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She gave me a smug smile. Her assumption about me was all too accurate.
“I’m just being honest,” I folded my arms. “I say what’s on my mind and don’t varnish my opinions to make others like me. If that makes me arrogant, then so be it.”
“In a world of Gastons, you too are positively primeval,” she chuckled suddenly.
“Gaston?”
“I suppose you want to show me your trophies, too?”
“Ha! You’re quoting Beauty and the Beast.”
“You know Beauty and the Beast?”
“Nobody knows Gaston like the Beast.”
Her mouth twitched at my joke.
“My five-year-old niece makes me watch it regularly.”
She laughed, nudging her clutch. A small notepad fell to the floor. I reached down to pick it up, the pages opening to her notes about our whisky.
Panic stabbed me in the gut as I handed her notepad back.
“You’re not a hotel rep, by any chance?” I asked, attempting to get my mind back in the game. “In the drinks trade? Writing reviews?”
“Good lord, none of the above.”
“Marketing? You had a real way with words for the twelve-year-old single malt, I’ll give ye that.”
“I have more of a way with numbers. I’m an accountant.”
“In my experience, accountants shuffle numbers on a spreadsheet, and have nothing tae do with taste. Surely, someone your age would prefer a cocktail or maybe something sweet, like Moscato.”
She crossed her arms, drawing attention to her lovely breasts in that V of her neckline.
“A moment ago, you said I had a good palette,” she snapped. “But when I tell you I’m an accountant, under thirty and female, you think I can’t tell the difference between good whisky and paint stripper?”
“No!” I let out a breath, frantically thinking of how to salvage this conversation. “I meant, for someone who works with numbers, you have a way with words.” I gestured to the bottle of Gallanach still in front of us. “I loved your description of the twelve-year-old. It was more than poetic. Almost lyrical.”
Her frown faded. “Like music?”
“Aye, yes. Like a song.”
Like Robert Burns. I’d been struggling to memorise his poems in preparation for Burns Night, on the 25th of January.
George appeared, with both eyebrows raised. He held my pride and joy in his hand: the five-year-old Gallanach whisky in an unlabelled bottle.
“Now, Beast. Something for you and your beauty?”
“Beast?” She looked me up and down.
I rolled my eyes. “Lay off the dumb nickname, George.”
“Your actual nickname is ‘Beast’?” she asked.
George jumped in to answer.
“A perfect description of his personality off the rugby field,” he drawled, pouring two glasses, “as well as his antics on it.”
