Before I can drown that thought in cocktails, the fiddles screech to life. Bagpipes wail. The entire pub erupts.
Malcolm grabs my hand. “Come on!”
“No!” I squeak, my heels digging into the sticky floorboards. “Absolutely not. I can’t dance.”
Bodies are already stomping and spinning in what looks like Riverdance’s feral cousin after too much Buckfast.
“You can!” he yells, dragging me into the carnage.
I cannot. I try to mimic the stomps and hops. I’m as good at this as I was at surfing, which is to say: I’m currently endangering myself and everyone within a five-foot radius.
My dress strap slides down my shoulder. Hair whips across my face, sticking to my lipstick. I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe.
Mid-song, every single man on the floor flings up his kilt.
“What’s happening?” I gasp, clutching Malcolm’s arm.
“It’s tradition,” he says, grinning.
“Tradition?” I shriek. “Where in Scotland’s proud cultural history did mooning become tradition?”
He just grins and spins me back into the madness.
One particularly zealous man twirls toward me, locks eyes with me, and presents his backside. “Slap it!” he bellows.
My mouth falls open. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You have to.” Malcolm laughs. “It’s part of the dance. Otherwise, he won’t get the fish.”
“Thefish?”
What sort of mythical haddock only appears if I whack this stranger’s rear end?
But the man is wiggling expectantly, and Malcolm’s looking at me like this is my sacred Highland rite of passage.
So I do it. I pat—very gingerly—this stranger’s exposed bottom.
His skin is disturbingly moist.
“Good lass!” he roars in approval before spinning away to traumatize someone else.
Malcolm looksproud. Like I’ve just passed an ancient test of Scottish womanhood.
“I’ve had a brilliant time tonight,” he shouts over the bagpipes, face glowing with sweat. “You’re dead easy to talk to.”
“You too,” I beam. This is nice. Uncomplicated.
Maybe I’m closer to ticking off item number one than I thought. Malcolm is kissable. He’s got a perfectly serviceable penis, judging from the kilt incident earlier. Nothing terrifying. Just solid, proportionate, reliable equipment. The IKEA ofpenises. Comes flat-packed, does the job. It might not be a monster like Patrick’s, but frankly, I couldn’t handle a monster—especially not one with a man like Patrick attached.
Ideally, Malcolm isn’t overly invested in blowjobs, considering his overgrown pubic ecosystem. I want to be adventurous, yes, but not in the dental hygiene sense.
One thing I am sure of: we won’t be going past first basetonight. Kilts are misleading. Outlander on the outside—“throw me against the heather” vibes—but in reality, they’re forty pounds of tartan wool functioning as a groin sauna. When his kilt betrayed him earlier, I swear to God, his balls looked like they’d beenboiled. Just sitting there, quietly poaching in their tartan steam room.
“Would it be okay if I kissed you, Georgie?”
Oh God.He asked permission. Which is sweet, except now I’ve got performance anxiety.
Are my lips too dry? Should I lick them? No. Don’t lick them.
