Chapter 34 Sam
SAM
Today has been the best I’ve felt in a week. It’s amazing what a solid night’s sleep can do for a person. Well, that, plus taking my meds at a reasonable time.
Rosie is telling me all about Maggi’s first time riding a bike; her hands waving this way and that as she describes the way she wobbled before her left lands back on my hand that I’ve got resting on her thigh.
I’ve never thought about how right something so simple can feel, but as the warmth of her seeps through the silky fabric of her dress I can’t seem to stop focusing on how natural it feels to have my hand on her.
And it’s not just that because when her fingers thread through mine, it feels just as natural to have her touching me.
I’ve only felt this screwed one other time in my life, and it was when Kevin O’Doyd caught me high with a tackle six years ago.
I have a feeling this fall is going to hurt more, and as far as I’m aware, short of a lobotomy, there’s no surgery that’ll fix what breaks.
Braw Dug, or Good Dog in the King’s English, is not what it sounds like. While the name implies that it’s your standard pub, the menu and prices reflect the shiny Michelin Star that sits framed at the entry.
“I’ve never eaten at a Michelin-starred restaurant,” Rosie murmurs as we pass through the restaurant, following the hostess who is dressed in all black. The rest of the staff is dressed the same, and it’s a stark contrast to the views through the wall of windows we’re seated next to.
“Do you think they’re all in black so they don’t distract from the view?” I ask after the hostess informs us our server, Donnell, will be over momentarily and briskly departs back to the entrance.
She smiles, taking in the scene next to us. “They could be dressed as court jesters, and I doubt they’d distract from this view.”
She’s right, of course. While the cottage is nestled in a valley and surrounded by craggy hills, the restaurant sits back from a wide loch—it’s calm if not a bit eerie.
Donnell arrives and offers us a choice of still or sparkling water before asking if we have any dietary restrictions—we don’t—and then begins giving us the rundown of how our meal will go.
Nine courses will be served, every one exclusively made up of ingredients sourced from Scotland. Something that seems to excite Rosie.
“What do you think the first course will be?” she asks, leaning back and taking a sip of her water as her foot taps mine beneath the table.
“Fish maybe?” I suggest with a shrug. I can cook just fine, but I have no idea how chefs do what they do for menus like this. Coming up with a three-course menu seems hellish enough. “What do you think?”
“Probably some fancy spin on haggis.”
In the end it is indeed a fancy spin on haggis. “Here we have the haggis truffles. A combination of haggis, potatoes, and turnips rolled in a walnut dust and served with a whisky caramel. Please enjoy.” Donnell offers a slight bow before leaving us with our not-chocolate truffles.
“I’m glad he said what they were because I would have definitely thought these were regular truffles, and I’m not sure I would have been the most subtle about the surprise,” Rosie says as she picks up one of the truffles to examine it before dipping it into the thick dark brown caramel.
She waits until I’ve done the same before popping the little ball into her mouth.
I nearly laugh because her expression is exactly the same as the first time I watched her eat the pickle and cheddar cracker.
Her eyes close as she chews slowly, a soft smile playing at her lips. I guess that means she’s enjoying it.
It is definitely good, dare I say better than a pickle and cheddar anything.
Her blue eyes dance as she watches me finish chewing. “So?”
“Probably the best haggis anything I’ve ever had,” I admit. “I don’t need to ask what you thought. Your feelings were all over your face.”
“Really?” she asks, making me realize she has no idea what she looks like when she’s enjoying food.
“Oh yeah, you got that dreamy look on your face. The same one that you have when you eat Branston Pickle and cheddar things.”
Her right eyebrow shoots up, and it’s sexy as hell. “Just when I eat pickle and cheddar?”
Donnell chooses that exact moment to pop back over, removing the plate and letting us know his favourite dish of all time is up next.
Rosie tells him she can’t wait, but I’m too busy looking at her to pay attention to what Donnell is doing.
Man could be juggling cats and I’d be totally uninterested in his presence.
“It’s a more restrained version of what you look like right before you come,” I continue when he leaves. “The main difference is that your mouth is shut when it’s full of food, and you don’t moan in a way that makes me harder than this fucking table.”
Her mouth falls open in shock, either that or else she’s doing a marvellous impression of what I’d just described before she collects herself, pushing her shoulders back and sitting straighter. Suddenly prim, and it makes me want to do whatever I can to unravel her.
“Well, I guess we’ll see what the rest of the meal has in store. Will it make me happy like a weird flavour combination?” She smooths her napkin across her lap. “Or, will it make me moan like your cock?”
There’s nothing in my mouth, and yet I manage to choke. She may look like she’s putting on an etiquette demonstration, but I’m pretty sure those words have never been uttered during one of those.
An arm passes in front of me, and I’m forced to look away from her as Donnell sets down the next course. “Here we have a quail and boar Scotch egg with a rosemary mustard glaze.”
“I didn’t know there were boars in Scotland,” Rosie says, picking up the little fried ball and examining it.
“I didn’t either,” I concede. “I always assumed that there were deer and a handful of bird types. I’ve never seen anything else.”
“Pheasant must be on the menu somewhere tonight,” she says, popping the entire ball into her mouth. This time I can tell she enjoys it, but she opens one eye and moans, watching for my reaction.
“Not here, beautiful,” I warn, slipping the second piece of food into my mouth. “Shit, that was really good,” I admit after I’ve chewed and swallowed the egg. “This is one of the reasons I try not to go to too many places like this; all I want now is another one of those.”
Rosie nods. “That’s probably one of the reasons I’ve resisted this kind of menu. I’m greedy and don’t want to stop at one.”
It’s at that moment I realize that what we’re doing is a bit like a chef's tasting menu. We’re getting little tastes of one another without any hope of a full plate—or in our case, a future.
If things were different, I’d ask her out on a proper date.
Show up with flowers for her and Maggi and then take her out for dinner and maybe a show, assuming she enjoys theatre.
If things were different, I wouldn’t be trying to fit an entire lifetime of experiences with her into a week—I’d be savouring every morsel of time with her.
“I wonder if all the courses will be fried,” she says.
“Would that be a negative thing?”
She levels me with a look that screams, “As if”. “It would mean no smo—”
“Your next course is a smoked salmon…” Donnell’s voice fades as I watch the panic on Rosie’s face.
Is she allergic to salmon? No, he asked about allergies, and we both confirmed we didn’t have any.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper after Donnell walks away.
Her eyes fall to the table where the beautifully plated smoked salmon with… well, who knows, I missed everything he said because Rosie’s face drowned out the world. It looks nice, though.
“Smoked salmon is my Branston Pickle.” She grimaces, reaching for her fork and prodding the thin sheet of square, pink fish.
“Are you going to hold your nose and give it a go?” I tease, my concern easing now that I know what’s going on.
She stares back, wide eyed. “Maybe I’ll like it,” she says as if giving herself a pep talk before cutting a small piece, dipping it into the green glob of something, and bringing it to her mouth.
It’s nothing like my dramatics with the cracker, pickle, and cheese.
Any onlookers wouldn’t know she’s forcing herself to try something.
That is until she’s chewed for a few seconds and those eyes grow wider.
Her mouth doesn’t tip up in delight though.
No, it’s quite clear that this is not going to end the same way as my foray with a disliked food.
She swallows before reaching for her glass and washing down the fish.
“I’m guessing you’re not going to want seconds?” I snort as she takes another sip of water, shaking her head. “Does that mean I get to finish yours too?”
“Please,” she pleads, looking to her left as if she expects Donnell to be standing there glaring back disapprovingly. He’s not, of course. He’s flitting about the dining room, clearing plates and explaining courses.
The courses do not include any more fried food, and by dessert I’m wondering what we have at the cottage for a second dinner. There is definitely no chance of a food coma after this multi-course meal.
Rosie is fidgety and quiet as we drive back, and I’m a bit worried that maybe something from dinner isn’t sitting right with her.
It’s still light, despite the cloud cover, and as I pull up to the cottage, I’m about to suggest a walk, you know, to work off all the food we ate.
But before I’ve even got the car in park, she’s opening her door and sprinting away.
Not toward the cottage, however; no, she’s off across the hill, disappearing from sight within seconds, and I’m left sitting there wondering what the hell just happened.