Page 71 of The Tartan Thesis

“Did you even taste it?” he asks, laughing.

“I still can, actually,” I say, catching my breath. “The flavor lingers.”

“And?” he asks, clearly invested in my review.

“And I think if I had just sipped it, I might’ve enjoyed it,” I say, wincing. He smiles, and I love that I’m the one who caused it.

I try the margarita next, which I’ve been warned not to chug. It’s tart and bright with the lime, balanced by the alcohol, the salt on the rim sharp against my tongue. “Oh, that’s good.” Beau’s smile widens, and my heart beats faster.

We make steady work of the mountain of food Beau ordered, passing plates back and forth. Our knees bump under the table whenever one of us shifts, and neither of us makes much effort to move away. Beau watches me with open curiosity as I try each dish, his face lighting up like he’s waiting for a verdict from a particularly demanding critic.

“Well?” he asks after I take a bite of the enchiladas.

I chew thoughtfully, pretending to consider. “Acceptable.”

He groans and drops his head back. “Acceptable? I’ve been talking up Mexican food for twenty minutes and that’s the best you’ve got?”

“I’m a hard man to impress,” I say, taking another bite.

“I’ve noticed,” he mutters.

Then he clicks his fingers. “Hold on,” he says before tearing off a slice of quesadilla, dipping it in the creamy queso, and pushing it my way. “Open up.”

I don’t hesitate to part my lips and let him slide the cheesy mess into my mouth. I groan against my will as I experience the delight of toasted tortilla mixed with dairy and roasted vegetables. It’s almost as divine as the look on Beau’s face now that he’s found the right combination to make me happy.

By the time we’re finished, the plates are empty and span the entire table. Beau gathers them, meticulously placing the silverware so they’re not leaning over the edges, and slides them neatly aside before waving down our server for the bill.

He insists on paying again, then we slide out of the booth and linger for a moment, neither of us rushing to leave. Beau stretches his arms over his head and glances toward the window.

“Well,” he says, settling his coat back on his shoulders, “I’m officially full. What’s next on the Inverness tour, Professor?”

I can’t contain my blush as he helps me into my own coat. “You really shouldn’t call me that. I haven’t earned it yet.”

“Yes, Professor,” he says with mock contrition as I turn back toward him. “But really. What’s next?”

“Come on,” I say as I nudge him toward the door. “I’ll show you.”

The streets are quieter than before as we amble along on a chilly winter’s night, occasionally bumping against each other.

I point out places that hold memories of days spent with family or of wild times with Freya. When we get to the main bridge in town, Beau pauses and leans on the railing, looking west toward the dark shape rising above the city. “What’s over yonder?”

“Inverness Castle is over yonder,” I say, smirking. “Do you want to see it? It’s closed for renovations, but there’s still a nice view from the path.”

“I’d love to.”

As the castle comes into view from below, Beau looks up at it with that boy-like wonder I love so much.

“What?” he asks when he catches me smirking.

“It’s just cute to see you all fascinated.” So damn cute.

“We don’t really have castles in the US,” he says. “And you’ve got one smack dab in the middle of town. It’s so cool!”

“Aye, it’s cool.”

“Want to give me a quick lecture about it, Professor?” he asks.

I huff out an exaggerated sigh but can’t help but smile as I oblige. “The current iteration of Inverness Castle was built in 1836 to serve as a prison and judicial court, but there’s been some form of military fortification on the site since the eleventh century. The renovations will turn the castle into a community center with various historical exhibits that tell the story of the Highlands. It should open next year.”