I take a second and move my finger up to his jaw, where I turn his head. “You’re a good man, Rowan MacGregor,” I say, gazing into his eyes.
“It means a lot to hear you say that, lass.”
“I believe it wholeheartedly.” I roll up onto my toes, grip the back of his neck, and bring his mouth to mine. I linger longer than I should, especially since we have a lot of baking to do, but I want him to know how important he is, how wonderful he is.
When I pull away, he lazily smiles. “I hope you don’t plan on doing that a lot—I’m not sure we’re going to get much accomplished if you do.”
I chuckle. “I want more cherry cake, and since you saved that for last, I think we both know there will be no more kissing.”
“Not no more,” he says, looping his arms around my waist and pulling me in so I can’t escape.
“Minimal.”
He kisses the tip of my nose. “I can agree to minimal, as long as you come over tonight.”
“As if I would be anywhere else.”
One more kiss and he releases me. “Okay, tattie scones, let’s get to it.”
“Hey.” I place my hand on his arm. “Thank you for sharing with me. It means a lot that you trust me with this part of your life.”
“You make it easy, lass.”
We turn back to the ingredients, and he shows me the next steps in preparing the dough—but the entire time, all I can think about is how much Corsekelly is starting to feel like home, how this man makes me feel more special, more important, than any person I’ve ever met, and being here, in the kitchen, with something to do, I feel . . . purpose.
Maybe this is what I was meant to do. Where I was meant to be all along.
“I’m nervous,” I say, wringing my hands together as we wait for a few select locals to arrive.
“Don’t be nervous, lass.”
We spent the entire day baking. I’m exhausted, but I’m invigorated as well. Rowan was very pleased with how everything was looking, especially the butteries, and now we’re holding a small tasting party for a few close people who know the kind of quality Stuart would provide with his baked goods.
I haven’t tasted anything yet—I wanted to taste with everyone else. I didn’t trust myself to judge if my baking actually is any good. Rowan decided to wait with me as well.
Also, between you and me, I was too damn nervous. The possibility of failure hangs over me, ready to rain down on me like a brilliant Scottish storm, and I’m trying to prolong things, hoping and praying the clouds will part and the success of the sun will shine through.
We invited four people: the Murdach twins, Shona from the Mill Market, and Hamish, all of whom were avid patrons and buttery eaters before Stuart retired.
Rowan glances down at my fidgeting fingers and kisses the side of my head. “Relax.”
“You didn’t prep them, did you? They’re not going to be nice, just to be nice, right?”
“Trust me, they would never do that. They’re all excited about the changes being made, but they were most worried about the baking. If you’re bringing the coffee shop back to life, they want it done right.”
“Oh, not to add any pressure . . .”
He chuckles. “Lass, I was there the entire time you baked, and I know you followed every direction carefully. This is going to go really well.”
“I hope so.” I look out the window, wondering when they’re going to get here. “I just kind of wish Dakota was here. She was supposed to be.”
“Did you tell her about the tasting?”
“Yeah. I assumed she would be here to support me.”
“Maybe she forgot.” Because she’s wrapped up in Isla . . .
“She probably did.” Which doesn’t make me feel any better. I finally find something that I might be good at—might being the key word at this point; we’ll find out soon if I’m not—and she’s not here. She knows how important this is to me. I even sent her a text a while ago with pictures of all my baked goods, but I haven’t heard back from her.
I don’t want to admit it because I think I might be acting like a dramatic teenager, but I’m starting to feel a little bitter.
I know, I know, she’s fresh in a relationship—I should cut her some slack.
Deep breath, Bonnie.
You don’t need your best friend for everything.
At least, that’s what I’m trying to convince myself of.
“Here they come,” Rowan says. “They’re going to love it.”