, closing it. Then, “What is a fud?”
“A vagina.”
“Ahh,” she huffs. “You’re infuriating.” She flips her head over, unravels her towel, and drapes it over a chair before wrapping her wet hair up in her hands, twisting it around, and securing it with a hair band. To the room, she announces, “I’m going to the pub. I assume that’s the only thing open right now?”