“It’s good,” I tell him.
“It is,” he says. “It’s local. It’s what I always get.” His lips lift into the smallest smile. “I’d say you have good taste, but now I know about the insects.”
I laugh. “They were chocolate-covered crickets. Nothing’s that bad once you cover it in chocolate.”
He shakes his head, lifting his glass to his mouth. “I don’t believe you.”
He drinks, a long swallow, and I’m transfixed by the way the muscles in his throat constrict and flex. By the firm way he sets his glass down, and the way his lips glisten after, a perfectly formed droplet of beer hanging from the corner of his bottom lip, sparkling in the light.
I want to wipe it away with my thumb.
Or lick it.
Whoa. I try to reel my wayward thoughts back in, but then he raises his hand, rubbing the back of it against his mouth, and the movement is erotic somehow. Indecent.
Heat flares up the back of my neck.
I’d thought this stranger was attractive before but in an aesthetically pleasing sort of way. In a he’d-look-great-on-television kind of way. Not in aI want to go home with him and lick beer—and maybe other things—off of himkind of way.
Now it’s all I can think about. I wonder if they sell aerosol cans of whipped cream here, or if that’s purely an American thing.
“So, I take it you’ve been to Scotland before,” he says, breaking me out of my foggy, addled haze.
I nod. “Yes. I was born in the UK, actually. In London. Then we moved to Glasgow, but we left when I was really little. I barely remember anything from back then. But how did you—”
“You said you’d tried haggis. I just assumed that meant you’d had it here.”
“Oh, I did. I came back to Scotland when I was ten or so. Just for a short visit, and it was…kind of a dare.” I’d been sitting across the table from my father at a pub not unlike this one. I’d ordered it off the menu, not knowing what it was, and he’d told me that I wouldn’t like it, which had only made me determined to prove him wrong. “This is actually my first trip back since then.”
“Ahh.” He takes another sip of his beer, his eyes bright, his lips shining. He’s practically glowing under the warm yellow light in here, and really, it’s unfair. My clothes are still damp, my hair’s been towel-dried with a dish rag, and my bangs are limp and sticking to my forehead. He should havesomeflaw to balance out the scale, but so far, I can’t find one.
“So, what’s brought you back?” he asks. He grins, a cheeky sort of look, and it somehow seems at home on his face, like it’s an expression he wears often. “Besides the haggis, I mean. What are you here for?”
I hold back a grimace.My father, with whom I have a complicated relationship, is getting remarried.
“Pleasure,” I say instead, and he lets out a choked, garbled sound.Oh, god.
“Uh, that’s not what I meant.” My face flushes. “I was thinking along the lines of the standard reasons people travel. You know,‘business or pleasure’? So, if I were to answer it that way, I’d be here for pleasure. I didn’t mean that I came here seeking outpleasurespecifically. Just that I’m not here for work. I’m here for…for fun.”
He coughs again, lifting a paper napkin to his mouth. “Right,” he says, his voice low, and a little hoarse. “I understand.”
There’s nothing unkind about the way he says it, but still, it makes me want to sink into the floor.
The food finally arrives, and Erin apologizes for the wait. “We’re busier than normal,” she says, “but we’ll always make time for your off-menu special.” She winks at the man, and he rounds his shoulders, slightly sheepish when he responds with a quiet “Thank you.”
Erin asks if there’s anything else we need, and when we say no, she takes off again.
I lift the piece of white bread off my plate, take a bite, and cast a curious look at the man to my left.
“Jam and bread?” I ask.
“Yes, it’s a jeely piece.” He sighs. “Told you it was unadventurous.”
“Don’t say that. The name at least is new to me.” I take another bite, not able to discern the flavor of fruit in the jam, but enjoying it all the same.
“I like it,” I tell him. “But I am curious whythisis what you prefer over everything on the menu.”
He turns a bit on his stool, his knee knocking against mine, and it sends a little hum of electricity up my leg.
