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“Oh, do you now?” I arch a brow at her. “One romp, and you think I’ll be at your beck and call?”

“I think I could persuade you to relieve me of any cow-related duties.”

I snort, shaking my head. “They’re basically giant puppies. They wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“You said they might bite!”

“Aye, but that’s because you were being vexing.”

She narrows her eyes. “Ass. Okay, fine. I’ll help…from a distance.”

I watch as she takes another sip from her mug, drawn to the way her lips shape against the rim and remembering how soft they felt against mine. Which only makes my thoughts tumble down the memories of how she felt against me, how hot she was inside, how fucking desperate I am to touch her again, wondering how soon Icandrag her back to my bed.

How on earth did I ever think I didn’t like this woman?

I might be a wee bit obsessed with her, actually. Not even sure when or how it happened.

“So what else?”

I’ve apparently zoned out again, blinking back stupidly as she regards me. “Hm?”

“Lachlan Greer,” she says sweetly. “Are you distracted?”

“Immensely,” I answer, seeing no reason to lie.

Either her laugh is starting to sound attractive—or I really am going mental.

“I have to help Blair and Rory start setting up for the games later,” I tell her distractedly, getting up from the table with the intention of stashing my mug in the sink.

She perks up. “Games?”

“They didn’t tell you?”

“I’ve been in the pub like three times,” she points out.

“Right, right,” I answer, rinsing out my cup. “They have a festival of sorts every year on the anniversary of the pub’s opening.” I spread my hands out in the air for a bit of flourish. “The Greerloch Highland Games. They model it around the legend where it got its name.”

“The one about the gnome and the giant’s daughter?”

“Aye. They have all sorts of competitions, but mostly just a lot of folks getting steamin’. It’s happening this weekend.”

“Are you going to the games?”

“No.” I snort. “I’ve got better things to do with my time than toss logs around and jump through tires.”

“Okay, but that sounds fun actually.”

I don’t like the look in her eyes. “No.”

“Could be a good idea,” she presses. “Lots of people there, I imagine. Give us an excuse to chat folks up about our family histories.”

I cross the distance from the counter to the table, leaning to press my palms to the top of it as I cock an eyebrow at her. “You just expect to waltz up to people and start asking questions?”

“If they’re all as ‘steamin’,’ as you say”—she makes air quotes around the word—“I doubt anyone would suspect anything about some harmless small talk from the weird American.”

“Why does it feel like you’re just trying to trick me into socializing?”

“Because,” she says with a grin, reaching to trace a finger across the back of my knuckles, “you’re kind of a grumpy asshole, and it would do you some good.”