She yawned again. “Don’t drink too much because I’m sure as hell not driving.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
They were a bit ahead of the supper crowd, so Quinn found parking on the street. They walked through a light drizzle into the pub, Quinn holding the door for her. Och, it made him feel special to walk in with Elizabeth at his side. Every straight man here would envy him.
She’s no’ your woman, and you’re no’ on a date.
Aye, but no one else knew that.
He glanced about for familiar faces but saw no one he knew, the mingled scents of whisky and food making his stomach growl. A young woman led them to a quiet table in the back corner and left them with menus. They both ordered the fish and chips, while Elizabeth asked for a Coke and Quinn ordered a pint and a shot of Bell’s.
“Cheers.” He raised his shot glass.
“Cheers.” She took a sip of her Coke. “Have you ever heard of the Young Boys?”
“Aye, the Young Boys. That’s the gang Jack ran wi’ in his younger days. I dinnae think they’re still a force. Twenty years ago, those boys were full of piss and whisky, running about the town, lookin’ to pick fights wi’ other boys.”
“Were you ever part of a gang?”
“Aye. There wisnae much else to do besides drink, fight, and fuck.” Most of the time, Quinn tried not to think about those days. “We were the South Bank Boys.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved in a teasing smile that made his pulse spike. “Were the South Bank Boys full of piss and whisky and running around picking fights?”
“We had to defend our territory. Mostly that meant getting drunk on stolen booze and talkin’ about whose arse we were goin’ to thrash.”
“All bark and no bite.”
“We did get into a few fights but nothin’ serious.” Then it hit him. “Are you thinkin’ there’s a connection between Jack’s murder and the Young Boys?”
“I really can’t say. I was just trying to be thorough.” She glanced down, frowned. “I left my notebook in the car. Can I have the keys? I’ll run and get it.”
“Leave it. Enjoy your supper. Life shouldnae always be work.”
She smiled, her sweet face lighting up. “That’s right. I’m on vacation.”
Quinn steered the conversation away from his childhood, asking Elizabeth what she’d like to see in Glasgow.
“Are there any castles or Roman ruins?”
“We’ve got castles—Crookston Castle and Dumbarton up north. There’s also the Antonine Wall and the Bearsden Bath.”
She picked up her mobile. “Crookstone?”
“Crookston.” Quinn spelled it for her then watched as she read about the castle’s history, something stirring in his chest at the sight of her—the play of light on her skin, the excitement in her delicate features, the smile on those sweet lips.
Och, she was bonnie.
She looked up. “What was the other one?”
The other one?
Castles, you eejit.
“Dumbarton Castle. D-U-M-B-A-R-T-O-N.”
She typed the letters into her phone and scrolled through photos, reading some of the history. “Mary Queen of Scots was there?”
Quinn couldn’t take his gaze off her. He was so transfixed that he didn’t notice the server standing beside the table with their food until she spoke.