The Highland Fling

by Meghan Quinn

“You told me they speak English here,” I hiss at Dakota. “They do.” She looks as stiff as I do.

“Yes, sir. We are aware you have a penis,” I blurt. “I’m sure it’s quite sturdy, given your ability to strap suitcases to a roof, but if you’re looking for payment, I’m sorry to say we’re both lesbians. Lovers, actually. This is my lover.” I grip Dakota even tighter. “We would be terrible at anything you’re interested in. Fumbly hands and terrible mouth diameter.”

His deep mossy eyes penetrate me better than Harry did the last time we had sex.

No, doesn’t matter if he’s “climb me like a tree” kind of hot; he’s being a jerk. Stand your ground.

And even before that, you were . . . you are my other half. We complete each other, and you might not feel important, but you are vastly important to me.”

“You know, sometimes I think we get caught up in the idea that our jobs make or break us as humans, when that’s not the case at all. A job is a means to make money and provide for yourself. I think it’s the relationships we cultivate, the energy we put out into the world, that define us. You could be a billionaire with all the riches in the world, but that wouldn’t mean your life was truly rich.

I think I might have met my match—and she’s wrapped up in a tiny, feisty, all-American package.

“Where are you taking me?” “To the cottage, where else?” “You could be taking me to your sex dungeon.” “Nah, you’re not sex-dungeon material.”

That smirk is dangerous. That single smirk could make me do something stupid. Something really stupid . . . like kiss her. Because she’s the kind of girl who can dig under your skin, make you want more, and I’m not sure I’m mentally ready for that kind of battle.

He might drive me crazy, but his body was made to be naked at all times.

“Her tits threw themselves at me, and she told me my chest felt like a chinchilla.” “I said that out loud?” “Mumbled it,” he says, awkwardly patting me on the back.

When I finally pull away, he fixes me with a stare. “What was that for?” I shrug. “Thought maybe you needed a hug.” He slowly nods. “Didn’t think I did . . . until you gave me one.”

“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.

“Well, hold my boobs and slap my ass because ooooeeee is this a delight in my mouth.”

“You haven’t gotten over his death.” “Does anyone ever get over losing someone they love?”

“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.”

“You’re infuriating.” “And you’re beautiful when you’re annoyed.”

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.”

“Is it as unimpressive to you as it is to me?” “Frankly, the only thing impressive about it is that it’s probably seen more dick than you have.”

And then I want to write him a letter describing in intricate detail the way the heather on the hills sways rhythmically with the wind, almost like it’s dancing.

“Isabella put you through hell, and she’s made you second-guess every piece of you that makes you special, unique, the best friend you are. Don’t let one person’s blinded opinion of you make you question the person you’ve grown to be.”

“Ryobi 2300, nice choice,” I say, taking in the robust beast. “Does it come with the bonus turbo nozzle?” “It’s disturbing how much you know about power washers.” “Does it?” I ask, needing to know the answer. “The nozzle’s attached,” Rowan says, sounding slightly terrified.

“You might feel broken, but she doesn’t see you that way, and neither do I.