Oh God.
I glance up and catch him watching me watching him. He grins.
I flush and grab my wine, draining what’s left.
Wait. Was drinking more wine a good idea or a bad one?
Either way, when I risk another look, his attention is mercifully elsewhere.
During the next reel, Struan throws in what can only be described as a cheeky jig, deliberately hamming it up. More wolf whistles. The whole pub’s laughing now, feet stamping, hands clapping. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple and his cheeks are flushed, but his grin is pure mischief.
Blair starts clapping and shoots me a smile. I join in, reluctant at first, but the mood is infectious. The music thrums through the floorboards, vibrates in my chest. Before I know it, I’m laughing along with everyone else, experiencing a kind of carefree abandon I haven’t felt in months.
Struan’s eyes find mine again—and he winks.
I stop clapping. Glare. Look away.
Blair notices but turns back to the music without comment.
God, he actually winked. Does he think he’s some kind of rock star?
I reach for my glass but it’s empty. So is Blair’s. I’m just standing to get us another round when the song ends and Struan speaks into the mic.
“Right, this next one’s a wee vocal piece. ‘Mo Nighean Donn’.”
I sink back down. He sings too? And in Gaelic?
The drinks can wait a few minutes.
The instruments fall silent. Struan closes his eyes and his voice fills the space—deep, melodic, threaded with something bittersweet. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. The whole room goes still, like we’re all afraid to breathe and break the spell. Even the clatter from the bar seems to hush.
At this point, I’m not even surprised. Of course he can sing. I just hate that it gives me goosebumps.
When he finishes, the silence is almost startling.
Then he cracks one eye open, grins, and his playful self slides back into place. “All right! Back to being lively. On your feet, grab a partner—there’s not much room, but on-the-spot dancing will do just fine.”
The crowd surges with laughter and movement as the fastest reel of the night bursts into life.
“Come on!” Blair tugs at my arm.
“I’m not sure . . .”
“I’m American! You have to show me what to do.”
I let her pull me to my feet, hesitant at first. But the music’s relentless, impossible to fight against, and Blair’s enthusiasm is contagious. We laugh our way through the rhythm, dancing in place with everyone else, my dress swishing around my knees like it’s been waiting for this moment.
When the music ends, the cheers are deafening. Blair and I high-five, both of us breathless and grinning.
Despite beingwaytoo full of himself, I’ll give Struan this—the man can put on a show.
I’m at the bar, waiting to order more drinks for Blair and me. The band have finished their set, and I’m fanning myself with a beer mat, hot from all the dancing.
A short way to my left, Struan is surrounded by a small crowd. They’re all laughing at something he’s said, hanging on his every word like he’s some kind of celebrity rather than just a bloke who can play a bit of guitar. An attractive blonde—maybe ten years older than him, and with perfect lipstick—actually twirls a strand of hair around her finger as she gazes at him.
Ugh. Obvious much?
I catch myself and frown. What does it matter if women flirt with Struan? It’s nothing to do with me. The man can charm whoever he wants with his guitar and his stupid man bun and his?—
