Page 118 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
Immediately slips on a patch of mud left behind by the afternoon rain.
And crashes face-first into the dirt.
I swear I hear Jane choke back laughter, and honestly, despite the disaster unfolding outside, the scene does have a certain comedic quality.
Lachlan attempts a different angle of attack, completely misses Hamish when the sheep dodges at the last second, and ends up headfirst inside a rosebush.
The howl that erupts from the garden sounds like a wounded Highland warrior screaming on a medieval battlefield.
Unfortunately, it’s actually Alistair, who just fell backward over a low stone wall.
“Your cousin got stabbed by a rosebush,” Finn observes beside me in a clinical tone.
“You think?” I reply sarcastically.
Meanwhile, Ragnar hasn’t remained idle.
He notices Hamish invading the ornamental garden and absolutely refuses to allow his nemesis exclusive rights to destruction.
So he charges toward the vegetable garden and begins a systematic massacre.
He tramples everything.
Uproots anything capable of being uprooted.
Knocks over wooden stakes.
Destroys rows of vegetables with terrifying military precision.
Topples the ancient scarecrow my great-grandfather built with his own hands.
Then starts digging holes everywhere like he’s searching for buried treasure.
“Twins! Go stop Ragnar!” Maggie orders in a voice that somehow never trembles.
Cameron and Connor exchange a glance before sprinting outside.
A moment later, they reach the entrance to the vegetable garden and quickly strategize.
Apparently they have a plan.
They try surrounding Ragnar.
It fails spectacularly.
Ragnar sees them coming from miles away, and at the exact moment they close in, he charges directly between them like a professional rugby player dodging a tackle.
The twins trip over each other, tangle their legs together, and collapse into the already-destroyed vegetable beds, crushing the few vegetables that somehow survived Ragnar’s earlier rampage.
Cameron stands and immediately steps on a cabbage.
He tries shaking it off his boot, but the vegetable seems emotionally committed to staying attached.
“You’re a doctor and a veterinarian,” Maggie says, turning toward Finn and me with a look that leaves absolutely no room for negotiation. “Do something.”
“I don’t handle animals,” Finn mutters.
I elbow him sharply in the ribs before he can continue.
