Chapter 16
MARY
The Scottish Dance Lesson
(Or How Hamish Decided to Become a Choreographer)
“You going to the céilidh?”
I look up from my coffee.
Ewan is wiping down the counter at the Grumpy Sheep with a dish towel that’s clearly seen better days, an enigmatic smile on his face.
“What are you talking about?”
“The big traditional dance your grandmother’s throwing at the castle to celebrate the start of the Highland Games preparations.”
I slowly set my cup down.
“No one told me anything.”
“That’s because your grandmother only announced it this morning. Apparently, it’s an ‘essential tradition’ that absolutely cannot be ignored.”
Of course.
Maggie never misses an opportunity to turn all of us into performers in one of her elaborate productions.
“Let me guess. The whole village is invited.”
“The entire village,” Ewan confirms. “And all the couples are expected to participate in the dances. Traditional céilidh. Caller, live music, the whole thing.”
A céilidh.
A traditional Scottish dance with group choreography and complicated steps.
But most importantly—couples dancing together under the adoring gaze of the entire village.
A deliciously evil plan immediately starts forming in my head.
“This is perfect.”
Ewan gives me an amused look.
“I’m almost afraid to ask why you suddenly look like a cat who spotted a mouse.”
“Because Finn is going to have to dance in public in front of all of Glenfield.”
“And I assume he can’t dance?”
“He probably has the grace of a refrigerator.”
Ewan bursts out laughing.
“Poor man. He has no idea what’s coming.”
“Oh, he’s about to find out.”
I pull out my phone and text Finn.
MARY
We’re participating in the dance my grandmother’s organizing.
His answer arrives almost instantly.
FINN
No.
MARY
Oh yes, we are.
FINN
Mary, absolutely not.
MARY
Finn, absolutely yes. In a few days, all of Glenfield will be watching us dance. You want us to look believable as a couple? Also, my grandmother will not accept any answer other than yes.
The three little dots blink on my screen for a long moment.
I can practically picture Finn dragging a hand down his face in frustration while typing, deleting, then retyping his answer.
FINN
Alternative idea: I fake a foot injury.
MARY
Give it up. Tonight. Six p.m. Guesthouse living room. Wear comfortable shoes.
FINN
I hate you.
MARY
No, you adore me. See you tonight.
I slide my phone back into my pocket, deeply satisfied.
“You look dangerously cheerful,” Ewan comments as he returns behind the counter after serving another customer.
“I’m about to teach a grumpy Highlander how to dance. It’s basically Christmas morning.”
“You’re cruel, Mary McGregor.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
Ewan refills my coffee while looking thoughtful.
“Tell me something,” he says, leaning across the counter. “Does your grumpy doctor at least know the difference between a jig and a waltz?”
“I seriously doubt it. But I’m an excellent teacher.”
“May God help that poor man.”
“God should help me. I’m the one who’s about to spend hours getting my feet crushed.”
Ewan laughs and goes back to work.
I finish my coffee while imagining the absolute disaster waiting to happen.
A céilidh.
Traditional dancing.
Finn and me twirling around together in front of the entire village.
The irony isn’t lost on me: we’re getting better and better at pretending to be a couple, but every step pulls us dangerously closer to a truth neither of us wants to admit.
I leave money on the counter and stand.
“Wish me luck, Ewan.”
“You’re going to need it.”
I shove the living room furniture against the walls to clear space.
I downloaded a playlist of traditional Scottish music and grabbed my portable speaker from my room.
Finn arrives exactly on time.
“We can still cancel,” he says from the doorway.
“Get in here and shut the door.”
He obeys reluctantly before stuffing his hands back into his pockets, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I don’t know how to dance,” he warns.
“That’s why we’re here.”
“No, I mean I genuinely don’t know how to dance. Last time I tried was at a distant cousin’s wedding, and I stepped on three different people.”
“Impressive.”
“It was a waltz,” he says darkly.
I can’t help laughing.
“Okay. We’re starting with the basics. A céilidh isn’t like ballroom dancing. It’s more... energetic. And there’s a caller—someone shouting instructions while everyone dances.”
“Fantastic. So I’ll humiliate myself publicly while being herded around like livestock.”
“Exactly. But first, you’re going to humiliate yourself privately. Come here.”
He approaches reluctantly.
“First dance: Strip the Willow. It’s mostly a line dance, but there’s a section where couples spin together. Put your hand here.”
I place his hand on my waist.
“And with the other hand, take mine.”
Our fingers lace together.
He’s stiff as a board.
“Relax, Finn. You look like you’re about to perform surgery.”
“That would be significantly less stressful.”
“Breathe. It’s just dancing.”
I start the music.
A lively Scottish jig fills the room.
“Okay. We start with side steps to the left. One-two-three, one-two-three. Follow me.”
We begin moving.
Finn follows as best he can, his movements stiff and awkwardly out of sync.
“You’re counting in your head,” I realize.
“Obviously I’m counting.”
“Stop counting. Listen to the music.”
“I need to count. Otherwise I lose the rhythm.”
“You’re already losing the rhythm while counting.”
He frowns, offended, and completely misses the next step.
His foot lands directly on mine.
“Ow!”
“Sorry. I warned you.”
“It’s fine. Again. This time, look at me. Not your feet. Me.”
He lifts his eyes.
Our gazes lock, and something in the room shifts instantly.
The distance between us suddenly feels far too small.
“Good,” I murmur softly. “Now follow my rhythm.”
We start again.
Still awkward.
But slightly better.
He follows me, his body slowly beginning to move with mine instead of against it.
“See? You’re getting it.”
“Don’t celebrate too soon.”
We repeat several sequences.
Gradually, Finn relaxes. His shoulders loosen, and I even catch the shadow of a smile when he successfully completes an entire series of steps without crushing my toes.
“Now for the difficult part,” I announce.
“That was the easy part?”
I suppress another laugh at his horrified expression.
“I’m going to show you the spin. I turn under your arm, you catch me, then we continue dancing.”
“That sounds impossible.”
“It’s all about timing. On three. One, two—”
A loud bleat cuts through the room.
We both freeze.
“Please tell me that came from outside,” Finn says.
A second bleat echoes.
Way too close.
I slowly turn around.
Hamish is standing in the living room doorway.
The door we apparently forgot to shut properly.
The sheep watches us with what can only be described as scientific curiosity.
“Hamish,” I say calmly. “Get out.”
He tilts his head.
“Hamish,” Finn repeats. “We’re dancing. This is private. Leave.”
The sheep walks into the room.
He moves with the confidence of a ballet critic arriving to evaluate a performance.
“I’ll get him out,” I say, stepping away from Finn.
But Hamish is faster.
He trots directly into the center of the room—the exact spot where we’d been dancing—and drops down dramatically onto the floor.
On his back.
All four legs in the air.
“He’s taunting us,” I say in disbelief.
“He’s mocking us,” Finn corrects.
A third bleat sounds.
Deeper.
More authoritative.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Ragnar appears in the doorway.
“Who left the front door open?” Finn asks.
“You probably did.”
“It was definitely you.”
Ragnar walks into the room, notices Hamish sprawled dramatically across the floor, and lets out a sound suspiciously similar to a disapproving sigh.
Then he stations himself beside Finn like a bodyguard.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “Now we have two troublemakers.”
“We could just... ignore them?” Finn suggests weakly.
“We can try.”
I restart the music.
We resume our positions while desperately pretending the two sheep watching us aren’t there.
“One, two, three—”
Hamish bleats loudly at the exact moment Finn is supposed to step left.
Finn goes right instead.
We collide.
I stumble.
Finn catches me at the last second, but the movement throws both of us off balance.
We spin awkwardly before crashing onto the couch in a tangled mess of limbs.
Hamish lifts his head.
“This is unbelievably humiliating,” Finn groans.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice another figure entering the already overcrowded room.
“I think it’s about to get worse,” I whisper.
Another bleat sounds from the doorway.
Softer.
Almost melodic.
Rosita has arrived.
Hamish’s companion stands there looking elegant as always. She observes the scene with what appears to be maternal amusement.
“We’re one step away from Maggie showing up with popcorn,” I mutter.
Hamish immediately jumps to his feet and trots over to Rosita. He bleats something at her—I swear they actually communicate—and she answers with a soft sound.
Then, right in front of us, Hamish positions himself beside Rosita.
And they start to... dance.
Well.
Their version of dancing.
Hamish performs tiny sideways hops while Rosita follows gracefully beside him. They circle each other, and Hamish finishes with what appears to be an awkward little bow.
“Tell me I’m hallucinating,” Finn whispers.
“Nope. I’m seeing it too.”
Ragnar, still standing beside Finn, lets out a bleat that very clearly sounds judgmental.
“Even the sheep dance better than we do,” I point out.
“They’re sheep, and they just gave us a dance lesson.”
Finn drags a hand down his face.
“My life has become completely absurd.”
“Welcome to my reality.”
Hamish and Rosita finish their performance with one final synchronized hop before sitting down in front of us like audience members waiting for the next act.
Ragnar hasn’t moved.
He remains stationed beside Finn.
“So what now?” Finn asks.
“Now we continue practicing.”
“Mary…”
“Finn, if we can’t dance here while we’re alone, how are we supposed to survive in front of the whole village?”
He looks at me, and something changes in his expression.
Determination.
“Fine. But if we embarrass ourselves, it’s entirely your fault.”
“Deal.”
We stand again.
I restart the music.
Hamish bleats approvingly.
At least I think he does.
“Ignore them,” I tell Finn. “Focus on me.”
Finn places one hand on my waist and takes my hand with the other.
This time, his movements are less stiff.
Maybe because we’ve already humiliated ourselves so thoroughly that nothing else matters anymore.
We start dancing again.
Awkwardly.
Messily.
But we dance.
“One, two, three... now spin!”
I turn beneath his arm.
He catches me.
A little too firmly.
I end up pressed against him, his other hand instinctively sliding against my back to steady me.
Our faces are inches apart.
The music continues, but neither of us moves anymore.
“We should... keep going,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says softly.
But he still doesn’t let go.
His gaze drops to my lips before lifting back to my eyes.
My heart pounds so hard I’m certain he can hear it.
Slowly, the space between us shrinks...
A sharp bleat shatters the moment.
Hamish.
The sheep has planted himself directly between us, separating us with the efficiency of a Victorian chaperone.
“Is he serious?” Finn blurts out incredulously.
“Apparently Hamish has principles.”
The sheep stares at both of us, bleats authoritatively once, then calmly returns to sit beside Rosita.
I step back quickly, adjusting my hair even though it isn’t messy, vaguely noticing Ragnar has disappeared somewhere along the way.
I clear my throat.
“We should... keep practicing. The dance. Just the dance.”
“Yeah. Let’s continue.”
We resume our positions, but something has changed.
The air between us crackles with electricity.
Every time our hands brush, every time his arm grazes mine, the tension grows stronger.
The sheep remain there as attentive spectators.
Well... mostly.
Eventually Hamish and Rosita fall asleep together in the corner of the room.
Finally, breathless, we stop.
“You’re doing much better,” I tell him.
“That’s because you’re a good teacher. Or because Hamish terrified me enough that I’m scared to make mistakes now.”
I laugh.
“Probably both.”
Finn glances at the clock.
“It’s late. I should…”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Neither of us moves.
Hamish eventually stands, nudges Rosita toward the door, and the two sheep leave the room with impressive dignity.
“Even the sheep know we need to stop lying to ourselves,” I murmur.
“What did you just say?”
I look up at him.
“Nothing. I’m exhausted and starving.”
“This time, I’m cooking,” he announces enthusiastically.
I watch him head toward the doorway.
Just before leaving, he turns back toward me with an unreadable expression on his face.
Then he looks away and leaves the room.
I let out a long breath.
Soon we’ll have to dance in front of the entire village.
But choreography isn’t the real challenge anymore.
No.
The real challenge is continuing to pretend this is nothing more than an arrangement when every dance, every glance, every brush of his hand pulls me closer to something painfully, terrifyingly real.