Page 104 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
We both freeze.
“Please tell me that came from outside,” Finn says.
A second bleat echoes.
Way too close.
I slowly turn around.
Hamish is standing in the living room doorway.
The door we apparently forgot to shut properly.
The sheep watches us with what can only be described as scientific curiosity.
“Hamish,” I say calmly. “Get out.”
He tilts his head.
“Hamish,” Finn repeats. “We’re dancing. This is private. Leave.”
The sheep walks into the room.
He moves with the confidence of a ballet critic arriving to evaluate a performance.
“I’ll get him out,” I say, stepping away from Finn.
But Hamish is faster.
He trots directly into the center of the room—the exact spot where we’d been dancing—and drops down dramatically onto the floor.
On his back.
All four legs in the air.
“He’s taunting us,” I say in disbelief.
“He’s mocking us,” Finn corrects.
A third bleat sounds.
Deeper.
More authoritative.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Ragnar appears in the doorway.
“Who left the front door open?” Finn asks.
“You probably did.”
“It was definitely you.”
Ragnar walks into the room, notices Hamish sprawled dramatically across the floor, and lets out a sound suspiciously similar to a disapproving sigh.
Then he stations himself beside Finn like a bodyguard.
