“I’m pretty sure I have a good guess.”
“No . . . you just ruined me.”
“Lass, your mouth on my cock—that ruined me.”
“Why does it smell so good in here?” I ask, walking into Rowan’s kitchen with one palm pressed against my eye, trying to wipe away the sleep. Waking up alone to a chilly, foggy morning was not exactly what I wanted after last night’s activities, but that’s all washed away when I catch Rowan, shirtless, standing at the stove, making me breakfast.
“Made some tattie scones,” he says, flipping off the stovetop and putting a pan of eggs on a trivet. He turns toward me and beckons me with a finger. I shamelessly walk over to him, unable to suppress the grin tugging at my lips. He loops one arm around my waist and quietly says, “Mornin’， lass,” while pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
Be still my heart.
“Good morning.” I trail my hand up his chest and then lift up on my toes and kiss his jaw. His hand falls to my ass, gripping it tightly through my shirt. And if it weren’t for the amazing-smelling breakfast, I would be climbing this man like a tree right now. “Do you always make breakfast for the ladies you have over?”
“Nay, I kick them out of bed once they’re pleasured. Consider yourself lucky.” He smirks and releases me before serving up two plates of food.
The table is charmingly set with a butter crock and jam jar, mugs of coffee, and a beautiful hand-thrown vase of wildflowers. God, could he be any sweeter?
I take a seat at the table and marvel at the shirtless hunk of a man serving me a plate of delicious food.
“This looks amazing. I’ve never had a tattie scone. What should I do?”
He reaches over to my plate and picks up one of the flat, triangular pastries. “I prefer them with a light coat of Brodies butter—it’s the best; don’t let anyone tell you otherwise—and then a wee bit of homemade jam.”
“You make your own jam?”
“Aye, me maw and I make quite a few batches every year.”
“Do you sell them?”
He shakes his head as he hands me a scone. “’Tis for the town. We hand them out every summer.”
I take a bite, and good God, where have these been my entire life? “Wow, Rowan.” I give the scone a good inspection. “These are so freaking good. Does Isla sell these?”
“Nay, she focuses on shortbread, Dundee cakes, and savory pies—and occasionally empire cakes and puddings. Have you tried her sticky toffee pudding yet?”
“No, but I’ve been trying to steer clear of the bakeshop. I’m in danger of gaining another solid two pounds on my hips alone.”
His gaze meets mine over the rim of his coffee mug. “Shouldn’t be worried about that, lass. I like something to grip onto.”
My face reddens, and memories of last night flash through my mind. His tender teasing. His grunts. My moans. Our explosive orgasms. I don’t think I’ve ever had a night like that, and we didn’t even go all the way.
“Thinking about last night?” he asks before shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth.
“Maybe.” I take another bite of the scone, savoring its soft texture, perfectly combined with the tart jam and subtle butter. “Does this mean you’re going to ask me out on a date?”
He eyes me but doesn’t say anything. Those eyes—so intense, but playful at the same time. “Not sure yet.”
“Rowan.” I nudge him under the table, making him laugh. “After everything that happened, you’re really not going to ask me out?”
“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” His smirk is almost unbearable.
“But you’re not confirming that you are.”
“Like to keep you on your toes.” He pushes at my plate. “Eat up, lass.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“And you’re beautiful when you’re annoyed.”
Well . . . damn.
I point my fork at him. “Don’t try to butter me up with compliments.”
“Fine. Your hair is a damn mess.”
I pat down my head. “Really?”
He chuckles. “Nay. You’re still beautiful.”
“You don’t have to walk me all the way,” I say when we reach the driveway leading to the cottage.
“Wasn’t planning on it. This is where I send you on your way.”
I study him, my hand still clutching his. “You know, you’re a strange man. Sweet and passionate and protective one minute and then a grumpy, sarcastic ass the next.”