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Not just happy but satisfied. Content with my work in a way I hadn’t managed to capture again. Nothing I’d done for Lincoln compared.
He ducked his head to catch my eyes. “I don’t think anything that makes you glow as bright as you are now should be set aside forever.”
Maybe not. But I’d played it safe so long, I wasn’t sure how to get back into the business of taking risks.
“Are all Scottish men so wise?”
“It’s all in the MacZenmaster handbook.”
Somehow, he’d made sobering up by starlight both a romantic moment and a weirdly reassuring career pep-talk. Still, I wasn’t in a state to make any major decisions. Not when I was this tempted to throw myself all in with this Scot.
twenty-five
The sun was tryingto kill me.
I curled up in bed and pulled the blanket over my eyes, blocking out the offending light. Despite the aspirin I’d taken and Duncan’s unique assistance, my head throbbed in angry retaliation for all the alcohol I’d consumed last night.
Eventually, I’d sobered up enough for him to guide me back to the lodge, his arm wrapped around my waist so I wouldn’t lose my balance. Outside our rooms, he’d given me the last of the jug of water, followed by a sweet kiss goodnight on my forehead.
After all his talk about trying for love again, I would have wanted more than just a forehead kiss to seal the evening—if I hadn’t been worried about suddenly seeing the contents of my stomach all over the hallway carpet.
Now, I only wanted to lie in bed as still as possible and make empty promises to never drink again. Our group would finally hike to the Old Man of Storr, the sight that had inspired me to come to Scotland in the first place and had teased me with glimpses every time we drove in and out of Portree—and just opening my eyes felt like cruel and unusual punishment. How was I supposed to actuallyreachit?
I finally ventured downstairs, taking delicate steps the whole way, and found Duncan on the landing.
“Harlow said you were on your way down. How are you feeling?”
I groaned. “I think I need new blood. That’s a thing, right?”
“Only if you’re Keith Richards.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to tough it out.” That, or crawl under my bed and moan all day. I could go either way. “Thanks again for last night. I still feel foolish.”
He put a hand on my back in consolation. “Whisky’ll do that.”
Bea and Rupert came down the stairs, sweeping us into the dining room with them. Almost as soon as I sat down, someone put a plate heaped with food in front of me. The Scottish fried breakfast shone up at me in all its glory: fried tomato, fried round of blood pudding, a sausage, a messy pile of haggis, a flat scone, a fried egg, fried mushrooms, and—unbelievably—baked beans. Now that was one item I hadn’t expected to see in Scotland, and certainly not on a breakfast plate.
My head throbbed a vicious beat, but my stomach growled a reminder I’d had nothing but whisky, water, and Irn-Bru in the last twelve hours. Mostly confident I wouldn’t lose my breakfast, I tucked in.
I made short work of the egg, sausage, mushrooms, and tomato. The scone tasted weirdly bland, which made sense when Bea pointed out its primary ingredient were potatoes. This left the haggis, baked beans, and blood pudding on my plate, two of which I was willing to at least try.
Before I had a chance to change my mind, I took a bite of the haggis. It turned out tastier than I’d thought, even if the peppery spices overwhelmed. My mind shut down the voices reminding me of the contents—it couldn’t be that much worse than a typical American hot dog, which were also packed full of questionable meat and sprinkled with delicious flavorings.
Next, I cut a small bite of the blood pudding. I looked at the piece of sausage speared on my fork a long moment before I popped it in my mouth. The flavor was coppery, as Duncan had described, and the texture mealy, but it wasn’t the worst thing I’d ever eaten.
The baked beans wallowed untouched in their brown juices. I hated them as a summertime side dish and wasn’t any more inclined to eat them at breakfast, even in Scotland.
Rupert leaned toward me kitty-corner across the table. “What do you think of the haggis?”
“It’s not bad.” It wouldn’t go into my permanent meal rotation, but I didn’t find it horrifying, either. The meat had been ground so fine, it had no real texture to it, and the spices overpowered the underlying organ flavor.
Duncan shot a little look of pride my way and I had a strange feeling I’d passed some sort of Scottish hazing ritual. Did haggis really matter that much to people? I didn’t go around pressing mayonnaise and bologna sandwiches on strangers back home. Then again, I did encourage everyone I knew to get their burgers at Red Mill, so maybe it wasn’t all that different.
“It’s just like I told you about men, dear,” Bea said as she sliced her mushrooms.
Unfazed but uncomprehending, I nodded. “Yes, I was just thinking that men are like haggis.”
“We’re better when we’re fried?” Carlos suggested.
