Page 3 of The Tartan Thesis

His phone buzzes in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he says, before checking it.

I glance around. We’re in the foyer next to a massive sitting room with a large fireplace, leather couches, antique tables, a writing desk, and what I’m pretty sure are Tiffany lamps. The sort of space that suggests serious money. The Tag Heuer on his wrist and the high-end furnishings support that theory. He can probably afford this whole place by himself.

A pang of irritation surfaces. The flat James and I were going to share wasn’t as nice as this, but it wasn’t nearly as cramped and outdated as my current living situation.

I study Beau while he’s distracted. A furrow appears between his brows, and it’s hard to tell if he’s entertained or confused. He pulls the hem of his shirt up, absentmindedly scratching his torso—#12 on The List—and I glimpse a light dusting of golden hair on bronzed honest-to-God abs. I’m somewhere between finding him hot and thinking he must be incredibly vain.

He looks up to find me staring, a sheepish smile tilting up the corner of his full lips. “Sorry,” he mutters, returning his phone to his pocket, “I get distracted sometimes.”

“No worries,” I say, surprised at the shift from the confidence he’d exuded before.

“Can I get you anything?” Beau asks quickly. “Tea might take a while, but I’ve got water, electrolytes. All kinds of stuff.”

I’m tempted, but he’s probably just being nice. It’s best to leave before I say something else stupid.

“No, I’m alright, thanks. I should be on my way,” I say as I turn to the door.

Beau strides ahead of me, taking my jacket off the handle and handing it to me. We’re close enough that I can smell him now. The words “woodsy” and “masculine” spring to mind, each more ridiculous than the other. Can’t believe I’m smelling a stranger.

I’m staring again. “Well, erm—welcome to Scotland!”

“Thanks,” Beau says, his easy smile and relaxed posture returning. “Thanks for the help.”

We maintain eye contact for another moment before I turn and step onto the pavement. “You know,” he calls after me, “you’re stronger than you look.”

My brain, hardwired to hear criticism, registers his words as an insult. Before I can stop myself, I whip around to face him. “And I’m surprised that someone as pretty as you would use all those muscles for something other than posing for his Instagram.”

Beau steps closer to me and only pauses for a second before one corner of his mouth turns up. “You think I’m pretty?”

Shite. Of course this rich, smug prick thinks I’m complimenting him. “No, that’s not—” I start as I try to find words to make it clear I do not think he’s pretty, made somewhat difficult by the fact that he is, annoyingly, incredibly attractive. Beau’s smile becomes even more wicked as my mouth opens but produces absolutely nothing. Is he enjoying this?

Taking a breath, I scrape together my remaining dignity and say, “I have to go.”

“Thanks for the warm welcome,” he calls as I turn and walk away. Then, so quietly that I barely hear, he says, “And the compliment…” just before the door clicks shut.

2

Beau

Scottish Gaelic (gal-ick, NOT gay-lick)

Translation: A Celtic language brought to Scotland from Ireland, more commonly spoken in the Highlands and Scotland’s western islands

Usage: Not to be confused with Scots, a Germanic language more common in the Lowlands

Not my best attempt at flirting, but not my worst either.

I grin as I close the door after Torin leaves. The guy’s handsome, awkward as hell, and stubborn enough to carry a box twice his weight just to prove a point. Cute butt, too. Hard to miss when he stormed off.

I head for the bathroom. My clothes are already steamed and laid out, first day of school tradition, so I turn on the shower and line up the cavalry: moisturizers, toners, serums, creams, and shaving tools.

There was a time when deodorant and pomade felt ambitious.

My ex-girlfriend changed that. Senior year of college, I broke up with her. I couldn’t explain why. She’d been very upset. Calling, texting, voicemails that swung from heartbreak to fury. I kept telling her it was for the best and that one day she’d see that, but she was insistent. After a week of dodging her, I showed up at her apartment with no plan whatsoever.

When she went from begging for answers to demanding them, I finally blurted, “I’m gay.”

She stared at me for a long, terrifying moment, in which I thought she might have a total meltdown, then she squealed. It “explained so much,” she said. She was “so excited to have a gay bestie.”