Just a Highland Fling

by Naina Kumar

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

“Naina Kumar is quickly becoming a favorite author of mine. Her books are brilliant, witty, sexy, and so damn good.”—Hannah Bonam-Young, bestselling author of Out on a Limb

Sparks fly on a road trip through the Scottish highlands in this delightful forced proximity romance from the bestselling author of Flirting With Disaster.

Neelu Pillai makes a last-minute decision to fly to Scotland for her estranged father’s wedding with one goal: to get through it with as little conflict as possible. But when her tipsy tirade at the rehearsal dinner is the reason her father gets left at the altar, she agrees to help him track down his runaway bride.

There’s just one problem: The third member of this road trip through the highlands is Jacob, the hot desi bagpiper from the wedding who just happens to be Neelu’s recent one-night stand. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other a few nights ago, but now he can’t seem to stand her.

Their journey to Skye is certainly not smooth, but as the two work together through the obstacles, doing their best to reunite Neelu’s father with his bride, they realize that there’s more to each other than meets the eye. And that the electric connection they’d felt the night they met is still as strong as ever. . . .

Fiery first impressions, fierce clashes, and undeniable chemistry make for a bumpy ride through the Highlands in this swoony, witty romance about family, forgiveness, and finding love where you least expect it.

Release date: July 21, 2026

Publisher: Dell

Print pages: 368

Sample

1

Two Days Earlier

I push my soaking-­wet bangs out of my eyes and squint, trying to make sense of my surroundings, but all I can see is gray and mist and rain.

I don’t know how I managed to get lost this quickly. I’m used to navigating new cities, corralling groups of people onto buses and through airports to far-­flung destinations all over the world. So, when my taxi driver asked if I could get out here, insisting that the hotel was just right over there, I graciously agreed. After all, why should he have to loop back around in this traffic? What’s a couple seconds of walking through the rain?

Of course, what had been a light drizzle turned into a downpour in two seconds flat, the map on my phone decided it was the perfect moment to stop giving me directions—­the tinny voice repeatedly saying that it was recalculating—­and I’ve somehow ended up walking for at least fifteen minutes now, which can’t be right. I’m not sure if I’m getting any closer or just heading farther and farther away.

I spy a bit of green awning and tighten my grasp on my suitcase, yanking it behind me as I seek shelter. I take a moment to catch my breath, pressing as far back out of the rain as possible, the cold of the stone wall at my back seeping into my skin.

This trip—­like the bangs dripping across my forehead—­was a mistake, an impulsive decision made in a moment of weakness. Last week, I’d walked into my standing semi-­annual hair appointment, fully intending to ask for my usual please trim just the bare minimum to avoid split ends, when I accidentally scrolled across my ex’s hard launch of his new relationship.

A picture of the two of them filled my screen. They were sitting in a worn, red pleather booth, his arm casually tucked around her shoulders, her head resting in the curve of his neck. We’d been broken up for eight months, so I wasn’t surprised that he’d moved on. And our breakup hadn’t been all that dramatic. We both traveled for work so often that it actually took me a few weeks to realize he’d packed up his things and moved out of our place. When we finally talked about it, we ended on good terms, but that booth . . . It had been our spot. The neighborhood bar we’d discovered together. I’d assumed we’d both been avoiding it out of courtesy to each other, but he must have kept going if he’d taken her there.

I looked up at my reflection in the mirror, asked my stylist for a change, fell in love with it immediately, then cried and regretted it all when I got home.

A door to my right creaks open, releasing a beam of soft, butter-­yellow light. It brightens the growing dark of the street for a moment, and as I turn toward it, I catch a whiff of something warm and yeasty.

My stomach growls.

I can’t remember the last time I ate.

I launch myself in that direction and step into the pub, my muscles relaxing at the sound of chattering voices and wood crackling in the fireplace. The room is full, tables covered in plates and pints of beer, with people gathered all around them.

Through a gap in the crowd, I spy an empty stool at the bar and quickly claim it. I settle on top of it and roll my suitcase out of the way, trying to keep it close to the seat.

I run my hands over my wet, stringy hair, and the young woman behind the bar takes one look at me, fishes something out of her pocket, and tosses it in my direction.

My hands lift, instinctively catching it.

“You look like you could use this,” she says with a smile, and I laugh.

I wrap the dish towel around my hair and start wringing it out.

“It’s clean,” she says a second later. “I should have mentioned that before.”

I grin. “I’m clearly not in any position to be picky,” I say. “But thank you.”

At the sound of my voice, she raises a pierced eyebrow. “American?”

“Yeah,” I say, turning my head the other way, towel-­drying my hair some more. “Just visiting for a little bit. Are you from around here?”

“No, I grew up closer to Glasgow, but I moved to Aberdeen for uni and I’ve stayed put ever since.”

My mind, as it often does when I meet someone new, fills with questions, but I’ve learned to filter through them. To voice only the important ones.

“What’s your Wi-­Fi password?” I say, instead of asking if she’s still in school, or what she studied, or what it is about Aberdeen that made her want to stay.

That would make my father want to stay.

She rattles off the password, and I type it in, relieved when my map reappears, showing that my hotel is no more than a five-­minute drive from here.

My stomach rumbles again, loudly, but before I can ask for a menu, or even ask for her name, someone down the bar calls for her, and she takes off in their direction.

“Hungry?”

I turn to the man seated to my left. He’s got dark-­brown hair and a smattering of freckles across his pale nose and cheekbones. He looks young, at least a few years younger than me.

“Yeah,” I say. “Guess you heard that?”

“Everyone around here would have heard that,” he says, his accent light and lilting.

I lift a shoulder, not a bit embarrassed. “Whoops.”

His toothy smile grows. “Not that anyone would mind. We don’t often get beautiful Americans wandering in, looking for a bit of scran.”

My eyebrows lift. I’ve been hit on by strangers before, but it’s been a long time since someone was this direct. It’s flattering, but I’m not sure yet whether it’s something I want to encourage, so instead, I deflect.

“Scran?” I ask.

“Food,” he replies. “What people back in your home country might call ‘grub.’ ”

I laugh. “I don’t know anyone who would call it ‘grub.’ ”

His blue eyes twinkle. “Well, if you’re interested in finding something to eat, I could recommend a place for you.” He turns his body toward mine, leaning forward.

I shift back a bit. “I was thinking I’d just order something here.”

“Here? Here’s fine if you want something plain, but if you want something real, a real taste of Scotland, I can take you someplace better.”

The uncertainty I was feeling about this man’s interest shifts into unease. I don’t know what it is exactly. I’m not against something light and fun, in theory. Something quick and temporary. Adrenaline and want and a racing pulse with a stranger I’ll never see again.

He lifts a hand, and his fingers brush my still-­wet jeans, right above my knee, the denim damp and sticking to my skin.

I cringe.

There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s not unattractive. Another time, under different circumstances, maybe I’d engage with him. Maybe I’d flirt back. I could certainly use the distraction. But for whatever reason, I’ve never felt less interested.

“I live right around the corner,” he says, “and there’s a dozen places between here and there. We could walk that way, get something to eat, and then, if you wanted, we could maybe—­”

I take his hand and remove it from my leg. “Thanks, but I’m good right here.”

His expression falls. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” I turn away, looking for the bartender, but she seems to have disappeared.

I tap my foot, restless energy thrumming through me. I need to order something quickly so I can change out of these wet clothes and get some sleep. I’m awake right now, but I’ve experienced enough travel exhaustion and jet lag to know I’m useless when those things set in. I’ve learned to cope with time changes, using a combination of melatonin at night and coffee in the morning, but there’s an unknown element at play here. Unlike all my other international trips, this one isn’t for filming or anything related to my job.

I’m here to see my dad.