Page 121 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
Brutus bleats proudly as if to say:
While you idiots were distracted by those two amateurs, I was actually accomplishing something.
Hamish and Ragnar stop instantly.
They both stare at Brutus.
“Is the tension between these sheep actually real, or am I hallucinating?” I whisper to Finn beside me.
“If you’re hallucinating, then I am too,” he replies.
Then suddenly—as though they silently agreed on a temporary alliance—Ragnar and Hamish charge directly toward Brutus.
Brutus spins around with ballerina-level speed and bolts.
Once it becomes clear all three sheep are gone for good, we finally return to the castle in exhausted silence.
The procession crossing the estate looks like soldiers returning from a lost war.
Callum is coated in mud from head to toe.
Lachlan holds his bleeding hands in front of him like a surgeon waiting for sterile gloves.
Cameron still has dirt in his hair.
Connor limps slightly.
Alistair looks emotionally broken.
Finn and I resemble people who rolled through a ditch together.
We enter the dining room.
The meal that had been warm and inviting twenty minutes ago has gone completely cold.
Maggie slowly lowers herself back into her chair.
Her face is alarmingly pale.
She stares into space for a very long moment.
Jamison quietly enters the room, gliding like a ghost despite the atmosphere of national tragedy.
“Mrs. Finley would like to know if she should reheat dinner.”
Maggie doesn’t answer immediately.
She continues staring at the wall as though trying to understand how her life reached this point.
Finally, she sighs.
“No, Jamison. Dinner is over.”
Callum collapses into his chair with a groan.
“I hate sheep,” he says simply.
“Same,” Lachlan mutters while inspecting his wounded palms.
