Page 29 of Kilt Trip

“American movies beg to differ.” She hooked her fist like a line dancer. “Darn tootin’.”

Addie shook her head, but the smile didn’t fall from her face. “Night one—” she waved wide hands like a magician “—the Torchlight Procession. We take to the streets with ten thousand of our closest friends.”

Logan scoffed. These were strangers walking the world’s slowest footrace and freezing their arses off together. Using the same hashtag didn’t forge a kinship.

He could meet most people where they were at, and he didn’t look down on an overindulgent celebration, but these kinds of tourists, running around with Scottish flags draped across their shoulders like capes, in Edinburgh for the sole purpose of drinking blended whisky and checking under Scotsmen’s kilts, made his skin crawl.

A deal was a deal, but there was no possible way Addie would convince him a city-sponsored event was more magical than what he had in store for her.

Jack swished the end of his black scarf over one shoulder. “We Scots love Hogmanay so much, we celebrate New Year’s Eve Eve.” He overemphasized his accent, like he was stepping into the louder, more animated version of himself—the way he used to when he was guiding.

At the reminder of this severed connection between them, Logan’s heart buckled. He pushed down the bitterness that, even in jest, Jack would engage in this charade with Addie. That he could slip into that guiding persona for fun but not for real. Not to uphold their legacy, not to work alongside his brother.

It wasn’t enough that Jack left, he had to consort with the enemy, too.

Addie leaned on her unlit torch, completely untroubled. “Tomorrow night you have a couple of options before the fireworks. The Street Party—”

“Or the Ceilidh,” Jack said, pulling up the collar of his peacoat against the cold, “if you fancy a wee bit of traditional dancing. The Concert, too—”

Logan clenched his fists inside his pockets. Jack was tossing out ideas now? He’d thrown up some serious boundaries on his way out, wanting a clean break or some shite and wouldn’t entertain simple questions about payroll, let alone discuss real solutions. He’d thrown Logan in the deep end, acting like it was for his own good, and completely ignored the possibility that he—and their business alongside him—might simply drown.

“No one needs a guide to get sloshed in Princes Street Gardens,” Logan said. The price of drinks was pure extortion. The bands who headlined the show were wankers who appealed to the masses. And the queues for the toilet...

God, it sounded bloody awful.

He ignored the way Jack’s lips pressed together into a hard, disappointed line, as if he would ever tolerate these options. He knew Jack was trying to help, in this roundabout and completely perverse way, but the resentment simmering under the surface was hard to tamp down. Logan scrubbed his hat over his forehead where the wool had started to itch.

Above them, spectators lined the windows, beer bottles dangling negligently from their grips. He shuffled closer to Addie to protect her from a concussion. The last thing he needed was for her to file a claim against his liability insurance.

“Then we’ll kick off the New Year with the Loony Dook, dressing in costumes and throwing ourselves in the Firth of Forth. An unforgettable experience. Submerge yourself in Scottish culture...” Addie waggled her eyebrows. “See what I did there?”

“The Firth connects to the North Sea. Even in the peak of summer it’s nowhere close to warm.”

They made their way slowly past St. Giles’ Cathedral where floodlights cast the arches, windows, and spires in forlorn grays and blacks. Addie bumped against his arm as if fueled by his misery and coming back for another hit.

“If you don’t like this idea, I’m also considering ghost tours in the city center. Zombie makeup could lend some real authenticity.” The deadpan look she gave him was feigned, he was nearly positive.

He gripped the back of his neck like he could hold himself back from taking her bait, but his restraint was nonexistent around this woman. “Hogmanay is a time for the community to gather and share a dram before the winter sets in, not parade around in fancy dress.”

“Logan,” she pleaded, “seventy-five thousand tartan-drunk people attended this festival last year. You have a captive audience ready to spend money.” Before he could argue that he didn’t want splashy, she smacked him on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “Ooh. You can bring them to the fun drinking parts and to the plaid-sock-weaver and the Nessie-ladle-maker.”

Despite the egregious made-up companies, which he would not deign to react to, she wasn’t wrong. An interesting opportunity to support local businesses, certainly. And a new tour during the slow season wouldn’t sacrifice their current itineraries or hurt their vendors.

But Addie didn’t need to know that. She could wipe that self-satisfied smirk off her face.

“You know, it’s not that historic. The procession only started a couple hundred years ago,” Logan said.

Addie rolled her eyes. “It’s a reimagining of the old ways. Nothing stays the same forever.”

The barb hit him straight in the chest. Wasn’t that the truth.

“For fuck’s sake, you two.” Jack locked Logan in a choke hold, or his best attempt while wielding a fire stick.

“Really, it’s quite enough. I was promised a bit of messing about, not a workday,” Elyse said.

Logan took a step back. Up ahead, a definitive line separated the relative darkness from the buildings aglow in the pinks, purples, and oranges of bonfire light. Lined up on the other side of the barricades, mobile phones lit bystanders’ faces, recording the procession.

As they drew nearer to the lighting stations, shouts rang out in the night, and drumming from the marching band resonated in the air. The crowd rippled at the threshold, a full line of people turning round and touching their lit torches to the dry burlap of their neighbors behind them.

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