Page 26 of The Breakup Bookshop

Rory nods at Finlay. Without any further discussion, they stalk to the bar.

‘I hope they’re not about to spend a fortune trying to prove me wrong,’ I whisper. ‘Why are they being all weird and neanderthal-y about whisky? They’re practically thumping their chests.’

‘Oh, Ava, they’re on a mission now,’ Eilidh laughs, bending down to stroke Piper.

‘They’re about to go full master blender on you, talking about nosing your whisky and thehints of oakandhow you can taste the barrel.’ Donna rolls her eyes.

‘Do you think I should go and get an ice bucket and start popping little ice cubes in just as we start?’

‘Next you’ll be saying whisky is spelt with an “e”,’ Eilidh says with a grin. She looks around the table at Donna and me. ‘Before I get blootered on whisky and can’t form a sentence, I want to say thank you for dragging me out of the house.’

‘Blootered! That’s another good word. My granny used to say “steamin”. That’s next on my TikTok: all the different Scottish words for “drunk”.’

‘I don’t think TikTok would let you make a video long enough,’ Donna laughs.

‘Right, well, I need you two to help me with my Scottish vocabulary and stop me from making cultural faux pas. We can get blootered along the way.’

‘This is exactly what I needed tonight. Some pals and no pressure,’ Eilidh says. ‘And I’m so glad you came, Donna. It’s funny that we’ve grown up in the same place, but it takes Ava for us to get together, isn’t it?’

Donna nods. ‘Definitely. I’m so glad to see you here, too, Eilidh. It’s been ages!’

‘I think small communities can be like companies,’ I muse, my gin and tonic reaching my head. ‘After a while, you stop communicating outside your own circle. We used to accuse people of “working in silos”. Maybe villages have that too.’

‘Yes!’ Eilidh exclaims. ‘Then as time passes, it’s past the point where you can socialize. It shouldn’t be like that.’

‘You pair of corporate shills,’ Donna says, as she raises her glass in the air. ‘Cheers to turning that on its head. We’ll break down the silo, one dram at a time.’

9

Finlay swirls the last drop of amber liquid in his glass and downs it, before sitting back in his seat. ‘I’d best stop now, or the dogs will be walking me tomorrow.’

The whisky is flowing, the chat is good and a traditional Scottish band is playing at the opposite end of the bar. I bounce my foot to the tunes, grateful that I can barely hear Rory at the other end of the table over the noise. We’ve all been nursing our drinks for a couple of hours now, and there’s a pleasant, warm feeling throughout the pub.

‘This band plays at the local ceilidhs,’ Eilidh says. ‘You should come sometime, Ava.’

‘Wait, did the elusive Eilidh Stewart just ask me on adate?’ I joke. ‘Yes please, I’d love to come! I’ve never been to a ceilidh before, though, I don’t know any of the moves.’

The ceilidh band’s catchy melody pauses before the accordion rings out a final flourish. After a couple of seconds, a new energetic rhythm starts up. Finlay taps his foot while Eilidh nods along.

‘Stand up. I’ll teach you,’ Rory says suddenly, his green eyes boring into mine.

‘What, now?’ I ask, glancing around for someone to laugh and say he is joking.

Eilidh, Donna and Finlay don’t seem too concerned. They don’t know Rory the nightmare neighbour that I do. They’re used to Rory the nice guy. All they see is a well-meaning Scotsman offering to teach me a dance.

But I know better. Rory doesn’tlikeme. He’s made that perfectly clear. I’m always tripping him up with ladders, putting my foot in it and pissing him off with pretty much everything that comes out of my mouth – when I don’t mean to and when I do. And yet, this dance offer doesn’t seem to be a question. Perhaps my lack of ceilidh dancing and whisky knowledge, despite my Scottish roots, is pushing him over the edge. But his broad shoulders, in his deep-green T-shirt, rather than his usual black Toolbox work top, seem relaxed. He is with his friends, out of work mode and drinking whisky. There is a look in his eyes that I can’t quite put my finger on. Amusement, maybe. Or perhaps this is his attempt to be friendly at last. I’m not sure.

‘Yes, now,’ he nods, his gaze intensifying by the second. ‘No time like the present.’

‘We’ll butt heads,’ I remind him subtly of our previous conversation.

We can’t be trusted in close proximity. He and the fading dent in his forehead know that all too well.

But the warning doesn’t stop him. He reaches down and pulls me to my feet in one swift movement. My mouth falls open as he whips his arm around my shoulder and takes my hand in his.

I am a head smaller than him and fit snugly under his arm. I can smell the sweet musk of his aftershave, or perhaps it’s the whisky. All I can think of is how weird it feels to be so close to someone, to feel another person’s body against mine. I haven’t shared a close space like this with a guy, not since Seb. The thought makes me dizzy.

‘The Gay Gordons,’ he says, before propelling us forward, then, with a slight turn, flipping us in the opposite direction. In perfect step with the music, we dance.