Page 61 of The Devil Wears Tartan

“Why here?” I ask instead.

She doesn’t need to ask what I mean.

“It just seemed like we weren’t really in a bar mood anymore, but I know neither of our places are really an option, and...”

She trails off and leans against the wall, her hands pressed behind her back. She’s got her shoes off now, but I don’t move to do the same.

“And this is where I like to go when I feel weird,” she says into the stillness, “or bad, or uncertain. It’s just...it’s special, and it seemed right for tonight.”

I let the honesty of those words sink deep into my chest.

Tonight is special.

As I watch her pull her coat off and hang it on the rack lining one of the entryway walls, I realize tonight was never really about a bet at all. Neither were the past few weeks of texting, or the bikini photo that’s burned into my brain, or the care I put into making myself look good tonight.

Whatever is happening between us, it’s special and powerful and way too much to stop when she’s looking at me the way she is now.

Her gaze is soft and curious, hesitant even, but underneath, I see the embers. I feel them shifting and crackling inside me too.

“You want a tour?” she asks.

It takes me a couple seconds to figure out what she’s talking about.

“Oh. Yeah. That would be cool.”

That would be cool?

Now I’m the one hiding my face in embarrassment as I hang my coat up. I’m so busy fumbling around with the hanger I almost miss her low murmur of, “Oh. Wow.”

“What is it?” I turn and find her with her gaze pinned to my ass.

“That’s just, uh...That’s a nice skirt.”

I don’t splurge very often, but when I do, it’s usually on clothes. They’re my one indulgence. The black velvet mini skirt and cropped white long-sleeve top might only be Forever 21, but I got them brand new at full price with my first paycheque from the campus dining hall in freshman year, and they looked so good on me I didn’t even feel guilty.

I run my hands over the velvet and let myself smirk a little when I see her eyes following my every move.

I definitely don’t feel guilty about the clothes now.

“You mentioned a tour?” I ask when she keeps staring.

She jumps to attention like I’ve caught her red-handed in an attempted burglary.

“Right. Tour. Yes. This way.”

She clears her throat and gets her cool back as she starts leading me around. We make our way past the front desk and look into a storage closet and a small but bright studio before heading up the creaky stairs. I can feel the pride beaming off Moira as she talks about all the renovations her family did to make the school a reality.

We take a look at a second studio, and then a third. I see the change in Moira as soon as we step into the third room. Her eyes light up even more than they already have, and she crosses right to the centre of the smooth white floor, spreading her arms out wide and grinning at me.

I can tell this is her place.

“This one is my favourite,” she says. “It’s kind of weirdly shaped, but as you can see, it feels a bit more airy than the other rooms. Also, you can’t see how pretty it is at night, but I love that stained glass.”

She points to the windows looking out on the street, and I follow the line of her finger up to the ruby red stained glass semi-circles crowning each of the old-fashioned window panels.

“That’s gorgeous,” I agree. “It must look really pretty in the sun.”

She nods. “So yeah, now you’ve seen the Murray School of Highland Dance.”

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