Under Loch and Key

by Lana Ferguson

I never imagined that my death would come by way of a sheep avalanche, but as I watch the tumbling mass of floof barreling down the hill toward the stretch of road I am currently stalled on—it occurs to me that it would at least be a memorable way to go. “Christ.” I scramble to get the door of my ancient rental open—the door being on the wrong side, relatively, I might add, which means it’s in direct line of impact for the bleating army currently rushing toward me.

Well, fuck you too, I think, followed immediately by, Actually, don’t go there, brain.

We do not lust after assholes, damnit.

“You could work with me here,” I grumble to the air as I crank my car. “Knock it off with the shitty weather.” I blink in surprise when the rain starts to slow at that very moment, my hand still lingering on the key in the ignition as I stare out the window with an open mouth. Did I…? I shake away the thought, given that it’s a ridiculous one. It’s Scotland, I remind myself. The weather is temperamental.

“You’re seriously trying to gaslight me right now?” “Me? I would never.” “You’re doing it right now.” “I think maybe you hit your head, lass.” This only makes her angrier, her cheeks growing even pinker, impossibly. “Are you actually trying to pull an Edward Cullen on me?”

“Nessie is a girl!” “It would appear that is not the case,” I remark. “But Nessie has always been a girl!” “I did try to hint at the falsity of that, you remember,” I remind her. “Outside of Loch Land.” “Yeah, but I just thought you were being a dick.” “No, I was trying to tell you that Nessie has a dick.”

She looks excited, damn her. Why does she look so bloody excited? Can’t she be properly terrified of me? I’m a monster, for fuck’s sake. Not a fucking puppy.

She’s sitting with her back to the door, and she tilts her head back to peer up at me, a triumphant grin spreading across her mouth as her long red curls spill toward her waist. Her green eyes almost glimmer in the midmorning sun, and the light touching her lashes makes them seem to burn a golden red. I hate how fucking lovely she looks when she’s being a pain in my arse.

Three fucking seconds of What the hell? before my body catches up to the situation and has a team meeting with my brain to decide that, yes, we are absolutely on board with Lachlan kissing us senseless.

She smells like something soft and sweet, her shampoo maybe—but she tastes like honey and sunshine and every good memory I’ve ever had, however few. How can I possibly push her away when she’s the first thing I’ve allowed myself to hope for in years? She

“I turn into a fucking dinosaur after dark,” he grouses. “Nothing really strikes me as strange anymore.”

You are not who you are because of where you come from; you are who you are because of where you choose to go.”

“I’ll remind you again that up until a few weeks ago, I turned into a fucking dinosaur at night. You could sprout wings and fly through the window at this point, and I might not question it.” He makes a face. “Although maybe warn me first if you feel it coming on.”