25. Chapter 25
Torin
Lang May Yer Lum Reek
Translation: Long may your chimney smoke
Usage: To wish someone a long, happy, warm, and prosperous life, often at Hogmanay
I always enjoy playing the pipes, especially when I get to play with others, so I don’t notice at first. It isn’t until a few songs in that I spot Beau off to one side of the dance floor, standing by himself.
His gaze is steady, focused, in a way that makes my fingers stumble for half a beat before I recover.
It’s the same look he had earlier when he squeezed my leg under the table.
Part of me wants to look away. Another part likes it, and I straighten, letting the music fortify me as I lean into the tune.
When I’m playing, I feel my most authentic self.
And Beau is watching me and seems to like what he sees. He likes me. The real me.
I lose track of him as the night goes on but see him again later, dancing with my mother, my heart warming at the smile on her face as he spins her.
A few minutes before midnight, I finish my set with the band and step down from the stage to applause. Beau is already striding toward me. He presses a glass into my hand and pulls me into a hug.
“That was incredible, Torin,” he says in my ear, his lips brushing my cheek as he pulls back; I shiver.
I’m saved from having to find words for a reply when Freya takes over the microphone. “Alright, everyone! Two minutes to midnight!”
We set down our drinks on the nearest table, and Beau grabs my hand. His fingers close around mine as the countdown to the new year begins.
Ten…
Nine…
The entire barn joins in.
Eight…
Seven…
My heart beats with every number.
Six…
Five…
Beau’s thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow, deliberate—
—and I feel it everywhere.
Four…
Three…
This can’t just be tonight.
I want him—beside me on a cold night in Edinburgh, cuddled up on his couch with a movie, fire crackling, my head on his chest as he laughs, our legs tangled under a blanket—
Two…
One—
What if he stays?
What if I let him?
“Happy New Year!” The barn erupts in cheers.
But when I turn to Beau, he’s looking at me like I’m the only one in the room.
Then my mouth is on his, and he must not have been expecting it because he doesn’t kiss me back.
Then his lips respond as one of his strong hands comes around the small of my back.
It’s not a steamy make-out session, but it’s not chaste either, the world around us fading to a blur of laughter and clinking glasses while we stay there, mouths moving slowly together.
It’s a long time before we finally pull away from one another.
“What now?” Beau asks, blinking, a huge smile on his face, and it’s a loaded question. I don’t know if he’s referring to tonight or to us.
“We sing, ya numpty,” I say, deciding to stay in the moment, despite my heart hammering. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
I take his hand. Bodies shift, making space for us as we join a nearby circle.
Hands begin to link, palms warm and slightly damp from dancing, rings pressing against my skin as I take the hand of the woman on my other side.
The opening notes of “Auld Lang Syne” start, a fiddle carrying the melody before the rest of the band joins in.
I feel it rather than see it, the small turn of his body, the way his grip changes. I glance at him, see the flicker of uncertainty.
Does Beau know the words? Then the screens around the room switch from crackling fires to the song’s lyrics in both English and Scots. Relief flashes across his face. The band pauses, then everyone begins to sing.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my jo, for auld lang syne,
We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.
The song builds around us, voices rising, and my heart swells.
It always does for this ritual. There’s something about it, standing shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, knowing that all across the country, in homes and halls and pubs, voices are lifting to the same tune.
That somewhere, right now, strangers are singing these exact words.
That the melody has carried across generations, across oceans, held onto by people who needed something to bind them together.
It’s more than a song. It’s a joining. A remembering.
A promise, maybe. It’s a beautiful feeling. Every time.
But it feels different this year. More special. This year it’s not just tradition. It’s his hand in mine, his boisterous voice in my ears, that ridiculous smile on his face. I want this again. Next year. The year after that.
When we get to the last verse, hands drop around the circles, and Beau looks at me, confused. I cross my right hand over my left, and he copies me. I grab his left hand with my right, everyone else doing the same.
And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere! And gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak’ a right good-willie waught, for auld lang syne.
Then we all walk forward as we sing the final chorus, our group wadded up and laughing as we meet in a tangle of arms and wool and warmth.
For a moment, there’s no space, no distance, just voices, breath, and the pull of joined hands.
As the song ends, we step back in unison, the circle expanding, arms going over heads, hands still clasped, as we turn and face outward.
Applause ripples around us, the energy of the room still buzzing.
Beau disappears for a second and returns with our drinks.
We clink glasses and take a sip, the whisky burning warm down my throat, but I barely register it.
Because he’s looking at me, and our eyes are locked in silent communication, each of us giving the other permission to pursue whatever is happening between us.
A burst of cold air races through the room, and we turn to see Kieron at the barn’s side door, the dark of night behind him.
He opens a satchel of tartan cloth and pulls out a salt shaker he must’ve nicked from one of the tables.
He turns it over, scattering salt across the threshold, then tucks it back into the pouch and enters the building.
Everyone cheers as the door closes behind him. He raises a hand, and the room quiets. No need for a microphone as his voice booms over us.
“May you and your homes be full of warmth and good cheer. May you prosper and enjoy good health. May your cup of kindness overflow. And may you have a happy new year!”
“Happy New Year!” everyone yells again, followed by the clinking of glasses.
“And while I have your attention,” Kieron shouts, “I’d like to make a few more toasts. First, to the Ramsays for creating this space where we can all be together.”
“The Ramsays!” the crowd replies.
“And to Freya for planning this beautiful event.”
“Freya!”
“And finally, to all who have gathered here for kinship, tradition, and charity. To you. Friends, new and old. Lang may yer lum reek.”
“Friends!”
Music begins to play over the speakers, and conversations spark back to life around us. I feel Beau lean toward me. “And to you and those sexy legs,” he says somewhere between a whisper and a growl. My stomach flips, and heat rushes up my neck as he clinks his glass to mine again and takes a drink.
Two can play this game. I lean in, close enough that my mouth almost grazes his ear. “And to your jeans, for hugging your muscular ass so well.” I pull away, just enough to meet his gaze, raise my whisky in his direction, then drain it.
I don’t need any more alcohol, but when Beau grabs my hand in plain view of my family and pulls me to the bar, I’m so happy that I don’t object.
His fingers stay laced with mine as he orders, as we move, as he turns us again, and pulls me outside to the bonfire.
He only lets go long enough to shrug into his coat, don his hat, and help me into mine.
It’s frigid out, and my breath fogs as we move toward the roaring fire. A couple dozen others have braved the cold, huddled in chairs, cuddling under blankets. I head toward some empty seats, but Beau pulls me back.
“Come here,” he says, and I can tell from the intensity of his drawl that he’s tipsy. I’ve never seen him have as much as he has tonight. He’s a big fellow, but he’s not much of a drinker, and we’ve been at it for hours.
He grabs my glass and sets it with his on a table nearby, then he’s behind me. Arms wrapping around me, pulling me back against him. I cover his hands with mine, press them to my stomach as his head dips, coming over my shoulder as his breath ghosts along my neck.
“I’ve been dying to hold you all week,” he whispers, sending heat surging through me, despite the cold.
I go still. This doesn’t match the distance he’s kept since the other night, the careful space, the almosts.
My mind starts to reach for it, to make sense of it.
Does he mean what he’s saying, or is it the whisky talking?
His arms tighten around me, pulling me back to the heat of him. But his hands are freezing.
“We should’ve put on gloves.”
His body shakes against me as he chuckles in my ear. “Probably,” he says, pulling me closer still, “but I’ll do everything I can to keep you warm, Torin.”
God, my name in that deep drawl… something in me gives. Another barrier, gone.
He rocks us gently, a slow sway that matches the distant music, chest rising and falling against my back, occasionally brushing his lips across my neck.
Heat coils low, responding to the press of him, the strength of his arms around me.
I shift, grateful for the thick fall of my kilt and the sporran resting at my front, shielding more than just modesty.
His arms tighten, not by much, but enough that I feel it.
Feel him. Enough to know that he’ll be quite exposed if I move away.