He doesn’t answer.
“Because if so, you know I would love a piece, big guy.”
He pulls two beautifully made plates off a shelf, the same style as the mugs. Then he cuts two pieces of cake, puts them on the plates with forks, and brings them to the coffee table, just as the coffee maker beeps.
He fills each mug. “Cream or sugar?”
“Both,” I answer, standing awkwardly in the middle of his cottage, unsure of what to do with my hands—or my body, for that matter. Do I sit down? Do I wait for him? Do I snag the cake and sprint out the door?
Option three is looking pretty promising—that is, until he turns around with two mugs and I catch sight of him once more.
Yeah, there’s no way I would be able to leave at this point. I’m dedicated to watching his pecs flex tonight.
He heads toward the couch, then takes a seat and sets everything down on the coffee table. When he looks up at me, he asks, “Are you going to sit down or stand there all night?”
“Well, you know, you’ve made things quite uncomfortable.” I move around the couch and take a seat. “I’m not sure I’m even allowed to breathe in your space.”
“You can breathe.”
“Oh, look at that, you can talk.” He slides a mug over to my side and then leans back on the couch, staring at me.
But he doesn’t just stare. He practically looks into my soul as his arm casually drapes along the back of the couch.
“So.” I pat my lap. “Are we just going to look at each other?” He doesn’t answer, and I can’t take it anymore. It’s probably some sort of Scottish intimidation tactic that I’m unaware of, but there’s only so much silence I can endure before I start to lose my mind.
I’ve hit that point.
I reach out and push against his leg. “What is wrong with you?” I scoot closer, poking him in the quad, determined to annoy him until he says something. “Talk to me. Say something—anything. Just stop sitting there in silence without a word or—”
“You look beautiful tonight, Bonnie.” And just like that, he steals my breath from me. He looks away, clenching his fist and opening it, as if he’s trying to control himself.
“Are you finally admitting you find me attractive?” I ask, hoping that lightens the mood.
The teasing falls short as he reaches out and lifts my chin. “Ye ken I do.”
Okay, then.
Glad we established that.
Annnd . . . why did I come here, again?
My mind draws a blank as my heart rate picks up. My desire escalates to a body-pounding level that I’ve never experienced in my life.
Please, Bonnie, don’t do something stupid.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROWAN
Americans making me talk way too much: One.
I knew she was going to be bad news the minute I saw her, but for some reason I’m holding on to that bad news and, apparently, trying to make it mine.
I’ve thought about her all day.
Ever since I left her cottage, I’ve thought about her.
The way her hand felt moving over my chest, her warm body tucked up against mine in the morning, the hug before I left, her admission . . .
Hell, my admission.
And then later, in the coffee shop, I was ready to blurt out my sordid history in the middle of the day, as if I’ve known this lass forever. It was a reality check.
I’ve lost my damn mind.
When have I ever talked about the past? Let alone to someone I barely know?
Never.
And yet, when I heard the gate creak a few moments ago, the sign of someone coming, I knew it was going to be her. I felt her presence. Seeing her, those eyes . . . fuck, I couldn’t turn her away if I wanted to, and all those emotions I felt in the coffee shop, all my confessions, came bubbling up again.
The only way I knew to keep myself from pouring everything out to her was to stay silent.
But it seems like that tactic has run its course.
Fidgeting with her hair, she looks off to the side. “So, you find me attractive, good to know. Not too bad yourself.”
She’s fucking adorable.
“And even though this conversation is quite riveting, I think we should eat some cake.” She picks up her plate, scoops a giant bite, and plops it in her mouth. As if she’s forgotten about the last minute, she moans against her fork and sinks back into the sofa. “Where the hell has this been since I’ve arrived? Dundee cake is good and all, but this . . . this . . . what is this?” She pokes the cake with her fork.
“Iced cherry cake.”
“Well, hold my boobs and slap my ass because ooooeeee is this a delight in my mouth.” She takes another forkful and closes her eyes. “The flavors are magnificent. And it’s so moist. Oh man do I love a moist cake. Moist . . . moist, moist, moist.” She shoves the last bite in her mouth and leans over, poking at the cake on my plate. “Are you going to eat this?” She snags a forkful and picks up the plate, holding it in front of her as she chews. “Is this from Isla’s shop? Because she’s been holding out on me.”