Page 17 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
Unimpressed.
“You did that on purpose.”
A bleat answers me.
I pull out my phone, shielding the screen from the rain, and call the Fraser farm—my next appointment—to let them know I’m going to be late.
If I can even make it there.
Then I hang up and stare at my car in despair.
I could call Callum.
Or Lachlan.
Or any member of my family who would come rescue me and never let me forget this humiliation.
No.
I’ll handle it myself.
I walk behind the car, brace myself, and push.
Nothing.
I shove harder. My boots slide in the mud.
Still nothing.
“Come on,” I growl through gritted teeth.
Ragnar bleats again.
I swear he’s mocking me.
That’s the exact moment a Land Rover appears at the top of the hill. It slows as it approaches the scene.
I can only imagine how I look: covered in mud up to my knees, futilely pushing a stranded car while a massive sheep watches from the middle of the road.
The Land Rover stops.
A man steps out.
Tall.
Dark hair soaked by the rain.
Black waterproof jacket.
Scowling face.
Very scowling.
He takes in the situation with one glance: the car, the ditch, me, Ragnar.
“Need help?”
The tone isn’t exactly friendly. More like someone already exhausted by his day who just stumbled onto another problem.
