Page 26 of The Tartan Thesis

“I am, but the reason I’ve been so competitive with you is because I want to be Professor Drummond’s research assistant. Working for him is a first-class ticket to tenure at a good university.”

Beau nods slowly, takes another drink. My attention follows the glass a little longer than it probably should.

“When I found out you also want to research cultural genocide in the Highlands…” I rub the back of my neck. “I got nervous, especially when I see how good you are at charming the faculty.” I hear myself rambling, but I can’t stop. “Basically, I see you as the biggest threat to me getting that position. I know Scottish history better than anyone else in the program, and I won’t pretend otherwise, but you’re the charming one. That counts for more than it should in academia.”

Beau blinks at me. I don’t know if it’s my lack of humility about my encyclopedic knowledge of Scottish history or the fact I’ve just called him charming to his face; I’d rather not ask.

“Academic politics are very real,” I go on, trying not to sound bitter. “It’s never just about the work, and you have something I don’t. You can play the games required, and I doubled down on proving my ability to interpret the past better than anyone else. Especially you.”

There’s a silence as Beau continues to stare at me like I’ve just confessed something mildly unhinged. “Huh,” he says thoughtfully, crossing one ankle over the other. God, there are veins there, too.

“What?” I ask, trying to keep the alarm out of my voice.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been yelled at for being too charming before,” he says. I find it considerably easier to breathe when the slightest trace of dimples returns.

“Aye, I know it all sounds a little mad, but like I said before, it really has nothing to do with you. I created this big competition in my own head, convinced you were the ultimate adversary, but as it turns out, I’m my own worst enemy.”

He nods, humming his understanding.

“And I want you to know that after I found out about your grade—”

“You mean when you eavesdropped on me and Maeve,” he says, smirking.

Face. Red. “Aye. That.”

He waves for me to go on.

“When I heard your grade, I decided I should pull back, that I should be less hard on you in class. When I started to speak today, I was planning to get you started with some good fodder or agree with something you said. I wanted to deflect the focus Professor Drummond was directing at you.”

Beau blinks again.

“So, in conclusion,” I rush to say, because I can’t bear the silent blinking much longer, “I’m sorry.” I look down at my hands again, no longer able to meet his intense gaze. “I’m sorry we started off on the wrong foot. I’m sorry I’ve been a dobber in class. And I’m especially sorry for yelling at you in front of everyone. You didn’t deserve any of that, and Beau, I want to make it right.”

He doesn’t respond. I slowly look up to find him staring at me. I look back down because fuck, those eyes are dangerous, too blue, too direct, too intimidating, and I can’t deal with any of that right now.

“Torin,” he says. There’s that note of command again. I raise my eyes to his. “Thank you.”

The breath I’ve been holding leaves me all at once.

“Now it’s my turn to apologize and explain,” he says.

“Beau, no,” I say, waving my hands to ward off whatever he was about to say. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. This was all me.”

“No,” he says, his voice stern. “You got to speak. Now it’s my turn.”

The authoritative tone does something unpleasantly interesting to my nervous system. I nod and shut up.

He watches me another moment before going on. “I didn’t handle myself well when we first met. You were nice as could be, and I made a terrible impression because of my own insecurities. That got us off on the wrong foot, and for that, I apologize.” His eyes are so intense I almost forget to reply.

“Thank you,” I say, still believing his apology is unnecessary. “My ex-boyf—” I pause. Beau’s brows furrow. I try again. “I had also just gone through a breakup and was probably being too sensitive.”

His expression clears, but he’s looking at me differently than before. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, sounding genuine. “Your reaction to my poor attempt at banter makes more sense now, but it still doesn’t excuse my behavior.”

I shift on the stool, pushing my bowl a few inches across the island, not knowing how to respond.

“As for what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always thought I’d end up in the oil and gas industry. My great-grandparents owned some land with mineral rights in Louisiana. When oil was found on their property, they essentially became rich overnight. They invested well, bought up some companies, and that’s what my family’s done ever since. They drill for oil. I never considered doing anything else.”

I nod, playing with my spoon.