Page 48 of Wild Scottish Rose

“I have to go.”

“The heart wants what the heart wants.”

“What are you, some freaking gnome oracle?” I stomped to the door, annoyed with both him and Agnes.

“I just might be. About time I get some respect around?—”

I slammed the door on his words.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Shona

It was just chutney.

And wine.

Maybe I needed more cheese? I’d already added a thick block of aged Irish cheddar and was warming some burrata to go with the tomatoes I currently had sizzling in a pan on the stove.

Owen’s flowers were featured prominently on the table. Did that look too purposeful? Racing across the room, I moved them from the table to the counter. Or maybe I should put them by the fire?Yes, that would be less obvious. Picking up the vase, I strode across the room and put them on a small table under the window overlooking Loch Mirren.

A knock at the back door stopped my fussing, and I ran a quick hand over my hair, steadying myself, before crossingthe cottage. I wore my comfy slippers, jeans, and an oversized sweatshirt that screamed that this was Not. A. Date.

I didn’t want to read into anything with Owen. He was only here for a few weeks, and the reasons that kept him here were complicated. The gnome’s words echoed in my head, and I hated that I was being put in the position of choosing my home over my heart.

There’s that heart word again.

He was just a charming man who kissed well. That was it. No reason for hearts to get involved.

“Hey,” I said, opening the door to Owen brandishing the bag of bread and another bottle of wine. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he looked at ease in a relaxed grey jumper similar to mine. My anxiety lessened. He hadn’t dressed up for coming over either, so this was fine. It was all fine. Just friends having a glass of wine.

Owen leaned forward, poking his head through the door and dramatically looked around before he let out a huge breath.

“Phew, I don’t think I’ll get buried in mountains of trash.”

“I’ve got plenty in the bin. So, you know, better be on your best behavior.” I made a pretend threatening move toward the trash bin, and he laughed.

“This is a nice place, Shona,” Owen said, stepping inside and brushing a casual kiss across my cheek while I froze and forgot how to be a functioning adult for a moment. He was the kind of man that sucked the air from a room, and I suddenly became hyperaware of his every movement.

“Um, thanks,” I said, shutting the door behind him, theslice of wind carrying a spattering of raindrops with it. “It was my gran’s.”

“This her?” Owen leaned in to look at the photo on the counter while I busied myself opening a bottle of wine.

“Yes, it is.”

“How old were you here?” Owen tapped the frame.

“Mmm, maybe sixteen or so?” I handed him his glass and returned to the stove to turn off the heat. Adding some fresh basil, a drizzle of balsamic, and the burrata to an old blue chunky porcelain dish, I brought the tomatoes over to the butcher block island. “Would you like to eat at the table here or by the fire? I can start one up if you’re cold.”

“Table is fine. Though the weather is getting brisk, isn’t it?”

“Typical for this time of year. Soon it will be dark by mid-afternoon.”

“That’s crazy to me. Your light lingers so long in the summer.” Owen helped me carry the food over to the small table and when we sat, I instantly realized my mistake. A bistro-style table, it created an intimate environment. I could easily lean forward and kiss him if I wanted to.

Not that I would.

I mean, of course I wanted to. Every woman under sixty wanted to kiss him. Thinking of Catriona, I amended that thought to include every woman with a pulse.

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