Page 70 of The Tartan Thesis

“Slàinte mhath.”

“Slàinte,” I say, tapping my bar to his.

He finishes in two bites.

“Should we head back to your parents’ house?” he asks, but something in his voice tells me he’s not ready for the day to end. I don’t want it to, either.

“Well, we’re already out, and Inverness isn’t much farther than home. Should we go out for dinner and see a bit of the city?”

He smiles. “Sounds like a plan.”

We head north as the last of the light fades from the sky. Conversation drifts easily between us, nothing heavy, just the music on the radio, the strange number of sheep that seem determined to stop traffic on the backroads around the farm, Freya’s ongoing antics at mealtimes. A few days ago, the thought of a long drive alone with Beau would have made me anxious. I would have worried about the silences, about running out of things to say. Now the quiet feels… easy. I’m comfortable in his presence, something I can’t say about many people.

The lights of Inverness appear ahead of us, glowing against the dark hills. We leave his car on the edge of town and walk toward the center where the streets are packed with holiday crowds. He keeps his hand on my back, guiding me through the pressing throng. We inquire at a few restaurants, only to be told they won’t be able to seat us before their kitchens close. By the third refusal Beau shifts beside me with a quiet sigh.

“Hold on,” he says. “Look.” I follow his gaze across the street to a small restaurant painted bright yellow and green.

“I haven’t had Mexican food since I crossed the pond.” His voice is laced with excitement. “Can we try it?”

And his grin is so wide, I can’t refuse him.

Inside, the restaurant is warm and noisy, the air thick with the smell of grilled meat, lime, and spices. We’re shown to a table meant for four. I slide into one side of the booth first, expecting Beau to take the seat across from me, but instead he drops down beside me and nudges my thigh with his. “Scoot over,” he says, and our knees bump as I make room. We’ve touched so much today, but the excitement I feel at contact with him hasn’t lessened.

“Oh man, enchiladas,” Beau murmurs, as he browses the menu, running his finger down the page. “And they’ve got carnitas tacos. I haven’t had those since my going-away dinner with The Pigeons.” He bounces next to me as he finds more of his favorites, then turns to me. “What about you? What are you getting?”

“I haven’t had much Mexican food before,” I admit. “You tell me.”

He nods thoughtfully, clearly taking this responsibility seriously, scanning the options again.

When I casually mention I’ve never had tequila, the entire process comes to a halt. Beau freezes mid-page, his mouth dropping open slightly as he slowly turns to stare at me like I’ve just confessed to never noticing the sky is blue.

“What? I grew up drinking whisky!”

“Not once?” he asks, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Not ever?”

I shake my head.

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing right now.” He looks down at the table, his eyes batting back and forth, like he’s questioning life, the universe, and everything. He finally looks up. “Okay, we’re going to fix this. It’s my turn to give you a new cultural experience.”

“It’s alright,” I tell him. “We shouldn’t have alcohol anyway. Scottish laws are strict when it comes to drinking and driving.”

“I’m the only one driving,” he counters easily, “so I’ll just have a sip to make sure the drink is good, and you can partake as much as you like.”

Our server comes to the table, and before I can dissuade him, Beau begins ordering enough food for a large family. He also asks for a shot of top-shelf tequila and provides very specific instructions for how he wants them to make a margarita. It sounds excessive, but I love it when he’s excited like this, so I let him carry on.

All too soon, the server returns balancing a tray. She sets a glass of tequila in front of me and asks Beau to check if the margarita is up to standard. I take a tentative sniff of the amber liquid, no more trusting of this than I’d been of Maeve’s Irish whiskey.

Beau takes a sip, then closes his eyes and lets out a low, satisfied moan. “Mmmmm. Perfect.” The server blushes bright red before hurrying away.

Then Beau watches me expectantly. “Time for you to experience the delight that is distilled agave. Try that first. Then go for the margarita.”

I sigh as I hold up the glass of tequila. “Slàinte mhath,” I say, before downing it in one gulp.

The burn hits immediately, sharp and fierce, racing down my throat like liquid fire. Beau’s eyes go wide, and I realize—too late—that I’ve done something wrong.

I sputter and reach for my water as Beau bursts into laughter. He slaps me on the back, saying, “That’s top-shelf tequila, aged five years. It’s meant to be sipped!”

“Noted,” I cough, my voice hoarse.