21. Chapter 21
Torin
Inverness
Translation: The mouth of the River Ness
Usage: To refer to the capital of the Highlands, a historic city with the most wonderful secondhand bookshop, and the place where the North Sea and the River Ness meet
I feel lighter after opening up to Beau. Even with my other colleagues who appreciate the past, I wouldn’t have allowed myself to show this much emotion. Now I’ve sobbed on this lovely man’s shoulder and ruined one of his handkerchiefs. But I knew it would be okay to have that moment with him.
He’s always so patient and kind, something I’m not sure I deserve, but it’s nice to have his strong arm around me as my emotions settle. I’m reluctant to break the silence, but when Beau’s stomach rumbles, I finally let him go.
I huff out a laugh and step back, letting my arm slip from around him. “I guess I haven’t kept you as well-fed as I’d intended,” I say. “Let’s find a pub. We need to get some food in you.”
“Nah, it’s alright. I’ve got snacks in the car to tide me over,” he says. The air has turned sharper now, the cold biting through my coat as we walk back to where we parked. Once we’re in, Beau digs around in the center console before holding up a protein bar. “Want one?”
“Sure.”
He tosses me one. The wrappers crackle as we tear them open, and Beau lifts his toward me like a glass.
“Slàinte mhath.”
“Slàinte,” I say, tapping my bar to his.
He finishes in two bites.
“Should we head back to your parents’ house?” he asks, but something in his voice tells me he’s not ready for the day to end. I don’t want it to, either.
“Well, we’re already out, and Inverness isn’t much farther than home. Should we go out for dinner and see a bit of the city?”
He smiles. “Sounds like a plan.”
We head north as the last of the light fades from the sky.
Conversation drifts easily between us, nothing heavy, just the music on the radio, the strange number of sheep that seem determined to stop traffic on the backroads around the farm, Freya’s ongoing antics at mealtimes.
A few days ago, the thought of a long drive alone with Beau would have made me anxious.
I would have worried about the silences, about running out of things to say.
Now the quiet feels… easy. I’m comfortable in his presence, something I can’t say about many people.
The lights of Inverness appear ahead of us, glowing against the dark hills.
We leave his car on the edge of town and walk toward the center where the streets are packed with holiday crowds.
He keeps his hand on my back, guiding me through the pressing throng.
We inquire at a few restaurants, only to be told they won’t be able to seat us before their kitchens close.
By the third refusal Beau shifts beside me with a quiet sigh.
“Hold on,” he says. “Look.” I follow his gaze across the street to a small restaurant painted bright yellow and green.
“I haven’t had Mexican food since I crossed the pond.” His voice is laced with excitement. “Can we try it?”
And his grin is so wide, I can’t refuse him.
Inside, the restaurant is warm and noisy, the air thick with the smell of grilled meat, lime, and spices.
We’re shown to a table meant for four. I slide into one side of the booth first, expecting Beau to take the seat across from me, but instead he drops down beside me and nudges my thigh with his.
“Scoot over,” he says, and our knees bump as I make room.
We’ve touched so much today, but the excitement I feel at contact with him hasn’t lessened.
“Oh man, enchiladas,” Beau murmurs, as he browses the menu, running his finger down the page.
“And they’ve got carnitas tacos. I haven’t had those since my going-away dinner with The Pigeons.
” He bounces next to me as he finds more of his favorites, then turns to me. “What about you? What are you getting?”
“I haven’t had much Mexican food before,” I admit. “You tell me.”
He nods thoughtfully, clearly taking this responsibility seriously, scanning the options again.
When I casually mention I’ve never had tequila, the entire process comes to a halt. Beau freezes mid-page, his mouth dropping open slightly as he slowly turns to stare at me like I’ve just confessed to never noticing the sky is blue.
“What? I grew up drinking whisky!”
“Not once?” he asks, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Not ever?”
I shake my head.
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing right now.” He looks down at the table, his eyes batting back and forth, like he’s questioning life, the universe, and everything. He finally looks up. “Okay, we’re going to fix this. It’s my turn to give you a new cultural experience.”
“It’s alright,” I tell him. “We shouldn’t have alcohol anyway. Scottish laws are strict when it comes to drinking and driving.”
“I’m the only one driving,” he counters easily, “so I’ll just have a sip to make sure the drink is good, and you can partake as much as you like.”
Our server comes to the table, and before I can dissuade him, Beau begins ordering enough food for a large family.
He also asks for a shot of top-shelf tequila and provides very specific instructions for how he wants them to make a margarita.
It sounds excessive, but I love it when he’s excited like this, so I let him carry on.
All too soon, the server returns balancing a tray. She sets a glass of tequila in front of me and asks Beau to check if the margarita is up to standard. I take a tentative sniff of the amber liquid, no more trusting of this than I’d been of Maeve’s Irish whiskey.
Beau takes a sip, then closes his eyes and lets out a low, satisfied moan. “Mmmmm. Perfect.” The server blushes bright red before hurrying away.
Then Beau watches me expectantly. “Time for you to experience the delight that is distilled agave. Try that first. Then go for the margarita.”
I sigh as I hold up the glass of tequila. “Slàinte mhath,” I say, before downing it in one gulp.
The burn hits immediately, sharp and fierce, racing down my throat like liquid fire. Beau’s eyes go wide, and I realize—too late—that I’ve done something wrong.
I sputter and reach for my water as Beau bursts into laughter. He slaps me on the back, saying, “That’s top-shelf tequila, aged five years. It’s meant to be sipped!”
“Noted,” I cough, my voice hoarse.
“Did you even taste it?” he asks, laughing.
“I still can, actually,” I say, catching my breath. “The flavor lingers.”
“And?” he asks, clearly invested in my review.
“And I think if I had just sipped it, I might’ve enjoyed it,” I say, wincing. He smiles, and I love that I’m the one who caused it.
I try the margarita next, which I’ve been warned not to chug. It’s tart and bright with the lime, balanced by the alcohol, the salt on the rim sharp against my tongue. “Oh, that’s good.” Beau’s smile widens, and my heart beats faster.
We make steady work of the mountain of food Beau ordered, passing plates back and forth.
Our knees bump under the table whenever one of us shifts, and neither of us makes much effort to move away.
Beau watches me with open curiosity as I try each dish, his face lighting up like he’s waiting for a verdict from a particularly demanding critic.
“Well?” he asks after I take a bite of the enchiladas.
I chew thoughtfully, pretending to consider. “Acceptable.”
He groans and drops his head back. “Acceptable? I’ve been talking up Mexican food for twenty minutes and that’s the best you’ve got?”
“I’m a hard man to impress,” I say, taking another bite.
“I’ve noticed,” he mutters.
Then he clicks his fingers. “Hold on,” he says before tearing off a slice of quesadilla, dipping it in the creamy queso, and pushing it my way. “Open up.”
I don’t hesitate to part my lips and let him slide the cheesy mess into my mouth.
I groan against my will as I experience the delight of toasted tortilla mixed with dairy and roasted vegetables.
It’s almost as divine as the look on Beau’s face now that he’s found the right combination to make me happy.
By the time we’re finished, the plates are empty and span the entire table. Beau gathers them, meticulously placing the silverware so they’re not leaning over the edges, and slides them neatly aside before waving down our server for the bill.
He insists on paying again, then we slide out of the booth and linger for a moment, neither of us rushing to leave. Beau stretches his arms over his head and glances toward the window.
“Well,” he says, settling his coat back on his shoulders, “I’m officially full. What’s next on the Inverness tour, Professor?”
I can’t contain my blush as he helps me into my own coat. “You really shouldn’t call me that. I haven’t earned it yet.”
“Yes, Professor,” he says with mock contrition as I turn back toward him. “But really. What’s next?”
“Come on,” I say as I nudge him toward the door. “I’ll show you.”
The streets are quieter than before as we amble along on a chilly winter’s night, occasionally bumping against each other.
I point out places that hold memories of days spent with family or of wild times with Freya. When we get to the main bridge in town, Beau pauses and leans on the railing, looking west toward the dark shape rising above the city. “What’s over yonder?”
“Inverness Castle is over yonder,” I say, smirking. “Do you want to see it? It’s closed for renovations, but there’s still a nice view from the path.”
“I’d love to.”
As the castle comes into view from below, Beau looks up at it with that boy-like wonder I love so much.
“What?” he asks when he catches me smirking.
“It’s just cute to see you all fascinated.” So damn cute.
“We don’t really have castles in the US,” he says. “And you’ve got one smack dab in the middle of town. It’s so cool!”
“Aye, it’s cool.”
“Want to give me a quick lecture about it, Professor?” he asks.