18. Chapter 18
Beau
Bollocks
Translation: Testicles
Usage: Exclamation of frustration or to describe something of poor quality or negligible reliability
The drive is beautiful, from the soft, rolling hills of the Lowlands, to the giant Douglas firs of Perthshire.
Then we reach the Highlands and cruise down winding roads through wide glens.
The colors are muted, evidence of winter, and there’s a persistent mist gently falling from the overcast sky.
Even with limited visibility, the scenery is breathtaking.
Torin loosens up as we make our way north.
Our banter flows, and I’ve mercifully spared him another singing performance.
He points out things along the road—rivers cutting through valleys, lochs flashing silver, tucked-away towns I would've driven straight past without noticing.
When he talks about Scotland, especially the Highlands, his voice changes, and I love listening to him.
He loves his country, and more and more, I do, too.
We turn down the long gravel drive to the farm, and my heart begins to race. This will be my first time “meeting the parents.” Torin and I aren’t dating, so it’s not exactly the same, but that doesn’t stop the nerves from fluttering through my stomach.
We pass a large modern barn before pulling up to a traditional stone house nestled into the glen, smoke coiling out of the chimneys that stand like spires above the second story.
Outbuildings, metal fences, and low stone walls spread out behind the house, and I smile when I see sheep grazing on a hill in the distance.
Some of my nerves flee as I take in the idyllic Ramsay homestead.
This sure beats spending the holidays by myself in the city.
I park next to a muddy four-by-four truck and turn off the car. Torin reaches into the back seat and grabs the reindeer antlers I’d worn earlier.
“Here,” he says with a grin. “Don’t want to forget the best part of your outfit.”
I take them and tuck them into the door pocket. “I’ll let them see how good-looking I am first. Then they can learn what a weirdo I am.”
“Come for the handsome, stay for the unhinged?” he asks with a smirk.
“Something like that,” I say, my insides warming at him casually calling me handsome.
We’re grabbing our bags when I hear someone yell, “Mum, they’re here!” I turn to see a twenty-something woman in a black sweater running toward Torin, red curls flying behind her. She practically tackles him with a hug, squealing, “Torin! I’ve missed you!”
“Missed you, too, Frey,” he says, hugging her back.
She releases him and immediately wraps her arms around me.
“Beau!” she says, squeezing me tight.
She only comes up to my chest, but her strong grip pins my arms to my sides. I do my best to reach around and hug her back. “You must be Freya.”
She pulls back, grinning. “And you must be kidding me with this car. It isn’t enough for you to walk around looking like that,” she says, rings glinting from every finger as she traces an unapologetic line up and down my body, “you have to be rich, too?”
Before I can respond, she turns to her brother and gives his shoulder a little shove. “Good job, Torin. This one’s a catch. Knew you had it in you.”
I blush, and Torin waves his hands as if to ward off her comment. “No no no,” he says, shooting her a stern look before glancing hesitantly at me. “Beau is my classmate. He’s a colleague.” He looks to me for backup.
I decide to set aside my nerves and have a little fun instead.
If I’m going to make a good impression on his sister, I might as well lean in.
I give Torin a dubious look. “Is that really all I am to you, Torin? A colleague? You’re sure there’s nothing more to it?
” I’m pressing my luck, but I can tell by her expression that Freya is eating this up, and having his family on my side would be a green flag if I’m going to pursue him.
His face turns bright red. “I—no. I mean, yes.”
“Oh?” Freya asks, eyebrow cocked.
Torin sputters again, which is adorable, until his mouth and brain finally align. “What I mean to say is that we’re friends. In addition to being colleagues. We… work out together,” he finishes lamely.
“Oh, yes, I do enjoy our… workouts,” I say, nudging him with my elbow and winking at Freya.
“Oh, aye, Beau,” Freya says. “Torin has told me all about how good you are at… exercising.” A laugh bursts out of me.
Torin looks between the two of us, horrified, before turning to his luggage. “I knew I shouldn’t have introduced you two,” he says, resigned to his fate, handing us boxes and bags without making eye contact. Freya gives me a conspiratorial wink, and we head toward the house.
“Mum?” Torin calls as we step inside, a Christmas tree twinkling by a stone fireplace.
“In the kitchen!” comes a reply from the back of the house.
We follow the smell of something delicious down the hall and find Torin’s mother in a long galley kitchen, standing at a gas stove, stirring a pot.
Her face lights up when she sees us. She has dark red hair like her children, and the soft creases around her eyes and mouth when she smiles look like they were earned from a lifetime of laughter.
Striding over, she pulls Torin into a hug, holding him close and rocking back and forth. “My baby boy. Oh, how I’ve missed you.”
Torin’s face turns red again, but he rubs her back and mumbles, “Missed you, too, Mum.”
“And this must be Beau,” she says, releasing Torin and embracing me. “We’re so glad you could join us.”
“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Ramsay,” I say as she pulls back. “I’m sorry to intrude on such late notice.”
“Oh, don’t worry yourself,” she says, swatting my apology away with a kitchen towel. “It’s not an intrusion. It’s nice to have so many folks in the house.”
Freya, now stirring for her mother, says, “And it doesn’t hurt that you’re handsome.”
“Freya!” Torin hisses.
Mrs. Ramsay blushes but doesn’t turn to her daughter. “Ignore her. She’s always trying to get a rise out of us.”
“I’m keeping you young,” Freya says with a shrug.
“It’s alright, Mrs. Ramsay. I think Freya and I will get along just fine,” I say, earning me another wink.
“You say that now…” she says before adding, “and please call me Margaret.”
Torin and I carry our bags upstairs. The landing smells faintly of pine and laundry soap, and framed family photos line the walls—school portraits, teenaged Freya playing soccer, a younger Torin standing beside a fishing boat, squinting into the sun.
“You’ll be in here,” Torin says, setting his bag down and pushing open a door on the left.
The room is simple but cozy—a thick quilt on the bed, a small dresser beneath the window, and a view of the hills rolling away behind the house.
“The bathroom’s here,” he adds, pointing to the door next to it. “And that one’s mine.” He nods to the door on the right.
“Is that Freya’s room?” I ask, pointing to the room on the other side of the landing.
“Aye,” Torin says. “She has her own bathroom. Thankfully.”
“Why thankfully?” I ask. “Does she take forever to get ready?”
“No,” Torin replies. “She’s just messy.”
“Well, it does take me a good while to get ready,” I tell him.
“You? No.” It’s the most sarcastic I’ve ever heard him. Which is saying something.
“Hey, it takes effort to look like this!” He snorts and disappears into his room.
I duck into mine and unpack quickly, setting my duffel on the small dresser and hanging a couple of things in the wardrobe.
I go to the window and look out over the glen, mist hanging low over the hills, and for a moment I just stand there, taking it in, my chest swelling with gratitude for the chance to be here.
Then I hear Torin’s door open. “You ready?” he asks.
We head down the creaky wooden staircase, the sound of Freya and Margaret’s chatter drifting up from the kitchen.
I grab the boxes I brought, and we head to the sitting room. Wrapping paper crinkles as we stack presents under the tree, then take myriad treats to the kitchen.
“You’re setting a high bar, Beau,” Freya says as I load bottles of Bollinger champagne into the fridge beside a jug of milk and several jars of homemade preserves. “It’ll be hard for any of Torin’s future colleagues to compare.”
Torin’s eyes flick between us again before sighing. “I’m going to check on Dad.”
“Should I come with?” I ask as I break down the champagne box.
Freya looks at my shoes. “Not in those boots you shouldn’t.”
Margaret looks at my feet and agrees. “I’m sure we have an extra pair of work boots around here somewhere, right, Torin?”
“I’ll find some that fit when I get back,” he calls from the mudroom at the back of the house.
“I don’t know,” Freya says. “His feet are pretty big, and you know what they say.”
“Freya!” Margaret says, swiping at her with her towel.
Freya dodges it with the ease of someone who’s had years of practice. “What?” she asks, innocently. “Big feet, big boots! Honestly, Mum, pack it in!”
With Torin gone, I ask how I can help but am shooed away by Margaret, who orders me to sit at the kitchen table while Freya makes a cup of tea.
So I sit, warming my hands on the mug while they ask about school and Texas and my family.
Either Torin has warned them not to ask about my reasons for staying in Scotland over the holidays, or they are too polite to pry.
Time passes easily, and the kitchen fills with the comforting sounds of dinner in progress—pots clinking, sauces simmering, the steady chop of a knife. Whatever Margaret is cooking smells incredible.
When I offer to help again, I’m shooed away once more.
I drift into the living room and crouch by the stone fireplace.
The flames have burned down to a soft glow, so I nudge a log into place and coax the embers to ignite.
I stand up, and a smile spreads wide at the five stockings lined up along the mantel, one with a white B stitched on the front.
The fire is crackling again when the back door opens and I hear boots thudding in the mudroom.