Chapter 14
MARY
The Cursed Plaid
(Or How Chaos-Causing Sheep Crashed Our Date)
The idea comes to me one morning while I’m sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee.
A romantic picnic by the loch, overlooking the village. Somewhere all of Glenfield can watch us play the role of hopelessly-in-love lovebirds.
It’s perfect.
It’s visible.
It’s exactly the kind of thing a real couple would do.
I find Finn in the living room. He’s leaning over his phone with a half-empty mug of coffee in front of him. His hair is still tousled from sleep.
He looks annoyingly attractive.
“We’re having a picnic on Saturday,” I announce without preamble.
He looks up.
“Excuse me?”
“A picnic. You, me, a blanket, a basket full of food. By the loch.”
He frowns like he’s struggling to process the concept.
“Why?”
“Because everyone will see us. It’s romantic. It’s public. It’s perfect.”
Finn stares at me like I just suggested we jump off a cliff.
“We’re really doing this?”
“Yes. And you’re even going to smile.”
“I don’t smile on command,” he mutters.
“Well, you’re going to have to learn.”
He sighs but doesn’t argue any further.
I take that as agreement.
Saturday arrives with clear skies, an actual Scottish miracle.
The sun is shining, which means half the village will be outside.
Exactly what we need.
I carefully pack the picnic basket: smoked salmon sandwiches, local cheese, Mrs. Finley’s shortbread discreetly stolen from the castle kitchens, and a bottle of cider. I even add cloth napkins because apparently I’m incapable of doing anything halfway.
I also grab the old tartan plaid lying around the guesthouse living room. It’s thick, comfortable, and big enough for two people.
Finn appears in the doorway wearing jeans and a black sweater that somehow makes him look even grumpier than usual.
And also... unfairly sexy.
“Ready?” I ask with possibly excessive enthusiasm.
“No.”
“Perfect. Let’s go.”
The loch is only a ten-minute walk from the castle.
The trail winds through the hills, and the view is spectacular. Sunlight glitters across the water, mountains rise in the distance, and the rooftops of the village can be seen below.
I pick a strategic spot slightly uphill and, more importantly, perfectly visible from the main road.
“We’ll set up here,” I announce, setting down the basket.
Finn looks around.
“This is very exposed.”
“That’s the point.”
I spread the plaid across the grass with dramatic flourishes like I’m setting the stage for a romantic movie.
Finn remains standing beside me with his hands shoved in his pockets, looking like a man who’s just been sentenced to prison.
“Sit down,” I tell him. “You look like a bodyguard.”
He sits.
Stiffly.
Entirely unromantic.
“Relax,” I sigh while unpacking the basket.
“I am relaxed.”
“You look like you’re expecting an attack from the Loch Ness Monster.”
The second the words leave my mouth, a loud bleat echoes behind us.
I turn around.
Ragnar is standing at the top of the hill.
Majestic. Menacing. His horns tilted slightly forward as he stares at us with unsettling intensity.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Finn follows my gaze and somehow gets even tenser.
“It’s just a sheep.”
“It’s not just a sheep. It’s your sheep.”
“He’s not my sheep.”
Ragnar starts walking toward us.
Slowly.
Like a predator stalking prey.
“What does he want?” Finn asks.
“I don’t know, but probably nothing good.”
The sheep stops a few feet away.
He studies the blanket.
The basket.
Then us.
“Maybe he’ll just move along,” Finn suggests weakly.
Then Ragnar charges.
One second he’s standing there, and the next he lunges onto the plaid, grabs a corner in his teeth, and starts pulling.
“Ragnar, no!” I yell while pulling back.
Too late.
The sheep yanks with all his strength, dragging me with him because I had the brilliant idea of hanging onto the blanket. I end up sprawled flat on the grass, Finn tries to catch me, and suddenly we’re both tangled in tartan.
Fabric tears loudly.
Ragnar trots away triumphantly with a large chunk of the plaid clenched in his teeth, but I barely notice because Finn is practically lying on top of me, staring directly into my eyes.
My body reacts like I’ve never been this close to a man before.
Truthfully, it’s been a very long time since I’ve been this close to any attractive male specimen.
“Sorry,” Finn breathes.
But another bleat interrupts him.
Finn and I turn our heads at the exact same time.
Hamish is standing there.
Of course he is.
The legendary sheep appears out of nowhere, charges toward Ragnar, and literally tackles him.
The two sheep tumble across the ground in a violent blur of wool, horns, and tartan.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Finn groans.
We scramble awkwardly to our feet.
The remaining piece of plaid is now stretched between the two sheep as they yank in opposite directions like they’re competing in a tug-of-war tournament.
“We have to save the blanket,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because it’s our romantic picnic blanket!”
“It’s a blanket. We can buy another one. Besides, it’s destroyed now that it’s ripped in half…”
“Finn, the entire village is watching us.”
I point toward the road below.
Sure enough, several people have stopped to stare.
One of them is even holding up a phone.
Finn follows my gaze and visibly pales.
“Shit.”
“Exactly. So help me save this blanket before this entire performance turns into a total disaster.”
We cautiously approach the sheep.
Ragnar growls.
Actually growls.
I didn’t even know sheep could growl.
Hamish keeps pulling the plaid with terrifying determination.
Then a third, softer bleat sounds behind us.
I turn around.
“Rosita!”
“The whole flock’s going to show up at this rate,” Finn mutters.
Hamish’s companion stands there looking elegant and perfectly calm. She watches us with what suspiciously resembles amusement.
Assuming sheep are capable of amusement.
“Oh great. Reinforcements,” I mutter sarcastically.
Rosita calmly walks around the chaos and starts eating the salad that spilled from the overturned basket.
“She’s eating our picnic,” Finn says.
“I noticed.”
Suddenly, Hamish releases the blanket and turns toward Rosita with an outraged bleat.
Apparently stealing food is his exclusive privilege.
Ragnar takes advantage of the distraction and bolts with the plaid.
“No!” I shout, sprinting after him.
Ragnar accelerates.
I run after Ragnar.
Finn runs after me.
Hamish runs after Finn.
And Rosita keeps peacefully eating salad like none of this concerns her.
Ragnar suddenly veers left.
I slip on the wet grass.
Finn catches me at the last second, but the movement throws both of us off balance.
We hit the ground hard.
When I lift my head, I’m half sprawled across Finn with the tartan plaid tangled around us while Ragnar stands two feet away looking victorious.
And at that exact moment, I hear applause.
I turn my head.
At least ten people are now gathered at the edge of the field where we were supposed to be peacefully having lunch.
Duncan Fraser is there, naturally, grinning like an idiot.
“They’re so passionate they’re rolling around on the ground together!” he announces loudly.
“That’s so romantic!” a woman I don’t recognize gushes.
“I got the whole thing on video!” a teenager yells, waving his phone.
I look down at Finn.
Our faces are inches apart.
His gray eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
“Our plan is working a little too well,” I whisper.
“Way too well,” he replies hoarsely.
We stay frozen there, tangled in the plaid while the villagers watch us with delighted fascination.
I’m painfully aware of his breath against my cheek, of the arm instinctively wrapped around my waist to steady me, of the heat radiating from his body.
A bleat snaps us back to reality.
Ragnar has now settled nearby.
Hamish walks over, sniffs the rival sheep, then lies down beside him.
Rosita joins them and stretches out gracefully between the two males like a deeply satisfied queen.
The three sheep stare at us.
We stare at the three sheep.
The villagers stare at all of us.
“So what do we do now?” Finn whispers.
“I honestly have no idea.”
Then a familiar voice drifts toward us.
“Don’t mind us, children. Please continue.”
I look up.
Maggie.
My grandmother stands there wearing a deeply satisfied smile. She looks at us like a painter admiring her masterpiece.
“Grandma, what are you doing here?”
“Oh, I was simply taking my daily walk,” she replies innocently. “It’s a lovely day for eating shortbread during a picnic, don’t you think?”
I press my lips together.
She must have seen me leaving the kitchen earlier.
Maggie always knows everything.
She walks away humming to herself.
Eventually, Finn and I finally stand up.
We’re covered in grass, our hair is a mess, and the destroyed plaid lies in pieces at our feet.
Duncan Fraser waves enthusiastically from the road.
“You two are adorable!”
I answer with a strained smile and a tiny wave.
Finn picks up what’s left of the picnic basket, including the shortbread tin, which somehow survived untouched.
“We could still... try to finish the picnic?” he offers awkwardly.
I stare at him.
“Seriously?”
He shrugs.
“We came all this way. And technically, we gave the village quite a show, so I think we deserve a reward.”
Despite myself, I smile.
“Okay.”
We settle onto the grass again—this time on half a plaid—keeping a respectful distance from the three sheep.
Finn opens the cider and pours it into two plastic cups.
We clink them together quietly.
The spectators from our sheep-related disaster have finally dispersed. The village below us looks peaceful again. The sheep are asleep.
And for the first time since this whole ridiculous charade started...
I feel good.
“Mary?”
“Yeah?”
Finn looks at me, and there’s something different in his expression.
“Thank you.”
“For what? Dragging you into the worst picnic in Scottish history?”
A real smile spreads across his face this time.
“For that too.”
We stay there another hour, drinking cider, eating shortbread, and watching the landscape.
Eventually the sheep wander off together, Ragnar proudly dragging the shredded remains of the plaid behind him.
I let out a resigned sigh, but strangely enough...
I don’t regret any of it.
Because even though this picnic was a disaster, even though we humiliated ourselves in front of the entire village, even though three sheep stole our blanket...
For the first time, I saw Finn truly smile.
And that was worth every ruined plaid in the world.