Page 39 of The Tartan Thesis

We navigate through the crowd and find a booth near the bar. A server in a tartan skirt and crisp white shirt immediately comes by.

“Alright? Here’s a food menu and a whisky list.” She sets them down on the table. “If you prefer beer, you can see the tap easy enough from here, yeah?” Her Glaswegian accent is thick enough that I glance at Beau, wondering how much of that he caught. “I’ll get you some water and be back to answer any questions.”

Beau opens the whisky menu and scans the page, eyes moving steadily down the list.

“Have you had much Scottish whisky?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah, my granny loves it. She’s the one who taught me about it.”

“Your granny sounds like a great lady,” I say.

His smile softens. “She really is.”

“What kind of whisky does she like then?”

“Oh, she’s a Speyside girl. I am too, s’matter of fact,” he drawls. God, he’s cute.

The server comes back with our waters and sees Beau looking at the menu. “You’ll be wanting some whisky, then?”

“Yeah,” he says. “We’ll have a couple of Balvenie fourteen-year Caribbean Casks to start. Neat, please.”

I force myself to hold in a grin. Men who are decisive at restaurants and who confidently order for their dates is #3 on The List. It’s hot when a man knows what he wants.

“Let’s also do an order of Scotch eggs and the half-pound burger with chips,” I add. “And our American friend here needs an order of haggis, neeps, and tatties. Extra whisky sauce, please.”

“Aye, I’ll be back,” she says, whisking the menus away.

“As will I,” says Beau, pushing up from the booth and heading toward the loo.

He and our server return at the same time, two elegant tumblers of amber whisky placed on the table between us. We raise our glasses.

“Slàinte mhath,” I say.

“Slàinte.”

We sip. The whisky is smooth with a subtle sweetness from the rum barrels it was aged in. A favorite of mine.

“Well,” Beau says with a smile, “you’ve helped me today, so let’s keep working on you.”

I sink back in my seat with a groan. “You’re not going to make me do lunges around the pub to burn off the empty calories, are you?” I ask, raising my glass.

“No.” Beau chuckles. “Cheat days are essential for a healthy, balanced life.”

“Good,” I say, “because I wasn’t going to do that.”

“No lunges. All you have to do is say nice things about yourself. Things you like about your appearance or abilities or personality.”

I groan again. “I change my mind. I’ll do the lunges.”

He laughs. “No, this is going to be even more helpful than the gym. You have to have a good relationship with yourself if you want to have good relationships with other people.”

He has a point. The problem is, other than my excellent knowledge of Scottish history, I don’t really know what else to say about myself. Beau takes another sip of his whisky and waits patiently while I mull it over.

“Okay,” I say, after a minute of pondering. Beau sets his glass down and gives me his full attention. “I like your eyes,” I say, then immediately blush and scramble to correct myself. “I mean, I like my eyes. Green is already a rare color in the world, and my specific shade is even more unique.”

Beau bites his bottom lip, clearly trying to contain a smile. “And?”

I rush to my next one, trying not to be embarrassed. “I love that I don’t just know history but that I’m good at it. Taking in all the information we can gather, putting my mind into a time and place, and seeing new interpretations for the events of the past.”