Okay, granted,The Crooked Kiltis a nightmare. I’ve got more alcoholonme than in me, thanks to strangers crashing into us every five seconds. Every man here is either in a kilt or an oilskin. Apparently, the ones who survive until sunrise are “blessed by the fish gods,” whatever that means.
But Malcolm is nice.
We’ve talked about him growing up on Skye, the sport they play here called shinty that sounds like organized violence with sticks, and how Tinder is basically useless because you run out of matches in fifteen minutes. After that, it’s just cousins.
“This festival is wild.” I laugh, as he sets down another green drink in front of me.
My stomach clenches. Three fish-based cocktails might be my limit.
“Going to drink this one like a fisherman?” he teases. “No pressure. I got you a smaller one.”
He settles back down, his bare knee pressing against mine through the wool of his kilt. My tartan skirt has ridden up slightly.
“I’ll try,” I giggle, the room tilting just enough to be concerning.
His eyes drop to my chest. The red top seemed like such a good idea earlier—fitted, pretty, the kind of thing confident women wear. No bra because the fabric’s too delicate, and besides, I was feeling brave. My hair’s loose, probably frizzing in the pub heat. Lipstick miraculously still where it belongs instead of smeared across my face.
I look pretty, I think. Well, pretty-ish. Pretty-adjacent.
Granted, the whole effect is somewhat ruined by the fact I’m now damp with other people’s drinks, my top sticking to me in unfortunate places.
When Malcolm suggested abandoning the distillery for this mayhem, my first instinct was panic. But being away from McLaren territory feels safer somehow.
I attempt to down the green concoction and immediately choke.
He chuckles. “You’ll have to learn if you want to be a Herring girl.”
“AHerring girl?” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. So ladylike.
“Aye. Women who followed the fleets back in the day. Wives of the fishermen.”
“Are you proposing already?” I giggle. “Bit forward for a first date.”
“A bonnie lass like you? I’d be lucky to catch you.” He winks. Fisherman pun: deployed.
My stomach feels fuzzy and warm. Who knew cod-chat could double as foreplay?
He knocks back the green horror like it’s water. His throat works, no grimace, nothing.
“Oh my God.” I stare. “You’re seriously going to sea tomorrow? After this?”
“Aye.” He shrugs. “I’ll be grand.”
“Grand?What if the sea’s rough?”
“Happens all the time.” He gives another shrug, but I catch the flicker of pride he’s trying to smother. “Waves taller than the boat, spray so thick you can’t see your own arse. It’s just part of the job.”
He leans back, smug as a man who’s singlehandedly rescued the Titanic. He knows he’s just dropped pure fisherman porn.
“That’s terrifying.” I hide my smile behind my glass. “Alright, new question. Weirdest thing you’ve ever caught?”
“Found a shop mannequin once. Still wearing a dress. Thought we’d pulled up a body. Nearly shat ourselves before we realized she was plastic.”
“Oh my God!” I squeal. The alcohol in my veins decides this ishysterical,and I’m laughing way harder than the joke deserves.
My chest isn’t doing that dangerous, cardiac-arrest hammering it does around certain men I amnotthinking about, but it’s warm here. Like a drunk cuddle.
I try to ignore the irritating little voice in my head doing a side-by-side comparison with a certain CEO.
