I think of the other night at the ball, that weird little moment that passed between us, and then I grind that thought to dust under my mental boot.

“Good plan,” I tell him, hopping off the tailgate. “Let’s go be illicit.”

I don’t know if anyone sees us leave, and as we drive away, it occurs to me that I probably should’ve told Ellie we were going. But by the time I think of that, the jeep is already rattling over the hills, the wind blowing hard enough in the open top that we can’t talk.

The Highlands spread out before us, rolling fields, snow-capped hills, and I take a deep breath, grinning at the sheer prettiness of it all. It’s wide open in a way that makes me want to . . . I don’t know, run around with my arms thrown out or something.

The jeep slows as we approach a fence, and I look at Miles, curious.

He smiles back at me, then nods at the gate.

The jeep rumbles to a halt, and I can’t stop the sound of delight and surprise that escapes me. It’s embarrassingly close to a squeal.

But there, at the fence, is a shaggy red cow, his massive horns curling up from his head, long hair covering his eyes, and he is the actual cutest.

I hop out of the jeep, approaching the fence carefully, but the cow only munches on grass, clearly not that concerned with me.

“Ellie said you still hadn’t seen one,” Miles calls, and I turn to smile over my shoulder at him. “I hadn’t,” I say, and I reach out—very cautiously, those are some massive horns—and give the cow a little pat on his head, that long reddish hair rough under my fingertips.

“Hit all the Scottish high notes now?” Miles asks, and I head back to the jeep, dusting my hands off on the back of my pants.

“Just about,” I say. “Fancy cows, shooting, wearing plaid, doing folk dances, seeing lots of kilts . . .”

He’s still sitting in the driver’s seat (and I’m never going to get used to the whole “sitting on the wrong side of the car” thing), smiling at me, and it occurs to me that this—taking me to see a cow, which, okay, not exactly the most romantic of gestures, but still—has nothing to do with papers or tabloid stories. It was just . . . a nice thing to do.

For me.

Which is so bizarre I don’t want to think about it too much, lest my head explode.

“Thank you,” I say, getting back in the jeep. “I know it must physically pain you to do a nice thing for me, so I appreciate your sacrifice.”

He gives a little cough, covering his mouth with his fist and widening his eyes. “Oh god, I think the damage has already been done.”

Rolling my eyes, I shove at his arm, muttering, “Shut up,” but I’m smiling.

Just a little.

Miles starts the jeep, and we drive away from the fence, the clouds thicker now, the wind a little chillier as we drive down the bumpy ground. I think we’re heading back to the house, but Miles makes a turn down a rutted path, the jeep climbing down into a shallow valley, hills rising up around us. A few thin waterfalls trickle down the rocks, and it’s so beautiful that once again I wish I had a camera.

And then I wonder if Miles purposely drove this way to show me something pretty, and that thought is so confusing that I tuck my hair behind my ears and yell over the wind and the engine noise, “So what was the deal with you and Flora?”

Miles doesn’t say anything, but I see his hands tighten on the steering wheel for just a second.

“Me and Flo?” he calls back at last, and I pull a strand of hair out of my mouth, jolting as the jeep hits a particularly big rut.

“That’s what I said!” I yell, and he frowns, deep lines appearing on either side of his mouth.

But before he can answer me, there’s a sudden pop, and the jeep swerves to the right, making me give a startled cry, my hand flailing out to grab the little handle by my door.

Miles manages to bring the jeep to a stop, putting it in park with a shaky sigh. “Flat tire,” he mutters, but I think he’s a little relieved that he didn’t have to answer my question.

Honestly, I’m a little relieved. I shouldn’t have even asked him. What did it matter what had happened between Flora and Miles? He wasn’t my actual boyfriend, and I’d be gone in a few weeks anyway.

No, this flat tire was clearly a blessing from above, sent to save me from making a mistake. “Thanks,” I say in a low voice, shooting a finger gun at the thick clouds above us.

Which was apparently the wrong move because about two seconds later, the entire sky opens up.

Chapter 29

The rain is downright torrential as Miles pulls me from the car, and I lift the tweed jacket over my head. Not that it does much good. The rain is blinding, the ground slippery underfoot, but I let Miles lead me over a slight rise, and then, through the rain I see . . . a house? A shed?

He tugs me toward it, and honestly, so long as it has a roof, I don’t care what it is.

Luckily, the door is unlocked—it’s so ancient I’m not sure it even could lock—and then we’re inside, blinking in the gloom.

Alone.

Look, I want to be cool, okay? I want to put my hands on my hips and make a really bored face, the way Ellie can so easily. I want to radiate nonchalance and make it super clear that while we might have fallen into the most romantic cliché ever—oh, no! We’re trapped in a remote location while the heavens rage outside!—we’re just . . . colleagues, basically. Not even friends.

“What is this place, anyway?” I ask, looking around and trying to distract myself from our general aloneness.

Not that there’s much to look at. It’s a little stone hut with a thatched roof, and the only things inside are a fireplace and a built-in shelf holding a few books, some folded quilts, and a truly ancient-looking bottle of some dark amber liquid.

“It’s a bothy,” Miles says, taking off his cap and ruffling his wet hair, not quite meeting my eyes. “They’re all over the place here in the Highlands. Used to be for farmers watching over their sheep, but now hikers use them.”

To call it rustic would be an understatement, but I guess if you’ve been slogging up rainy hills, any place that has a roof would seem like paradise. And when Miles moves past me to get a fire started, I have to admit it’s not quite as bad.

There are only a few logs by the fireplace, but there are big bricks of peat, and that’s what Miles fills the fireplace with, finding a pack of matches under an upside-down mug on the mantel.

The fire smokes like hell, but it warms the room quickly, and when Miles steps back, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans, he looks really pleased with himself.

“Three years in the Scout Association,” he says, and I assume that’s the British version of the Boy Scouts.

“Not bad,” I admit, crouching down near the fire and unwinding my braid, hoping that will get my hair to dry a little faster.

When I glance up, Miles is studying me with a weird look on his face, and as soon as he notices me watching, he clears his throat, moving away again and going over to the door.

It’s still pouring outside, the wind blowing the rain nearly sideways.

“We’ll stay here until it clears up,” he says. “Then I’ll walk back up to the house, either get a new car or get someone to drive me down here.”

“Um, yeah, when it clears up, I’ll be walking with you,” I tell him, fluffing my hair. Most of the time I’m glad I’d decided to grow it out, but right now the hair cape seems like a bad idea. At this rate, I’m going to have a damp head for the rest of my life.