Page 10 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
“How encouraging,” I say dryly.
“It’s the Highlands, doctor. We take our traditions very seriously. Including our grudges and our preference for doctors who retired to sunbathe in the Canary Islands.”
He says it with a wink that almost makes me smile.
Almost.
“You eaten yet?” he asks. “The fish and chips are excellent today.”
I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast at the boarding house where I’ve been staying since moving here, and I’m starving.
“I wouldn’t say no to a decent meal,” I admit.
A grin spreads across the innkeeper’s face. Well, for once, it seems I’ve managed to earn the approval of at least one Glenfield resident.
Maybe I should’ve come to the pub sooner.
“I’ll get that started right away.”
He disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone with my scotch and my thoughts. Around me, the conversations slowly resume, the noise level rising little by little. For the first time all day, my shoulders loosen slightly.
It feels nice.
Almost normal.
Naturally, it can’t last.
The pub door bursts open, letting in a blast of cold air along with a man I recognize instantly.
Duncan Fraser.
The farmer I tried to visit yesterday before he sent me away to go feed his animals.
He’s broad-shouldered, dressed in a thick wool vest over a plaid shirt, and he has the kind of expression I’ve already learned to recognize around here—the expression of a man with opinions he fully intends to share.
“Ewan!” he bellows as he strides toward the bar. “Pint of your best!”
Then his gaze lands on me. His eyes narrow.
“Well, well. The new doc’s here.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Fraser.”
I wonder if he’s related to the owner, though around here sharing a surname doesn’t necessarily mean anything.
“So you finally came to the pub, huh? McKinnon came in every Friday. Regular as clockwork.”
Like every other person in this village, he apparently cannot stop talking about my predecessor.
“Good to know,” I reply politely.
Duncan drops onto the stool beside mine, far too close for comfort. Ewan, who’s returned from the kitchen, sets a pint in front of him and shoots me an apologetic look.
“You know,” Duncan begins after taking a long drink, “McKinnon saved my son’s life fifteen years ago.”
I feel my shoulders tense.
“Acute appendicitis,” he continues, raising his voice so the entire pub can hear. “Middle of a snowstorm. Roads completely blocked. Ambulance couldn’t get through. But McKinnon? He made it to our farm in the middle of the night.”
