Here we go again. I’m trying to sell Romance novels this time. I managed to write an entire post about shirtless Scotsmen and 50 Shades of Grey without using a single double entendre. Now I need to go and flush a cherry bomb down the public toilets before the fourteen-year-old boy in me explodes…
Originally posted on Why Books?:
The thin, watery light of a Northern dawn trickles down the hillside, highlighting patches of mist and glinting off the dewdrops coating the heather. The raucous, guttural call of a grouse rings out from some hidden hollow. All else is silent. All else is still.
But wait! What’s this? Movement. A lone figure has appeared over the rise, striding purposefully down the hillside. Could it be…. is it… the Highlander?
It most certainly is. But his presence here answers nothing. It brings only questions. What has happened to his shirt, for a start? We’re pretty damn close to the Arctic circle up here. The silly bugger is going to catch his death of a cold.
Why is he covered in baby oil? And how does he manage to keep his hair in such fabulous condition? The only time I ever washed my hair in a loch and conditioned it with…
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