Perhaps, but something bolder. He seemed to be searching for something. Emma lifted her chin. "I can handle him myself, thank you."

The flasher snickered. "Yeah, sugar, you want to handle me?"

She winced. Poor choice of words. The display on her cell phone had gone dark, so she lit it up and pressed nine.

The kilted man stepped toward the flasher. "I suggest ye leave this young woman alone."

"She was talking to me first," the flasher snarled. "So buzz off, buddy."

Emma groaned inwardly. Just what she needed. A drunk Scotsman and a flasher arguing over her. She punched number one.

"Och, how rude of me to interrupt. Especially you, a fine, upstanding paragon of good manners and propriety." The Scotsman arched a brow with a skeptical look. "After all, here ye are, prancing about the park with yer wee willie flopping about."

"It's not flopping! It's hard as a rock." The flasher glanced down. "Well, it was until you came along." He started rubbing himself. "Don't worry, sugar. I'll be back in full form before you know it."

"Don't hurry on my account." She snapped her phone shut and changed her mind about calling the police. She wouldn't get any hunting done if she had to stay here to give a statement. She clicked her phone back into its holster on her belt. "I have to go. I forgot to feed the cat." Probably because she didn't have one.

"Wait!" the flasher yelled. "You didn't get my picture."

"I assure you, the image has been permanently scalded into my brain for all time."

The Scotsman chuckled. "Off you go, lad. No one wants to see yer wee willie."

"Wee? You call this—this Mack truckwee? I bet it's bigger than yours, buddy."

The Scotsman folded his arms across his broad chest and widened his stance. "That would be a wager ye'd lose."