Page 111 of The Tartan Thesis

He’s beautiful with his hair mussed, muscled legs flexing with every step. The body he knew I couldn’t resist. The one he’d wielded like a weapon to get what he wanted, my feelings be damned.

I drop the papers on the desk and stand, quaking for a different reason than last night, my face growing hot. His grin falters as his gaze meets mine, and I feel no pity.

It’s time to wipe the smug look off his handsome face for good.

34

Beau

Stushie

Translation: Argument

Usage: To describe a heated dispute or when someone is making a scene

“What’s wrong?”

Torin’s shoulders are tight, his face flushed a deep angry red. His eyes aren’t soft like they were last night, and… he’s shaking. What could’ve possibly happened?

I rush toward him, but he jerks back, slamming his hip against my desk, sending several pens to the floor. I stop, put my hands up, like it might undo whatever I’ve already done.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, brain scrambling, replaying, his sounds, his body under mine. Maybe I was too rough with him. But he’d pulled me closer after. Nothing about it felt wrong.

“Aye, hurt is a good word,” he says, his voice quavering. “To start.”

“Torin.” I try again, stepping half a pace closer, then stop. He looks like a frightened dog backed into a corner, like he might snap at any moment. “Torin, what happened? Did I do something?”

“Aye, ya did something,” he says, his accent the thickest I’ve ever heard.

I search his face, looking for something, anything. There’s nothing there but anger. What the hell is going on? I drag in a breath, force it out slow. Don’t react. Don’t escalate.

But I can already feel him slipping away from me.

“Is this about last night?” I ask, trying to gather more information, trying to fix whatever this is before it gets worse. “I’m sorry if I rushed you. I promised I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, but if I did, then—”

“Aye, it’s about last night,” he snaps, his fists clenched so tight the tendons stand out in his wrists. “And all the nights before. It’s about you pretending to like me, luring me in, and then using me to get ahead.”

Pretending? Using him? His words don’t make sense. I stare at him, waiting for the rest, but it doesn’t come. Confusion curdles into anger, and I clamp it down. Two hot heads won’t get us anywhere good.

“Torin, I do like you,” I say, my voice calm as possible, trying to placate, trying to reassure him. “I’ve done all I can to make it clear just how much I like you. Please, just, whatever it is, I’m sure we can figure it out. Just—”

“There is no we, Beau.” His vehemence lands squarely on my chest. I feel it, physically, like something cracking open inside me. “There’s me,” he says, jabbing a finger into his own chest, breath coming fast, “and there’s you.” His hand cuts toward me, sharp and dismissive. “And you don’t belong here. You never have.”

I flinch. The air in the room feels heavy. I focus on breathing. But I need to focus on Torin. What the—?

“You’ve only lasted this long because of me, but I’m done. You can charm everyone else with your accent and your dimples, but you’ll not be receiving any more of my help.”

What on earth is he talking about?

“I can’t believe I fell for it,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking down. “For you.” Then his head snaps up, eyes narrowed, voice sharp. “But those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

He fell for me? I open my mouth, but I’ve got nothing. None of what he’s saying connects. I don’t even know what I’m defending myself against. Torin starts toward the door.

No.

I block his way. “Torin, you have to tell me what’s wrong,” I say, and I hear it. The plea, my desperation. How pathetic. Exactly the kind of man people walk away from. “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what I did.”

“Get out of my way, Beau.” His tone drops, and it’s worse than the shouting. I stand my ground. His eyes are on my chest, and the shift hits like a blow. Last night, he couldn’t touch me enough. Now he can’t even look at me.