Page 2 of The Tartan Thesis

My gaze travels upward. To the golden hair and tanned skin on muscular legs, past athletic shorts, up his lean torso to broad shoulders and huge arms extending from a sleeveless shirt. Then I reach his face. Piercing blue eyes below perfectly coiffed blond hair.

He’s around my age and height but built like a demigod, a real-life Hercules. For a few seconds we just stare at each other, both of us open-mouthed. I reach for one of my conversation starters, but none of them prepared me for this. Where I’m accidentally inches away from one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen.

The handsome stranger recovers first, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Howdy,” he says. “I’m Beau. Beau Fontenot.” His teeth are perfect, his voice deep and rich, his accent American.

Still frozen, I register the word “howdy.” A scene from Oklahoma! springs to mind—Hugh Jackman, cowboy hat, bronzed skin glistening with sweat. After history, musicals are my greatest love. Maybe he’s from Oklahoma?

I tear my brain away from the image of ripped Australians, but I’m still standing awkwardly in front of a ripped American. Unable to maintain eye contact any longer, I fixate on the patch of sweat in the middle of his large chest, trying to remember what he’d said.

He tilts his head to catch my eye again and holds out a strong, veiny hand. “And you are?”

Right. Introducing myself was one of the things I’d just practiced. My mouth is still hanging open, so I turn it into a smile. “I’m Torin.” His hand is still out, so I reach out and take it.

His grip is firm and warm, and a shiver runs down my spine. “Nice to meet you, Torin,” he drawls.

“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, scrambling to remember his name. “Beau,” I add—still holding his hand. I quickly let go.

When I look back up, he’s still smiling, this time with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, one that suggests I’m not the only person he’s left momentarily speechless. Taking comfort in that, I look around to get my bearings. A Range Rover sits at the curb with a small pile of boxes in the boot, and the door to an upscale townhome is open beside us.

“Looks like you’re moving in?” I ask, internally commending myself for keeping the conversation going.

Beau glances at the boxes. “Yeah, I got here a couple days ago, but the items I shipped from Texas only made it here this morning. Just picked them up because it was going to be another two days before they could deliver.” He grabs the parcel on top, and I try not to watch his arms flex as he carries it over and sets it on the pile just inside the doorway.

Beau comes back for another box, glancing at me with that same amused smile. Dimples crease his cheeks. Because of course he has dimples.

Dimples is #7 on The List. My sister and I saw “The List of Non-Sexual Things That Are Actually Sexy AF” on BuzzFeed years ago and decided to make our own. The List currently has seventeen items, and I have a feeling Beau could check off a lot of them.

I mean, how often does one meet a handsome Texan who says things like “howdy” and has dimples? I glance around for something, anything to talk about. Spotting the remaining boxes, I ask, “Do you need any help with those, Beau from Texas?”

Beau sets another package inside and looks me up and down. “Nah. They’re pretty heavy. I can handle it.”

My face grows hot and not just from the steadily climbing temperature outside. Did this stranger just imply that I’m not strong enough to carry a box for a few meters? I may not have his bulging muscles, but I grew up on a farm. My strength comes from hard work and raising animals, not from going to an air-conditioned gym like a spoiled princess.

Before I can reconsider, I throw my jacket on top of one of the boxes and pick it up. Beau was right: it's heavy. I carry it inside anyway, refusing to show any strain as I follow him into the building. When he turns around, I hand it to him with what I hope is a casual expression and not the smug one trying to escape. He raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but recovers quickly.

“Thanks,” he says, flashing an impressed smile. He takes it and sets it with the rest, then hangs my jacket on the door handle on our way to the last few packages.

Now on more even footing, I take the initiative again. “So, what brings you to Scotland?”

He lifts another box, and this time I do watch his arms flex, bringing a different kind of heat, this time to my center.

“I’m here for school,” he says.

I hope my surprise doesn’t show. I would’ve assumed he was a model or an actor, that he’s here to shoot a new Hollywood blockbuster or feature in a Calvin Klein ad. The heat in my core intensifies as I picture him in a pair of boxer briefs.

I carry another box, trying not to think about black-and-white photo shoots. He takes it from me and asks, “Are you from Edinburgh?”

“No, the Highlands,” I say as we grab the last two packages.

“And what brings you to the big city?” There’s more of his Texas twang on those last two words, like he’s playing it up for me. He’s wearing that amused smile again, and I can’t tell if he’s taking the piss or not.

I hold my judgment, not wanting my anxiety to get the better of me again. “I also moved here for uni. I’m starting my PhD.”

Beau wipes the sweat off his brow with a toned forearm before taking the last box from me. “Dr. Torin has a nice ring to it.”

“Actually, I’ll be Dr. Ramsay. Ramsay’s my surname.” I cringe at this pedantic blunder, shifting from one foot to the other. I could’ve told him thanks and moved on, but I had to put my foot in my mouth.

“Dr. Ramsay sounds even better,” he says, seemingly unbothered by my response. The way he smiles at me banishes my embarrassment and brings back the warmth in my core.