Page 96 of The Tartan Thesis

I sigh, push up from the bed and start pacing again, knowing she’ll pester me till I give in.

Freya watches me, waiting.

“I’m scared,” I say, the words catching as I try to pin them down, “that what we’ve had so far is as good as it’s going to get, that if he spends any real time with me outside of our holiday and classroom bubbles, that he’ll realize I’m just a bookworm with little else to offer. I mean, we are so different. He’s gorgeous, confident, and rich as hell. And I’m—”

“Fabulous in every way?” she offers.

I shake my head. “He has a trust fund, Freya. I’m the son of a farmer who’s going to make a professor’s salary. Humanities faculty aren’t exactly known for raking it in.”

“Torin, look at me,” she says.

I comply, grudgingly.

“Don’t give me that face,” she says. “You need to hear this.”

“What is it?” I ask with a groan.

“It’s true he’s a braw lad, and that he has money.”

“A lot of money,” I add. She ignores me.

“But as far as most people are concerned,” she continues, “those aren’t flaws. Most people would be delighted with an attractive and wealthy partner who gives good head. And even with all that, he’s still one of the kindest men I’ve ever met. Guys who look like Beau and have cash to toss around have the potential to be right rockets who are lazy in bed. Beau is not that guy. He’s attentive. He listens. He shows up. He’s an absolute catch. The problem isn’t Beau. It’s you.”

“Aye, I’m not good enough for him!” I shout, glad she’s finally getting it.

“No,” she says, “the problem is you think you’re not good enough for him.”

“Aye, because it’s true!”

“No, it isn’t,” she says, calm as anything.

I shake my head, already gearing up to argue, but she cuts me off before I can.

“Torin, when have you ever known me to lie to you to make you feel better?”

“Never,” I say, not even needing to think about it. “You’re always brutally honest with me. You’re actually right mean at times.”

“Exactly,” she says. “I’m not blowing smoke up your ass, so believe me when I say you’re a catch, too. You’re a good-looking lad—don’t pull that face, you are—you’re already a respected and published historian before even finishing your PhD. Plus, you’re going to be a well-regarded professor, and a damn good one.”

I roll my eyes as she goes on.

“And I’ve seen you in a relationship,” she says. “James didn’t deserve how well you treated him, the way you open up and devote yourself to your partner. You commit fully, with your whole heart. That’s not something everyone does.”

“Aye, and that’s a problem!” I’m yelling again. “If I let myself fall for Beau, I won’t do it halfway. I’ll lose myself in him and my relationship with him. Then he’ll go back to his real life in America, and I’ll be left—” My chest tightens, the rest of those words lodged somewhere I don’t want to touch. “Broken and alone. Again.” I take a shuddering breath, trying to hold in the bitter feelings this conversation is dredging up. “I can’t do it, Freya.”

She sighs, and when I look at the screen, her expression has softened in a way that makes tears prick the corners of my eyes.

“I know James hurt you,” she says, “but it bears repeating that Beau is not James.”

“I know,” I say, knowing she’s right. But knowing something and believing it are two different things. If I wasn’t enough for James, there’s no way I can be enough for Beau.

“I just want you to have the best possible life, and I think Beau could be part of that,” she says. “I think he wants to be. You just have to let him.”

Maybe I do have more to offer than I’m willing to admit, but if the ache in my chest tells me anything, it’s that I’m not ready to do this again. Not yet.

“Even if what you’re saying is true,” I say, returning to my original argument, “I have no way of knowing unless he shows me—no—unless he tells me. And he hasn’t.”

“What if he does? What if he makes it clear to you that he’s interested?” she asks. “Would you give in then?”