Page 19 of Scotch & Dreams

"Please dinnae let me stop ye."

But the song ended, and she picked up her cardigan from the back of the settee, slipping it back on. “My parents had a record player when I was growing up. I haven't actually listened to a real record since I was probably twelve years old,” she said wistfully. “I'm sorry. I just found it irresistible.”

She was irresistible. He quelled the unbidden thought and smiled. “Now I ken ye must be Canadian. Ye've apologized twice in less than a minute.”

Her eyes twinkled, and she let out a throaty chuckle.

"Those old records dinnae get played near enough." He was far too aware of her as he strode past her to the record console that once belonged to his nan. He carefully picked up the single forty-five from the player, put it back in its yellowing paper sleeve, slid it alongside the other stack of forty-fives in the cabinet, and scanned the twelve-inch LPs until he found the one he wanted. Setting the record on the turntable, the needle landed, and there was a nostalgic crackle and pop before it found the groove, and “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” began to play.

“Ooh, I love The Beatles!" She crooned as she rhythmically began to sway her slender hips with her arms bending as she let the music move her.

Lachlan pulled his gaze away and absently flipped through the records. It surprised him that she had put on music and danced so freely in his home. He wasn't used to anyone being quite so at ease with him—or with themselves. The people in his life tended to be rather proper and overly polite if not careful around him. He wasn't sure what to make of the lass before him. As if sensing his thoughts, she leaned in close to him.

“I'm sorry. I should have asked if it was okay to snoop through your records.”

He stiffened slightly at her nearness. Practically hearing the smile playing her lips, her breath tickled his ear.

"And I just said sorry. Again. God, it really is a Canadian thing." She chuckled that throaty melodic sound, oblivious to its effect on him as she plopped herself onto his settee.

“I willnae hold it against ye,” he teased back, stepping to the fireplace to add some logs. The flames crackled and spat as they caught fire. It was mid-March, and the evenings could still get rather cool, especially in this room full of windows.

“God, that felt good.” She sighed contentedly.

“Aye, far cry from being held up in a hospital bed,” Lachlan said poking the logs in the grate and reminding himself why she was in his home in the first place.

“I think between my extra-long nap and that scrumptious dinner, my energy is making a comeback.”

“And the whisky,” he teased.

“And the whisky.” She raised her glass. “It feels a bit overkill, me being here,” she said quietly.

Lachlan was glad the lass didn’t seem to have any repercussions from her ordeal, but it seemed prudent to err on the side of caution. “Better to be safe than sorry. And it was the doctor’s orders,” he reminded her.

“I guess so,” she sounded reluctant. “Well, if I haven’t said it already, I’m grateful you agreed to take me in.”

“I’m happy to have you here,” he reassured her, and he meant it. He couldn’t remember the last time he enjoyed anyone’s company more.

Fire adequately roaring again, he stood up and almost went to sit beside her on the settee when he thought better of it and sat on the one safely across from her instead.

“I brought up one of my favourite whiskys from the cellar. Would ye like a wee dram?” he offered.

“Ooh yes, please, I’d love to try it. I can’t imagine it could be as good as this one.” She smiled slyly.

Avoiding looking too long into her playful bright eyes, he pulled the cork and poured some amber liquid into her empty glass and poured one for himself as well. “Slainte Mhath,” he said, clinking glasses with her.

“Cheers.” She grinned up at him before taking a sip.

And he couldn’t help but study her pretty face, knowing the flavours were drizzling over her tongue.

Her eyes widened delightedly as she looked up at him, swallowing, “Mm, oh. Oh, my,” she gushed.

“I thought ye might like it.” He smiled, feeling pleased.

“It’s stronger. It has more depth to it than the last one. I wouldn’t have thought that possible,” she said sipping it again. Her pretty golden brow furrowed in concentration.

“It’s so rich and rugged. It’s like I can taste dark chocolate and sea salt, but with a hint of sweet tangy cherry and vanilla and, like, tobacco.” She sipped again as if trying to figure out the puzzle in her mouth.

“Aye, yer right.” Lachlan felt equally surprised and impressed at just how accurate her description was. She was picking up on notes that professional whisky tasters missed.

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