Page 80 of The Tartan Thesis

My mind races. If we kiss again, will he back away from me like last time? Will it be worth it if he does? I want to have fun and enjoy whatever is happening, but—

Freya’s voice booms over the microphone.

“Everyone please welcome to the stage, our piper for the night. My handsome baby brother, Torin Ramsay!”

“You’d better go,” Beau says over the applause, those blue eyes twinkling again.

“Aye, I’d better,” I say, pulling myself from his intense gaze and walking toward the stage, my mind still tangled with questions about what exactly is happening between us.

Halfway there I glance back. He’s still watching me intently as he applauds with the crowd, dissolving any resolve I had to keep Beau at a distance. Because I know from the way my heart stutters that I would give just about anything to feel his body pressed against mine one more time.

24

Beau

No For Turnin

Translation: Refusing to change course; determined

Usage: To describe someone who has their mind made up about something

Party-goers rush to the dance floor as Torin begins to play, the high decibel of the pipes grabbing their attention. I watch as they bounce to the rhythm of upbeat songs, skirts and kilts swinging, then drift into pairs during slower numbers. The floor becomes a swirl of color and movement beneath the glow of the twinkle lights.

But my eyes keep returning to Torin, standing confidently on stage, bag tucked beneath his arm, legs shifting as he plays. His fingers move effortlessly across the chanter while the drone hums behind him. He looks completely in his element. And completely irresistible. I’d been worried about how things might be between us after Inverness, whether the shift in whatever this is between us could make things awkward, but tonight has been incredible.

I’ve been to many charity events like this, but I’ve never had a proper date for one—my granny has served in the role since I broke up with Lauren—so I wasn’t sure how people would react to me accompanying Torin. Because of my parents’ reaction to my coming out, I would be nervous about bringing a guy to one of their many fundraisers. But it hasn’t been a problem here. Everyone’s been lovely. I can see in their faces the assumptions they make about the two of us, that we might be a couple. And they’ve all been welcoming. I hope my parents and their friends will be as happy to see me with someone as everyone has been to see Torin with me.

Despite my concern about how things might be handled back home, I’ve leaned in to whatever might be happening with Torin, being attentive to his needs, light touches making it clear to those around us that we’re here together, but never taking it too far. Not until I know more about how Torin feels about us.

And I really hope there’s an us.

Margaret appears beside me, wrapping her hand around my elbow as the revelers sing a jolly tune about Loch Lomond. Amid all the ruckus, she leans closer and asks, “Not going to dance?”

“I will if you’re offering,” I say with a smile, offering my arm before guiding her to the dance floor just as the band starts a new, raucous melody.

Margaret sticks with me as I attempt to learn the dance that everyone seems to know but me, something akin to line dancing mixed with swinging around our partners, our elbows linked. I miss a step almost immediately. Margaret laughs and steers me back into place, calling the next move over the music. “Left! Now turn!” I follow her lead, spinning and stomping and trying not to trip over my own feet or bump into another dancer. I do both.

By the time the tune ends, both of us are breathless. I offer her my handkerchief as the band switches to a ballad.

“Thank you, love,” she says, dabbing her forehead, then handing it back.

The dancers reorganize themselves as the rhythm softens. Margaret slips her hand into mine and we ease into a waltz, gliding slowly around the room. She moves with the confidence of someone who has done this all their life.

After a couple of laps, I give her a playful spin and pull her back to me, enjoying the smile spreading across her face.

I’ve grown fond of Margaret in a surprisingly short time. I’d been eager to gain her approval in case something happened between me and her son, but we’ve bonded without pretense.

We’ve spent afternoons in the kitchen, talking about cooking and our shared love of the holidays, singing off-key together to every song on the radio while chopping vegetables. We’ve compared our upbringings in different times and places, showing curiosity and respect for one another throughout.

And every time she talks about Torin, something in her voice softens. He deserves that kind of unconditional love and support, and I hope, someday, I can give him mine.

My eyes flick to him each time we pass the stage, which Margaret must notice because her expression has changed when my eyes settle back on her.

“It’s nice having you here, Beau,” she says, the intensity of her gaze telling me she has more to say.

“It’s nice to be here, Margaret,” I say, keeping my voice light.

She’s quiet for a moment, watching me before tipping her head up to speak in my ear. “Torin doesn’t trust many people, you know,” she says, and I nod. “But he trusts you. I can tell.”