Page 59 of The Tartan Thesis

I grab the boxes I brought, and we head to the sitting room. Wrapping paper crinkles as we stack presents under the tree, then take myriad treats to the kitchen.

“You’re setting a high bar, Beau,” Freya says as I load bottles of Bollinger champagne into the fridge beside a jug of milk and several jars of homemade preserves. “It’ll be hard for any of Torin’s future colleagues to compare.”

Torin’s eyes flick between us again before sighing. “I’m going to check on Dad.”

“Should I come with?” I ask as I break down the champagne box.

Freya looks at my shoes. “Not in those boots you shouldn’t.”

Margaret looks at my feet and agrees. “I’m sure we have an extra pair of work boots around here somewhere, right, Torin?”

“I’ll find some that fit when I get back,” he calls from the mudroom at the back of the house.

“I don’t know,” Freya says. “His feet are pretty big, and you know what they say.”

“Freya!” Margaret says, swiping at her with her towel.

Freya dodges it with the ease of someone who’s had years of practice. “What?” she asks, innocently. “Big feet, big boots! Honestly, Mum, pack it in!”

With Torin gone, I ask how I can help but am shooed away by Margaret, who orders me to sit at the kitchen table while Freya makes a cup of tea. So I sit, warming my hands on the mug while they ask about school and Texas and my family. Either Torin has warned them not to ask about my reasons for staying in Scotland over the holidays, or they are too polite to pry.

Time passes easily, and the kitchen fills with the comforting sounds of dinner in progress—pots clinking, sauces simmering, the steady chop of a knife. Whatever Margaret is cooking smells incredible.

When I offer to help again, I’m shooed away once more. I drift into the living room and crouch by the stone fireplace. The flames have burned down to a soft glow, so I nudge a log into place and coax the embers to ignite. I stand up, and a smile spreads wide at the five stockings lined up along the mantel, one with a white B stitched on the front. The fire is crackling again when the back door opens and I hear boots thudding in the mudroom.

A deep Highland brogue carries through the house, and I make my way to the kitchen. “Where’s the American?”

“Right here, Mr. Ramsay,” I say, coming around the corner.

“Call me Callum,” he says, reaching out his calloused hand for me to shake. “And ceud mìle fàilte. Means a hundred thousand welcomes in Gaelic.”

“Taing,” I say, thanking him in the same language. “Happy to be here.”

He’s my height with a sturdy build, kind gray eyes, and brown hair streaked with silver. Despite the differences in their appearance, I can see where Torin gets his good looks.

Movement catches my eye, a black-and-white border collie waiting patiently beside him, tail sweeping the floor in slow hopeful thumps, sea-blue eyes watching me.

“And who’s this?” I ask, kneeling and offering the back of my hand for a sniff.

“That’s Flick,” Callum tells me. “She’s the best worker on the farm.”

“Howdy, Flick,” I say as she sits and offers me a paw. I laugh and shake it. “Well, aren’t you polite?” She leans forward, pressing her head into my hand, shameless about what she’s after.

“You really know what you’re doing, don’t you, girl?” I say, scratching her behind the ears.

“Aye, she’s a ham,” Callum says fondly. “Try not to give in to her too often.”

“She’s going to be hard to resist,” I say as she rolls over and presents her belly for a rub.

“She’s counting on it,” Torin murmurs.

I wake early Christmas morning feeling refreshed. The bed in the guest room is incredibly comfortable, and I don’t remember waking up once in the night. I don’t hear anyone moving around yet, but we’re on a farm, so I suspect I’m not the only early riser.

After my usual morning routine, I head to the kitchen and find Margaret and Freya making tea and coffee in companionable silence, both in their pajamas. Freya’s shirt reads first of all, i'm a delight in bold lettering, which feels entirely accurate, and Margaret has on a flowered dressing gown tied at the waist. Their outfits suit them.

“Good morning, Beau,” Margaret says, crossing the room and giving me a hug. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a stone gathering moss,” I say. “It’s been a while since I’ve slept so well.”