— I guess. I didn’t really notice…
— Of course you didn’t, she replies with a smirk. That’s why you’re devouring him with your eyes.
— Ah, Miss Carter! Maggie exclaims when she spots us. Come along, we don’t have all day.
I walk toward the center of the room, carefully avoiding Callum’s gaze. I’m not ready to admit—even to myself—just how attractive he looks in that outfit.
— Good morning, Jane, he says softly when I reach him.
— Good morning. Nice… uh… skirt?
— It’s a kilt, he corrects, a hint of a smile on his lips. And there’s nothing quite as uncomfortable as wearing one while your grandmother watches you like a hawk stalking its prey.
Maggie clears her throat to get our attention.
— Mr. Murray here will teach you the Scottish reel you’ll be performing at your wedding.
— Reel? I repeat, confused.
I stare at the newcomer, wondering if he’s the company’s social media manager, but I’m not sure why he’d want to teach us about influencer video formats… And how are Scottish reels different from the others?
As if reading my mind, Callum leans toward me to explain:
— Murray is our traditional dance master. He’s going to teach us the reel. Guests form two lines facing each other, and the dancers perform a series of figures in the middle.
A dance! That makes more sense.
— Like a choreographed battle where nobody dies, Keira adds. Well, usually.
My anxiety spikes.
— Usually?
— Ignore Miss Keira, Murray says, stepping forward. The reel is a joyful dance celebrating the union of two people. There’s nothing to worry about.
The old dancer looks me up and down, and I can practically hear him thinking, “uncultured American.”
Come on, Jane, you can do this!
And who knows? Maybe learning the Scottish reel could come in handy at some future audition. I wonder if they dance it in Bridgerton?
— Before we begin, a warm-up is in order, he declares, snapping me out of my thoughts. Basic position, please.
To my surprise, Callum immediately adopts a perfect posture: back straight, shoulders back, arms slightly away from his body. I awkwardly try to imitate him.
— No, no, no, Miss Carter. Straighten up. Imagine a string pulling your head toward the ceiling. And your arms, softer, as if you’re holding a bird—firm enough to keep it from escaping, but gentle enough not to crush it.
I shoot Callum a panicked look, and he smiles encouragingly.
— Don’t worry. I had to take these lessons my entire childhood. I’ll guide you.
— How long do we have to master this dance? I ask, naively hoping the answer will be “a few weeks.”
— Two days, Maggie replies with an innocent smile that fools no one. The wedding is the day after tomorrow, after all.
— Two days?! To learn an entire Scottish dance?
— Don’t worry, Murray cuts in. You only need to know the basic steps. Passion and love will make up for the rest.
