25. Chapter 25 #2
Fully succumbing to the moment, I allow my feelings to take me where they will.
The scene around us fades, the crackle of the fire, the low murmur of voices, bursts of laughter carried on air.
All of it distant. Muted. Because he’s everywhere.
The warmth of him. The vastness of him. And not just his physical size—immense as he is—but the sheer amount of space he takes up in my mind.
In my life. And, I have to admit, in my heart.
I lean back, let it happen, allow myself to enjoy this. Time slips, the fire shifts, sending sparks spiraling up into the dark. Then the cold creeps in. It starts at my legs, a slow bite of winter air beneath the kilt, sharp enough that I shiver.
Beau feels it instantly. “Let’s get you back inside.”
“No,” I say. “I’m alright. Let’s just sit so I can cover my legs.” I don’t want to move, not if it means losing this. I don’t want to break whatever spell this is.
A few guests have drifted back into the barn, others have begun to leave, opening up space around the fire. Beau releases me and drags two chairs closer to the flames. He wraps a blanket around me, tucking it in, then puts his own over my legs, layering warmth over warmth.
“You don’t need one?” I ask as he takes the seat next to me.
“Not as much as those sexy legs do,” he says with a grin, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. Then, softer, “I told you I’d keep you warm before, and I failed.” He shifts, angling himself slightly toward me, one knee brushing mine. “I won’t be doing that again.”
“Well, thanks, then,” I say, his words warming me more than any fire could.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. Then—
“So is ‘Auld Lang Syne’ your favorite Scottish song?” he asks, bringing us back to normal conversation. “It always hits me in the feels.”
“Aye, it does that.” I chuckle. “But no, it’s not my favorite.”
“Then what is?” he asks. “‘Flower of Scotland’? ‘Scotland the Brave’?”
“Neither, though those are great too,” I say. “Mine is ‘Loch Lomond’. We played it tonight. You probably heard everyone singing along.”
“I think I remember that,” he says. “It sounded familiar, but I don’t really know it.”
“You’ve definitely heard it before,” I say. “It’s quite popular. Often sung at the end of wedding receptions before sending the happy couple off on their merry way.”
“Ah, is that why it’s your favorite?” he asks. “Because it’s meant for happy occasions?”
“Aye, in a way,” I say with a smile.
“In a way?” he asks.
I look toward the fire, watching a log collapse in on itself, sparks lifting in the dark. “Aye,” I say. “You see, it wasn’t meant for happy occasions. It’s actually a really sad song.”
Beau’s face shifts from curious to intrigued, so I go on.
“The story goes that it was written after the 1745 Jacobite rebellion about two soldiers who survive and are taken to trial in England. One is sentenced to death, the other is set free. Before he’s executed, he tells his comrade, ‘Ye’ll tak’ the high road, and I’ll tak’ the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye, but me and me true love will never meet again on the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond. ’”
The fire cracks sharply, and for a moment neither of us speaks. “That does sound sad,” Beau says, looking pensive again. “But what are the high and low roads?”
“The high road is the one over land,” I say, “the road of the living. The low is the one the dead take back to Scotland when they perish in another country.”
“And the low road is faster?” Beau asks.
“Aye, and even though he’ll make it home first, he’ll never be reunited with his true love in the place they used to meet,” I say.
“On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond,” Beau finishes quietly.
“Aye,” I say, and we sit for a moment, lost in thought.
“So, if it’s such a sad song, why is it sung at happy events like ceilidhs and weddings?”
“Two reasons,” I tell him. “First, though sad, it’s about a great love story—” My voice catches on that terrifying word. Beau’s eyes lift to mine, and there it is again, that flicker of hope and fear. “And love is always worth celebrating.”
“And second,” I say, clearing my throat and shrugging, “because we’re Scottish.”
“You are,” he says, drawing the words out, brows knit in confusion.
“And that’s the Scottish way. To acknowledge the bad and carry on,” I say.
“So we took a ballad, sped it up, and we clap and sing along at the top of our voices.” The firelight flickers across his face as he watches me.
“Because despite all that’s happened, we’re still here, still a distinct and proud people, a culture with a rich history that’s worth maintaining, worth celebrating. ”
“I love that,” Beau says, his eyes shining. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
We fall quiet again. The kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling. Above us, the clouds shift, revealing a scatter of stars. Beau’s shoulder presses into mine. He doesn’t move away; neither do I.
At some point, Freya joins us, taking a seat by Beau and putting a blanket over her legs. She supervises her team, providing the occasional instruction as they pack up the rest of the chairs and blankets and carry them to the barn.
Once the crew leaves, she turns to us and clears her throat, a gleam in her eye that immediately has me on edge.
“So…” she says, drawing the word out. I close my eyes; here we go. “Did you lads have fun tonight?”
“We sure did,” Beau says, his hand coming out of his coat pocket to wrap around my shoulders. In front of my sister.
My mind spins into panic. What do these public displays of affection mean? What will Freya think?
But she doesn’t seem fazed.
“It certainly seems like you enjoyed the party,” she says, gaze flicking between us, “but it looks like you enjoyed each other even more.”
My eyes go wide. “Och, Freya! What the fuck?”
“Torin, my wee lamb, everyone was talking about it,” she says, her voice all false sweetness. “I’m just saying it to your handsome faces.”
“Shite,” I say while Beau laughs, his arm still around me.
“What’s the problem, Torin?” I can tell by her tone that Freya isn’t letting this go now that she has evidence of our attraction to one another. “You had the hottest date here, everyone loved him, and he ticks off so many items on The List.”
“Freya!” I say again, panic rising in my chest. “He doesn’t know about The List!”
She shrugs, and Beau looks back and forth between us. “What list?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, but Freya ignores me because she is determined to ruin my life. Or push me into a relationship with Beau. Whichever happens first.
“Its formal title is ‘The List of Non-Sexual Things That Are Actually Sexy AF’,” Freya says with far too much pride. “Torin and I started it years ago, and it’s grown over time.”
I groan. This is how I die. By humiliation, by outright embarrassment, at the hand of my sister.
“What have I checked off of this list, Torin?” Beau asks. I don’t look at him. I can’t look at him.
Freya lifts her gloved fingers and starts counting. “Let’s see. Just off the top of my head, I know you’re kind to animals, you read, you have dimples—”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Can they see me if I can’t see them?
“—you remember little things Torin tells you, you carry a handkerchief—”
“Oh my God.”
“—you put your hand behind Torin’s seat when you drive in reverse—”
I make a strangled noise.
“—you have crazy good manners—”
Beau’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter beside me.
“And,” she says, “the hottest one of all: you guide Torin around with your hand on the small of his back.”
There’s a pause.
I consider walking into the fire.
Beau’s not laughing silently now.
“That’s quite the list,” he says, entirely too pleased. “Turns out I was being sexy AF and didn’t even know it.”
“Oh please,” I say before I can stop myself, finally looking at him, “you always know you’re being sexy AF.”
“Thank you for noticing!” he says, jostling me with the arm still slung around my shoulders, giving me a wink, hamming it up for my sister.
“Well,” Freya says, pushing to her feet, “I’m pure done in, and my work here is complete. I’ll leave you lads to it.”
She tosses her blanket over Beau’s lap, gives us both a kiss on the cheek, and walks toward the house, like she hadn’t just sent a delicate situation careening over the side of a cliff.
Halfway, she turns back and calls to us. “Do you mind putting out the fire and storing your chairs in the barn when you’re done snogging?”
“Of course,” Beau says. “We’ll take care of it.”
“She’s actually the worst,” I mutter, watching her go.
Beau chuckles. “No,” he says, “I think she’s on to something.” He hooks a finger under my chin, turning my face toward him. My breath stutters. He’s looking at me like he could devour me. And, God, I’d let him.
“Aye?” I say, swallowing hard.
“Aye,” he says.
Then he’s kissing me. His hand comes up, sliding along my jaw, down my neck, thumb brushing just under my ear as he pulls me closer.
The kiss is slow at first, like he’s taking his time learning me again, then it deepens.
My fingers curl into the back of his coat as I lean into him, letting it happen, letting him lead.
It’s easy to lose myself in it, to forget where we are.
I pull back before things get too heated, and Beau’s eyes open slowly, lashes lifting, his thumb still moving lightly along my cheek.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of kissing you.” A chuckle slips out of me.
His expression flickers, something like hurt crossing his face, so I rush to fix it. “Sorry!” I say quickly. “It’s just, I’ve only heard you say ‘fuck’ twice, and both times have been while we were kissing.”
His eyes smolder, darker now, his lips curving into a smile again. “I don’t swear unless I really mean it, Torin.” And I’m glad I’m sitting because my knees go weak.