Page 65 of The Tartan Thesis

The heater hums softly as Beau steers us along the winding Highland road. One hand rests loose on the wheel, the other tapping lightly to the song playing low through the speakers. At a passing place, a farmer waves us through first. Beau lifts two fingers and grins.

I used to think he was charming, but charming suggests something calculated. Beau isn’t like that. He’s… disarming. His looks and size can be intimidating, but he offsets it with kind smiles and straightforward conversation. He’s an open book, entirely himself. It makes people feel comfortable, like they can be themselves, too. My family were at ease almost instantly. And me? I resisted him at first, but he disarmed me as well.

I never feel judged by him. I can be a nerd, a ball of anxiety, or a recluse, and he’s still there.

“Look at that,” he says suddenly, easing the car to the side as a loch appears. He doesn’t even wait for my reply before pulling over. We step out into the cold air. Beau shoves his hands into his coat pockets and just stands there, staring across the water. “God,” he says quietly. “That’s beautiful.”

Most adults lose that somewhere along the way, that childlike sense of wonder. Beau never did. And it’s adorable to see it in a man who looks like he could wrestle a bear.

When we climb back into the car, he rubs his hands together for warmth and flashes me another grin before pulling back onto the road.

Sometimes our conversation runs easily for miles. Sometimes I go quiet. Usually when I catch myself admiring him. The veins in his hands stand out as he guides the vehicle through another bend in the road. Sunlight slips through the clouds for a moment, catching the curve of his smile as he looks out across a glen.

I probably should have driven so he could take in more of the scenery, but we pull over often enough that it hardly matters. Every few miles Beau spots something new—Loch Ness stretching gray and wide beneath the sky, the ruins of Urquhart Castle rising above the water—and insists on stopping so he can stare in wonder.

“You were so lucky to grow up with this,” he says.

“I really was.”

He snaps pics from time to time, but he mostly seems content to just soak it all in. I admire that about him, partly because it’s something we have in common. I like to put my phone down and just be in the moment, but he looks so perfect with his cheeks rosy from the cold, his eyes wistful as they pan over the loch. I snap a shot of him, then another.

He notices me playing photographer, and asks, “For my dating profile?”

My heart sinks at the thought of him swiping right on one of the muscular lads from the gym.

“Aye,” I mutter. “For your dating profile.”

He tilts his head, brow furrowed, but I can’t read his expression. Discomfort mounting, I look down at my phone and send him the pictures. His phone buzzes in his hand and he finally glances away.

With his eyes now focused elsewhere, I say, “We should get going then, eh? Lots to see.”

I turn and head back to the car, Beau still scrolling through the pictures as he rushes to catch up. “These are really good, Torin.”

“You make it easy,” I say without thinking. I’m almost as awkward about giving compliments as I am about getting them—especially when it comes to Beau—but I find that, for once, I don’t mind implying that he’s attractive. Friends can do that without it being weird, right?

“I think the scenery does most of the work,” he says, “but I am pretty damn good-looking, aren’t I?” He nudges me with his elbow again, and I smile.

“Och, away with you,” I say, and give him a playful shove that doesn’t move him at all, noticing that we keep finding excuses to touch each other.

When we get to Loch Shiel, Beau turns into a car park and hands over five quid. I rarely see anyone use cash anymore, but he always seems to have some on hand. Carrying bank notes is not on The List, but I might need to add it. It’s so quaint and old-fashioned. I like it.

We cross the road to the Glenfinnan Monument, the stone tower rising on the shore where Bonnie Prince Charlie landed his ship to meet the twelve hundred Highlanders who pledged their allegiance, kicking off the 1745 Jacobite Rising. Standing here, it’s incredible to think the rebellion both began and ended in places we’ve visited today.

It’s almost comical to see Beau duck through the monument’s doorway and squeeze inside. Ahead of me, he climbs carefully, one broad hand braced against the wall as the steps wind upward. I can’t decide which is the better view: Beau’s muscular ass in those jeans or the sweeping vista of Loch Shiel nestled between snow-capped mountains visible through the narrow window slits as we climb.

I emerge next to him at the top. Beau snaps a couple of pics, then turns the camera around. “Come here,” he says, draping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me in for a selfie. Another touch, another thrill.

We wind our way back down the staircase and out toward the car.

“Did you read much when you were a kid?” Beau asks as we walk. “Other than history, I mean.”

“Aye. When I wasn’t outside working with my dad or getting into trouble with Freya, I spent hours upon hours in my room with books. I’ve always needed time to myself, and it was nice to have other worlds to escape to.”

“I know what you mean,” he says. “I knew I was different from a very young age, but when I read, I didn’t feel like the odd one out. I found places I belonged.”

“Aye,” I say again, my heart swelling at his earnest words.

“What was your favorite?” he asks. “The book or series you couldn’t put down. The one you read over and over.”