it sounds fun.” His smile was wide and warm and offered much-needed encouragement. “A nice combination of the old ways and new traditions and a draw for families and young people alike.”
Anna controlled her urge to fist pump. Instead, she exchanged goodbyes, shook his hand, squared her shoulders, and strode out with confidence, Iain at her side. Once they were back on the sidewalk, she couldn’t keep herself contained a moment longer and performed a little jig, ending on a jaunty heel-click.
“That went way better than I expected. The Burns Night idea was genius, by the way. I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’m not sure what it is exactly.”
“Basically, a giant party celebrating Robert Burns. Traditional Scottish food is paired with certain Burns songs. Everyone is expected to sing along.”
“I assume there’s whisky involved.”
“Without a doubt.” He snapped his fingers. “The whisky tasting.”
“What about it?”
“Dr. Jameson said something about opening the festival. I told him you and I would handle it.”
Anna stumbled over a root that had buckled the sidewalk. “You volunteered us to dance in front of everyone at the whisky tasting?”
His brows drew low. “No I didn’t.”
“The whisky tasting opens with the hosts performing the St. Bernard’s Waltz. Izzy’s parents started the tradition decades ago.”
“I assumed we’d make an announcement or cut a ribbon.”
“Do you know the St. Bernard’s Waltz?”
“Of course I don’t,” he said incredulously.
“It is a traditional Scottish dance, Iain. Not so far-fetched. I thought you Scots might have something similar to our cotillions.”
He sighed and looked heavenward. “What the devil are cotillions?”
“Young boys and girls meet for several weeks to learn etiquette and social graces. Things like holding a chair out for a lady or not to put your elbows on the table or which utensil to use when. And dancing. I happen to teach that part.”
He looked dumbfounded. “You’re telling me lads sign up willingly for this torture?”
The T-word had been bandied about by more than one boy over the years. “It depends on your definition of ‘willing.’”
“Mayhap, you should ask one of your former cotillion students to open the games with you.”
“No way. Even the thought is icky.”
“You’ll have to come up with some other plan, because I can’t dance.”
“Everyone can dance.” A qualifier slipped out. “Of course, not everyone can dance well.”
He groaned.
“And why do I have to come up with another plan? You’re the one who got yourself into this mess in the first place. I should leave you to find another partner.” She poked him in the chest.
He caught her hand and tangled their fingers. “Don’t abandon me, lass. If you can teach some lad with spots all over his face, surely you can whip me into shape.”
“You’re lucky I’m an excellent dance teacher.” Why was she breathless? It probably had something to do with the pollen count or her recent bout with strep throat. She resumed their walk, slower now as she contemplated what it would take to whip him into shape. “The only time I have available will be the evenings. Can you meet me at the studio at eight? We’ll see how things go and can meet every night until the tasting if necessary.”
“Every night?” The dread in his voice wasn’t encouraging.
“Yep. I have to represent the studio well. If I can’t teach one actual Scotsman a traditional Scottish dance, then why would Highland seek my tutelage for their sons and daughters?” Of course, she was being a tad overdramatic. It wasn’t like the parents of Highland had much choice, but now the idea had been planted, the sick part of her that loved torment wanted to spend every night in Iain’s company. In his arms.
“Next time I’ll ask to read the fine print before I agree to anything.”
“You’ll survive. I can’t guarantee you’ll survive with your dignity intact, though.” While she was feeling confident, she should tackle another dreaded task. She’d ride out and talk to Gabby and her dad.
She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.
“What is it now?”
“Nothing. Everything is fine.”
“I’m beginning to think we have very different definitions of the word ‘fine.’ You look like you are being forced down the plank at sword point.”
“No. That would be more like this.” She grimaced and acted like she was biting all ten fingernails at the same time. “Or this.” She opened her mouth in a soundless scream and put the back of her hand on her forehead in an old-fashioned parody of a swoon.
Iain did not look amused. He crossed his