Some Like it Scottish by Patience Griffin

glared at her chauffeur. She could put the shovel to good use and whack Ramsay in the head to wipe that grin off his face.
    â€œWe’ve an old Scottish proverb.” Ramsay put his free hand over his heart and looked heavenward. “When ye know a man’s potatoes, ye’ll know the man.” He looked the picture of sincerity.
    Old Scottish proverb, my ass.
She latched on to the handle begrudgingly.
    Morven smiled and revealed another missing tooth—up top, on the right. “I hadn’t heard that proverb before, but I like it. It’s so true. Come on, missy. Come see my potatoes.”
    Ramsay winked at her. “Aye. Go see his potatoes.”
    She glared at her driver a second longer and then followed Morven into the field.
    â€œYe know,” Morven said, speaking over his shoulder, “ye’re the first woman I’ve seen in months.”
    That didn’t surprise her. She expected he hadn’t seen a mirror or a comb lately, either.
    Morven stopped in front of a row. “We need to see how the potatoes are coming along.” He thrust the shovel deep into the rich ground and exposed the roots. He squatted down and rubbed the dirt off the tubers. “Not ready yet. Why don’t ye check that patch behind you?”
    â€œYou know, don’t you,” Ramsay said, “I’ve heard potatoes aren’t really good for you.”
    Morven stood to his five-foot-six height, turning red in the face. “Potatoes are too good for you. They have fiber.”
    â€œOr is it the sour cream on top that does?” Ramsay countered innocently.
    â€œPotatoes have important nutrients.”
    â€œBut the bacon bits ye have to eat with them have too much sodium.”
    â€œPotatoes are delicious.” Morven looked ready to put up his puny dukes.
    â€œNow, there’s a point we both can agree on.”
    But Morven had worked himself into a dither and went into a long speech about the various attributes of the twenty different varieties of potatoes he grew on his farm. Kit stood nearby, wondering at Ramsay’s mastery. He’d agitated the farmer with only a few well-placed words. But she had to hand it to him, Morven had forgotten she was supposed to be digging for the potatoes.
    Finally, poor Morven ran out of steam. “Let’s go into the house and have our tea now.” He glared at Ramsay for a moment. “You can come, too.” On the way into the house, he told them about the new fertilizer he’d bought and how it was supposed to increase his crops.
    â€œHe’s a keeper,” Ramsay whispered, taking her shovel and leaning it against the house on their way in.
    Kit was careful not to touch the front door, as it hung precariously on its hinges. She probably should’ve prepared herself for the chaos inside, and actually had to pause in the entryway to keep herself from bowing out of the invitation for tea.
    Morven was part hoarder and part zookeeper. Livestock—two pigs, three chickens, and a lamb—freely roamed throughout what little space was in the packed front room. Stacks of farm journals, four feet high or so, were scattered about. The farmer scooped up a chicken and held him like a football. “Watch this.” He grabbed a pellet and stuck it between his lips. The chicken pecked it out of his mouth. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
    Gross, is what it is.
    She pulled out the picture he’d sent her and held it up. “Whose picture is this?” She figured it wasn’t rude to ask since he’d misrepresented himself.
    Morven gave her his dentistry-free smile. “Some bloke off the Internet. From what I hear, everyone stretches the truth online.”
    In the future, she’d triple-check her potential clients for honesty and accuracy. But for now, she’d seen more than enough. “Sorry. I think we need to be going.” Appearance and manners could be fixed. But lying outright