Page 14 of The Devil Wears Tartan

“Moira, sweetie! What a surprise! I am so happy to see you.”

The instant turnaround in Candice’s attitude just turns my own mood even darker. My jaw is clamped tight, and my skin feels too small for my body.

All Moira has to do is walk into a room and everyone melts for her. She’s always had that effect on everyone from competition judges to five-year-olds in need of a hug.

That’s never been me. I know I turn heads, and I know I’m a good coach, but I don’t make people soften the way she does. I don’t make them cling to me and clamour for my attention like they’re grasping at the sun itself.

I don’t make them stick around.

“Sorry I’m late, Candice. I didn’t realize they’d changed the old bus route that comes here.”

Moira shuffles into my peripheral vision, and I see her turn to scan the boards above the counter.

“Oh boy,” she says, like some sort of adorable—and annoying—cartoon. “That’s a lot of options. I should probably skip the drink and avoid delaying us even further. Sorry again, everyone.”

Candice waves off her apology. “Don’t be silly. Get yourself something good. They do a great mocha here.”

After some urging from everyone else, Moira chuckles her way into agreeing and heads for the counter. I do a quick assessment of the table and realize that unless she dramatically moves her chair to sit at the end, the only remaining spot for Moira is right beside me.

My already stiff spine somehow turns into even more of a steel rod in my back.

The part of me that curled up in disappointment when she didn’t show has now lifted its head and started pawing its hooves like a jacked-up race horse at the gate.

It’s the part of me that always gets out of control when she’s around.

Rein it in. Don’t let her get to you.

That order goes unheeded about ninety seconds later when she shows up at my side with a mug in her hands and utters a fake breezy, “Hi, Kenzie. I see you’re still interested in the scholarship.”

I consider excusing myself to go dump my glass of icy water over my own head. I could really use some way to neutralize the heat gathering under my skin.

She might make everyone else melt, but she makes me burn like a forest fire—unfettered and undiscerning, ready to ignite anything that gets in its way.

“Obviously,” I say through a clenched jaw.

I see the rest of the table shift in discomfort at the force of my tone, and I make myself let out the closest thing to a friendly laugh I can manage.

“So we’re back to being competitors, huh?” I ask, going for playfully menacing instead of outright fuming this time.

It puts Candice and co at ease enough to titter with laughter while Moira takes her seat.

I can smell the milky sweetness of her drink from here. The scent is tinged with something fruity, and as Candice starts talking again, I realize I’m smelling the trace of shampoo in Moira’s slightly damp hair. She must have had a shower before this.

From the corner of my eye, I see she’s pinned back the pieces of long, sun-streaked chestnut hair framing her face. The rest is hanging loose over the shoulders of her green army jacket. Her hair is thicker than mine, the strands drying with a slight wave to them.

I realize this might be the first time I’ve seen her somewhere other than a competition or performance. It’s definitely one of the few times I’ve seen her in something other than warm-up clothes or a dance costume.

She’s pretty.

The thought surface in my head as I steal another glance at the way her hair curls around her ears, and I don’t know what causes me to jolt a little in my seat: the shock of thinking it, or the shock of realizing how true it is.

“I have some copies of the official requirements here,” Candice says, pulling me back to the matter at hand as she leafs through the folder she’s opened on the table. “There we go. You can each take one.”

She passes around the copies of the two-page document, and I take my focus off Moira to scan the headings and bullet point lists. Most of the sections repeat what we’ve already been told about the scholarship, but the second page is filled with a list of the material we need to submit to be eligible.

The dance competition section looks easy. We only need to participate at the SDOO ones, meaning I won’t have to leave the city. I take a deep breath of relief when I read that. There’s no way I could have afforded competitions in Toronto or Montreal.

The next section is a list of suggested events for volunteering within the highland community. There’s no minimum requirement, but we’re recommended to do as many as possible. The suggestions include the association’s Tartan Tea fundraisers, some local Scottish cultural events, and showcases for the city’s highland dance schools.

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