Page 40 of The Tartan Thesis

Beau nods. “Two good ones so far. Give me at least one more.”

I think for a second. “I can sleep anytime, anywhere. If I’m tired at all, it doesn’t matter what’s going on, I can pass out.”

“That’s a rare skill, indeed,” Beau says, “and a useful one at that.”

“Thanks,” I say, but I’m still feeling slightly mortified about the eye comment. I mean, I do like his eyes, but he doesn’t need to know that. He may not be as confident as I originally thought, but he definitely knows he’s attractive. No need to stroke that particular part of his ego.

Thankfully our server arrives with the food and sets the haggis squarely in front of Beau. “Freshly caught.”

Beau looks up, brow furrowed, clearly trying to decide whether he’s just missed a joke. “Thanks.”

“Will you be needing anything else, then?”

“Another round of whisky, please,” Beau says before she heads off.

“I can’t believe you’ve been in Scotland this long and haven’t had haggis,” I say.

“I just haven’t gotten around to it!” he says defensively.

“Well, you wanted to experience Scottish culture, so here we are,” I say as I pour whisky sauce over everything. “Go on, then. Give it a go.”

Beau picks up a forkful and raises it. “When in Scotland,” he says and takes a bite. It’s only a second before his face lights up. “Damn, that’s good!” He takes another bite, savoring it. “I’ve been missing out!”

“Surely there’s an American equivalent of haggis or blood pudding,” I say. “Something made of… parts.”

He considers while he chews, then nods. “Hot dogs,” he says. “Even the all-beef ones can hardly be considered meat, but they are essential American cuisine.” A pause. “I miss hot dogs.” His tone is forlorn, his face ponderous as he spears a Scotch egg with his fork and drags it onto his plate.

“What else do you miss from the States?” I ask.

“Lots of things, but if we’re talking about food, then I miss Mexican food and my granny’s blueberry pancakes. No clue how she makes them so fluffy, but they are the breakfast of dreams.”

We polish off the food and order a bread pudding with more whisky for dessert. Beau chooses an Aberlour distilled in sherry casks for this round. Then he’s off to the loo again.

When he gets back, we talk more about differences between the US and Scotland while we eat and then order a second dessert. I glance around while we wait for it to arrive. There’s a good mix in the clientele tonight, well-dressed couples, a table of students crammed into a corner, a few older blokes lingering over their drinks. A couple nearby are feeding each other bites of their meals. They’re so cute it’s disgusting.

A flash coming from Beau’s direction pulls me from my people watching. I turn. He’s frozen halfway through lowering his phone, ears turning red.

“Sorry,” he says. “I got into the habit of taking pictures of my friends when I go out with them so they can use them for social media or dating profiles or whatever.”

“Dating profiles?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He glances down at his screen. “You just looked pensive and at ease. The lighting is good, but not good enough apparently because the flash still went off, and… You looked good is all.” He’s staring at his phone like it’s suddenly very interesting.

I open my mouth to say something but have no clue how to respond. He’s being weirdly timid, but it’s nice to be complimented by a man as gorgeous and magnanimous as Beau, so I just thank him.

“You’re welcome,” he says and finishes his glass.

He gets up like he’s headed for the bog again.

“Ya know,” I say, “for such a big guy, you have a very small bladder.”

Beau laughs. “It might be the only small thing about me.”

“Oh?” I say, raising an eyebrow.

His smile falters. The color in his face deepens as the implication of what he said catches up with him.

I take a slow sip of whisky and enjoy watching him squirm until he blurts out, “That’s not what I meant.”