“It’s notyourclearing. You can’t own nature.”
“Says the English girl.”
The bad-tempered Scottish bear is plummeting in my estimation, and even his husky baritone can’t save him.
“I thought Scottish people were supposed to be friendly.”
“Guess you thought wrong. What a shame. Don’t let the border hit you on the way out.”
He sips his coffee, a smug glint in his eyes, and it takes everything I have not to stamp my foot. Instead, I grab my bag with a groan and sling it over my shoulders. My biceps scream at me to stop, but I refuse to give the shaggy Scot the satisfaction of admitting that I have no idea what I’m doing.
The silent treatment. That’s it. I’ll march off without even the dignity of a response. That’ll show the sexy yeti.
“Your hip strap is loose.”
I spin around, and my ponytail swings with me, hitting me in the face.
Calm, Rowan.Remain calm. Everything is under control.
The smug light is still dancing in his eyes, the corner of his mouth now upturned, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. How dare he have dimples. It shouldn’t be legal to be this attractive.
“That’s why your shoulders hurt, and you’re walking with a hunchback. The waistband is meant to take most of the bag’s weight. You’ll be more comfortable if you tighten it.”
The words sound like advice, but I know what they really are: a taunt.
“But I’m sure you already know that, given you’re such an experienced hiker.”
He raises his coffee in a silent salute.
I stalk away, flipping him the bird as I go, somehow making it out of the clearing without tripping over my own feet.
Arrogant. Obnoxious. Arsehole.
I say the words on repeat, my anger like diesel fuel in my legs, and for the next few miles I whizz along, hardly stopping to rest or drink.
My only aim: getting as far away from the hot Scottish werewolf as I possibly can.
I think up petty curses: that his kettle will never boil, that his coffee beans will always taste sweet, that wherever he stands, a raincloud will follow, that every bench he sits on will collapse.
I’m so engrossed that I don’t notice the path drop down, or the tree root that sticks out from the path, or the slippery moss on the rock before it.
Before I know it, my foot is sliding out from beneath me, my heavy bag pulling me off balance, and I’m pinwheeling straight into a muddy puddle.
Don’t cry, Rowan.Don’t you dare cry.
I’m wet, my legs and my bag are covered in mud – and, to make matters worse, my shorts have turned see-through, and you can very clearly see my thong through them at the front, which means it’s probably visible from behind as well.
I draw myself up.
I will not cry.
I will categorically, absolutely not cry.
And then it starts to rain.
Chapter Three
Angus
