Page 25 of The Tartan Thesis

Hoping for the best, I grab my things and scramble inside, closing the door behind me. I rush to follow him down the hall and find him in the kitchen.

It’s classic and posh like the sitting room, with modern appliances, a large island with tall stools and a small table with low chairs in the back. I hover awkwardly as he pulls items from the fridge and then walks over to the pantry.

“Yogurt?” he asks.

Now I’m definitely on the back foot. “I just yelled at you in class, and you’re trying to feed me?”

“Yes,” he says. “Yogurt?”

“Erm, sure,” I say, wondering what the hell is going on.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to one of the stools. It’s less of a polite invitation and more of an order, and it sends a thrill through me. I’m usually a defiant person, but sometimes a man takes charge of a situation—#17 on The List—and I don’t mind being told what to do. Sometimes I really like it.

I sit.

He pulls out two bowls and starts ladling in Greek yogurt, granola, and berries. I watch his veined hands and muscular forearms flex as he drizzles honey over each serving. He pushes one in my direction.

“Thanks,” I mutter. Beau grunts in response.

He takes his and leans back against the counter, digging in without looking at me. I’m not sure I can eat with my stomach in knots, but Beau is inhaling his. I only manage to take a few bites before he’s scraping the bottom of the bowl. Another pass of the spoon and there’ll be nothing left.

Unless he abandons the spoon.

My mind, entirely unhelpfully, supplies the image of Beau tilting the bowl and licking the last of the honey from the rim.

I take a large bite of granola and look very deliberately at the table.

“Tough workout?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

So we’re sticking with one-word replies. Got it.

He fills two glasses with water from a pitcher in the fridge and puts one in front of me. Returning to his spot, he drinks most of the water in one long pull. My gaze drops, following his Adam’s apple shifting up and down before he lowers the glass to the counter. Then he crosses his massive arms, veins visible in both, and finally looks at me.

I’m still not sure where to go from here, so I ask something simpler. “Beau, why are you feeding me after I yelled at you?”

“Several reasons,” he says, rising and setting his spoon in the sink. He turns around, eyes focused on mine. “I needed food because I’m more amicable with a full belly. I was raised to be polite, so I wasn’t going to eat in front of you without offering you something.” He gestures vaguely toward the bowl in front of me. “We had yogurt because it’s full of protein and good for your gut.” A pause. “And because I’m out of ingredients for pancakes.”

“Oh,” I say. My turn for one-word responses, I guess.

“Also,” he says, reaching for a tea towel, “many peace accords have been hammered out over a meal.” As the faintest trace of a smile appears, I try not to be too hopeful. “Since we both study history, and since you seem intent on talking now, it seemed appropriate to honor the past. It was this or having Maeve row us out to an island and leaving us there till we negotiate the terms of a ceasefire.” There’s definitely a smile now, like a ray of sunshine peeking through the clouds. “This seemed easier,” he finishes.

“Aye, much easier,” I reply with my own timid smile. Even when he’s angry, he’s witty, and thankfully, we’re on the right track. “To that end, I want to apologize and make things right between us.”

“I’m listening,” he says, and he sounds genuinely open-minded. Score one for yogurt.

“I meant what I said. I fucked up. Today was particularly atrocious, but I have been a dobber to you from the start. I won’t make excuses for my behavior, but I’d like to explain why I am the way that I am.”

He nods, so I go on, starting from the beginning.

“I’ve wanted to be a historian since I was a lad,” I say. “I was lucky to grow up learning Scottish history in school. Until the nineties, students across the UK only learned British history, which, as you can imagine, is mostly just English history.”

He lifts an eyebrow but says nothing.

“By the time I was in school, there was an additional curriculum provided to teachers specifically about Scotland, and it was my favorite subject. I began reading about it on my own, and nothing made me happier. When I discovered that reading, writing, and teaching about Scottish history was a job, I decided I would become a professor.” I shrug. “I had no clue how much schooling went into becoming one at the time, but it didn’t matter. I made up my mind and haven’t questioned it since.”

“So you’re protective of your country’s history,” Beau says, refilling his glass.