Page 117 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
Ragnar doesn’t do moderation.
He doesn’t merely trample things like Hamish.
He uproots entire plants. Roots and all. He digs deeper. Wider. More violently.
Within thirty seconds, his crater is significantly larger than Hamish’s.
Debris flies across such a wide radius we’ll probably find sage leaves in the neighboring county.
Hamish stops in the middle of his own destruction.
Straightens.
Stares at Ragnar with what can only be described as deeply offended disbelief.
Then he lets out a furious bleat that very clearly says:
How dare you do it better than me?
Oh no.
No, no, no.
I recognize that look.
That is the look of a sheep who absolutely refuses to lose a competition he didn’t even realize existed three minutes ago.
Hamish turns toward the ornamental garden.
“They’re going to kill each other,” Cameron comments behind me.
“Or destroy the entire estate,” Connor adds. “Both scenarios seem plausible.”
Maggie slowly turns toward us, her face frozen into an expression of icy control that somehow only amplifies the rage boiling underneath.
“Someone stop those sheep,” she says in a dangerously calm voice.
Callum and Lachlan react first.
Both cousins rush outside with the confidence of men raised in the Highlands—men who grew up competing in the Highland Games and chasing livestock across fields since childhood.
Alistair follows close behind.
Hamish sees them coming.
He’s always had excellent survival instincts, probably developed through years of escaping consequences for his endless crimes.
He bolts toward the neighboring garden.
Since the herb garden is already dead, he’s now targeting Maggie’s ornamental garden—the one filled with roses, peonies, hydrangeas, and all the expensive flowers she spends hours caring for.
And he starts ripping them out.
Every single one.
One by one.
Callum lunges after him.
