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“I like to throw it on for the ceilidhs. Show a little pride for my nan. Plus, it always confuses people to see a brown person in a kilt.”
“I’ve got a bit of tartan on, too, you see.” Rupert flipped up the end of his plaid tie. “A little nod to our neighbors to the north.”
“I see.” Duncan looked over the tie. “Which clan is it?”
“Well…” Rupert seemed unprepared for the question. “Do you know, I can’t recall?”
Duncan took it in stride. “I’m sure we appreciate it all the same.”
We followed Lewis the four blocks to the restaurant. I kept shooting sideways glances at Duncan, etching that kilt into my mind like I could will it into a core memory.
“This isn’t your clan tartan, I’m guessing.” The fabric looked nothing like Arnav’s or the brightly colored versions we’d seen hanging in the many souvenir shops across the Highlands.
“It’s a dress kilt. Family loyalty aside, my clan tartan is rather too festive for my taste.”
“That bad?”
“Think Old Tarty levels. Bright red and green, so it’s always Christmas in the Stewart tartan.” He pretended to shudder.
“Isn’t there some sort of kilt police whose job is to make sure you’re wearing the proper tartan?”
“Yes, but they’re all in the pubs just now, so I think we’re safe.”
“Well, you look very handsome.”
He smirked over at me. “I suppose it’s better than saying I look surprisingly not awful.”
“I’m not surprised you look so sexy.”
“Sexy?” He laced an arm around me. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
* * *
The restaurant turned out to be more of a dining hall, and had such festive decor, Duncan must have broken out in hives just looking at it. Tartan or a stuffed stag’s head covered every square inch—sometimes both at once. Hints of wood paneling peeked out from behind huge bolts of tartan fabric that lined the walls, and the massive tables were covered in twelve-foot lengths of plaid. We could have parked Old Tarty in the foyer and the clientele wouldn’t even look up from their haggis.
The menu was the same for everyone, a Scottish roast dinner served in multiple courses throughout the evening. Roast chicken and roast beef were the stars, with appearances by mashed potatoes and turnips, smoked salmon, and every kind of roast vegetable known to man. I couldn’t take that much food seriously, but I sampled everything. It was good, if not on par with some of the home-cooked meals we’d had along the tour.
I tried haggis again, only to discover a slight variation in the recipe left an unfortunate aftertaste.
“You’re off to Ireland then, are you Harlow?” Bea asked.
“Not until Tuesday. I have a few more days here before I fly over.”
“Good thing, too,” Carlos said. “She’s convinced me to go bungee jumping with her tomorrow.”
Murmurs of surprise went around the table. Duncan raised his eyebrows at me, an unspokenAre you interested?I shuddered a firmNo. Death-defying would remain firmly outside my comfort zone.
“He did a whole television show devoted to bungee jumping, and he’s never done it.” Harlow dished up caveman-approved foods onto her plate. “I told him we needed to fix that.”
“There’s still a lot of me that needs fixing, you know.” He had those big puppy eyes going again.
“Oh, I know.”
I wondered if they really would keep in touch, or if, as Harlow had said, Carlos would forget about her as soon as his regular routine kicked back in.
“And you, Spencer?” Bea asked between bites. “Back to…New York?”
It seemed she hadn’t gleaned much else from their brief conversations.
