Page 102 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
“Wish me luck, Ewan.”
“You’re going to need it.”
I shovethe living room furniture against the walls to clear space.
I downloaded a playlist of traditional Scottish music and grabbed my portable speaker from my room.
Finn arrives exactly on time.
“We can still cancel,” he says from the doorway.
“Get in here and shut the door.”
He obeys reluctantly before stuffing his hands back into his pockets, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I don’t know how to dance,” he warns.
“That’s why we’re here.”
“No, I mean I genuinely don’t know how to dance. Last time I tried was at a distant cousin’s wedding, and I stepped on three different people.”
“Impressive.”
“It was a waltz,” he says darkly.
I can’t help laughing.
“Okay. We’re starting with the basics. A céilidh isn’t like ballroom dancing. It’s more... energetic. And there’s a caller—someone shouting instructions while everyone dances.”
“Fantastic. So I’ll humiliate myself publicly while being herded around like livestock.”
“Exactly. But first, you’re going to humiliate yourself privately. Come here.”
He approaches reluctantly.
“First dance: Strip the Willow. It’s mostly a line dance, but there’s a section where couples spin together. Put your hand here.”
I place his hand on my waist.
“And with the other hand, take mine.”
Our fingers lace together.
He’s stiff as a board.
“Relax, Finn. You look like you’re about to perform surgery.”
“That would be significantly less stressful.”
“Breathe. It’s just dancing.”
I start the music.
A lively Scottish jig fills the room.
“Okay. We start with side steps to the left. One-two-three, one-two-three. Follow me.”
We begin moving.
