Isn’t he adorable.
Picture a cow with a seventies hairstyle. Long brown locks sweep over his face, and massive horns come out the side of his head. Isn’t he darling? I could just stare at him all— SMACK.
My cheek connects with what feels like a stone wall, and I fall back on my ass with a thump.
What on earth?
“Ah hell.” A deep, accented voice rolls through my entire body.
Blinking and trying to get ahold of my bearings, I slowly take in the wall before me. Except it’s not a wall. Toned, tanned legs, running shorts . . . bulge . . . deep, muscular V, followed by defined abs, massive pecs . . . oh sweet Jesus, those nipples. So proportionate and pretty. My eyes keep running, following a path of dark, twisted ink that stains one pec and travels over his shoulder and down his arm.
And then his face comes into view as he squats down. Dark scruff, wet lips, mossy-green eyes.
“What the hell are you doing?” Rowan asks, pulling me to my feet.
I blink some more, my face level with his beautifully sculpted chest.
My oh my, do they breed them well in Scotland.
“Hello? Are you okay?”
“You’re shirtless.”
He glances down at his wet, glistening chest. “Aye. And you have a shirt on.”
I glance down at my chest and nod. “Aye.”
The smallest of smirks appears on his lips before it disappears. “Glad we established who’s wearing a shirt and who’s not.”
“’Tis quite the accomplishment this fine morn,” I say in a horrible Scottish accent. Maybe that knock did something to my brain.
“Okay, well . . .” He frowns. “If you’re not concussed, I’m going to take off.”
“I don’t think I’m concussed. Although I don’t know what a concussion feels like.”
“Are you dizzy?”
I do feel slightly dizzy, but I’m not sure if it’s from being knocked down or from the combination of my lack of male-induced orgasms and seeing Rowan with his shirt off.
“Maybe?”
His brow knits together. “Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”
I didn’t eat breakfast, so that could be why I’m feeling slightly faint.
“Maybe?”
“Jesus.” He drags his hand down his face and exhales heavily. Taking me by my upper arm, he spins me around and starts walking me back toward town.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Taking you to your cottage.”
“But I planned on seeing more hairy coos.”
“Not if you’re feeling dizzy and nauseous,” he grumbles. “We didn’t even run into each other that hard.”
“Says the guy built like a rock wall.” I swat at his hand. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t manhandle me like this. I am a lady, after all.”
“I’m holding you up so you don’t fall again.”
I swat at him a second time, but he doesn’t budge. Sheesh, he’s strong. “I’m more than capable of walking—” I trip over a tree root and nearly fall forward, but Mr. Muscles pulls me back.
Muscles McGrumpyshire.
“You were saying?” he asks drily.
“That was an unfortunate coincidence.”
He silently walks me all the way back to the cottage, his grip tight, unwavering.
“Mornin’， Rowan,” a man calls out, tipping his pageboy hat in our direction.
“Mornin’， Alasdair,” Rowan says, his voice sounding chipper, so different from when he speaks with me.
“Morning,” I shout, waiving obnoxiously.
Alasdair chuckles. “Morning, lass. Good luck with the beast—he looks like he’s on a war path.”
“Oh, you know, just a caveman trying to control every aspect of my life,” I shout back as Rowan walks us away. Have never spoken to the man in my life, but I like his jolly smile. Can you guess? Rowan doesn’t appreciate my tiny conversation with Alasdair. He indicated this by tightening his grip. Impossible man.
“You know,” I say as he marches me down the gravel driveway to the cottage, “I think I can make it from here.”
Nothing.
Not a single word.
When we reach the cottage, he pushes through the door and walks me to the couch. While I sit down, he goes to the kitchen and digs through a drawer before pulling out a flashlight. Striding back over, he squats in front of me and flashes it in front of my eyes.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure your pupils aren’t dilated. That’s a sign of concussion.”