“What the hell are you doing in here?”
A frightened yelp escapes my lips.
My arms flail.
My legs launch me a good two feet in the air—at least that’s what it feels like.
The mug I’ve been holding slips from my fingers and shatters on the ground as a pair of ferocious green eyes meets mine.
Oh dear God . . . this is how it feels to be seconds from your death.
Wearing nothing but a pair of jeans undone at the waist and an intricate MacGregor clan tattoo woven over his right pec and down his arm, he looks positively murderous.
I’ve seen this look before.
He’s Kilty McGrumpyshire, after all. He’s known to frown more often than smile.
But this is a next-level murder look.
Like he actually just might pull the trigger and let his Scottish fury rain down upon me.
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Bonnie.”
That Scottish accent purrs in my ears, makes me weak in the knees, begs me to rip my shirt open and expose my heaving bosom.
Here are my breasts, you man beast. Take them as you want.
“Well . . . ?” he presses, folding his arms over his impeccably built barrel of a chest.
Does he really expect an answer?
When he’s barely dressed.
Lips moist . . .
Good God, things have gotten out of control. I can’t process a single thought without sexualizing the man standing in front of me.
It’s all his fault.
How is a girl supposed to get anything done when there’s a hot Scot prancing—well, not really prancing, more like strutting—yes, when there’s a hot Scot strutting around with his shirt off, displaying his perfectly proportional nipple-to-pec ratio?
It’s next to impossible.
I blame him. I blame him for everything.
Well . . . I guess if we’re playing the blame game, I also would like to throw some blame toward my best friend, Dakota, who got me into this mess.
Let’s move to Scotland.
For six months.
Get you out of this rut you’re living in.
Find joy in the Highlands.
This six-month endeavor has done nothing but make me realize how extremely horny I am, because instead of enjoying this country’s beautiful culture, all I can think about is lifting up every kilt that crosses my path and checking for underwear.
I’m a Pervy Pervertson.
And it’s gotten me in trouble.
Deep trouble. I was only supposed to be here for six months. I was supposed to forget about the brutal breakup with my now ex-boyfriend, ignore the fact that I’d been fired for the third time in three years, and admit that I have zero future ahead of me.
Instead . . .
I’ve become grossly attached to a goat named Fergus.
Emotionally invested in a town known by tourists for its Castration Stone, used by the Serpent Queen.
And I’ve fallen for the man who is currently staring me down, waiting for my response.
If I want to get any answers, I’d better start from the very beginning.
From the moment Dakota handed me her laptop to look at a post.
A post that would change my life forever . . .
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