Page 63 of The Devil Wears Tartan

She shrugs as she unscrews the bottle’s cap. “I guess we’ll find out.”

The sharp and bitter tang of alcohol fills the air for a moment, and I see Moira’s hands shake a little as she aims the stream of whisky into the glasses.

“Are we really shooting these?” I ask when she’s done.

“Well, my dad would probably have a heart attack if he saw me doing anything but ‘properly savouring’ Macallan. I couldn’t find any whisky glasses though, so...”

I reach for my glass and tap the edge to hers where it’s still sitting on the table next to the boxy CD-player. The fact that they still use actual CD players is yet another adorable aspect of the Murray School.

It’s almost as cute as Moira.

However, there’s nothing cute about the heated look she gives me before she grabs her glass and tips her head back to down the whisky all in one go. I watch the smooth, pale skin of her throat bob. She licks her lips when she’s done, the burn of the fiery liquid failing to make her wince at all.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone make taking a shot look so damn hot.

“You gonna drink that?” she asks, nodding at my glass as she smirks.

What I really need is a huge glass of ice water, but I settle for Macallan instead. It’s smooth at first, the taste laced with a smoky sweetness that makes me think of crème brûlée, but I can’t stop myself from coughing when the burn hits.

Moira’s chuckle is smug. “You’ll get used to it.”

I roll my eyes in answer. She sets her shot glass down and starts flipping through a stack of CDs.

“I don’t think we want to listen to the Essential Highland Dance Pipe Series,” she says with a laugh, “but I could put this on?”

She holds up an album with a photo of a brunette woman on the front. I don’t recognize the name, but I nod anyway.

“I forgot to grab them, but there’s, uh, blankets in the closet up here. We usually use them as tablecloths for the music stations at Christmas. I was thinking we could sit in here and have sort of, like, a picnic?”

She gets all sweet and shy again, avoiding my eyes as she fiddles with the CD case. I’m hit with the urge to brush her hair aside and give her a kiss on the cheek.

“A picnic?” I say instead. “Don’t those usually include food?”

“Um, well yes...” She opens the case and pops the CD out. “Think of this as more of a...whisky picnic.”

I burst out laughing. “A whisky picnic. Nice.”

She laughs too, and I head for the hall closet while she gets the music going. I find a few red blankets with little snowmen and reindeer embroidered along the edges and bundle them in my arms. When I step back into the studio, I recognize the soft folk song filling the air as the same one from our interview video.

“I like this,” I say, nodding my chin towards the stereo.

“Julie Fowlis is one of my favourites,” Moira says, walking to meet me in the middle of the room. “I’m choreographing a piece for one of my classes to a song from this album. We’re going to use it for the Freeform Showcase in June.”

In June.

By June, the scholarship will have already been awarded. SDOO’s competition season will be over. Regular classes will be wrapping up at the Rebecca Stewart Academy, making way for summer training camps and intensives.

I’ll have no reason to see Moira for months on end.

Unless we give ourselves a reason.

The thought surfaces before I can push it down deep enough to ignore it. My mind starts racing with a hundred ‘what if’s’ and chasing them all with choking tendrils of doubt.

What if this is more than a bet?

What if it’s always been more?

What if it’s just a mistake?

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