Page 77 of The Tartan Thesis

She gives me a moment to consider her words.

“Promise me you’ll think about it,” she says, “and I’ll drop it for now.”

I sigh again. “Fine. I’ll think about it.” And I will. Despite the quiet voice in the back of my mind reminding me how easily hope can turn into humiliation.

“Promise?” she asks with a grin.

“Promise.”

After finishing with the lights, I run over to the house to change clothes.

I’ve always worn a kilt the whole day of Hogmanay, but the one I wore to hang lights was a more rugged option. Now it’s time to get dressed properly for the ceilidh.

And shed my boxers.

The room is chilly when I step inside, the evening air creeping through the old stone walls, but my heart warms as I hear Beau singing off-key in the shower while I suit up. Some American country song, I think, but it’s hard to tell when half the lyrics are replaced with enthusiastic humming. I shake my head, smiling, as I begin buttoning my shirt. He really is adorable. The memory of him in a towel, droplets of water sparkling on his massive frame, slide into my mind uninvited. Makes me wonder if I should put those pants back on after all.

I wrap the kilt around my middle, admiring the deep Ramsay blue checked with black and subtle white stripes as I secure the inner apron before fastening the outer buckles.

I’m fighting with my bow tie in the bedroom mirror when there’s a knock at my door. “Come in,” I call.

Beau steps into the room, fully dressed for the event.

I catch his reflection before he realizes I’m looking. His eyes on my legs, open-mouthed. When our eyes meet, he recovers quickly, clearing his throat and snapping his jaw closed, giving me a smile.

“You look incredible,” he says, dimples showing.

I blush. I can’t help it.

“So do you,” I say, looking at him properly now. “Very dapper.”

He’s blended his own culture with the dress code in a way that somehow works perfectly—cowboy boots, dark jeans that hug his thick thighs, and a crisp white shirt. Over it all, he’s thrown on the green tartan blazer he bought in town, serving as a nod to Scotland.

“Thanks,” he says.

We stand there awkwardly, his eyes flicking back to my legs again.

“Need some help?” he asks, nodding at the tie in my hand.

“No, I’ve got it,” I tell him. “It’s just been a while.”

In truth, I’ve been struggling to get the knot right for so long that my arms are getting tired.

“I’m bad at asking for help,” he says, stepping forward, “but I do like to give it.”

He takes the tie and then his hands are on me, my body sparking for the first time since we last kissed. He turns me gently toward the mirror and gets to work.

We don’t speak as he reaches around me, my back pressed lightly against the solid wall of his chest. In the mirror, I watch his large hands move with intention and dexterity, folding and looping as he works. His breath brushes the side of my neck, and my pulse quickens. The knot takes shape, and he stays close as he tightens it, hips shifting behind me. He’s as turned on as I am.

He turns me back toward him and straightens it. Then his hands brush down, land on my pecs, and remain there.

“There,” he says. “You look perfect.”

But he’s not looking at the bow tie. His eyes are locked onto mine. Between the sheer blue of his irises and his hands on my chest, I can’t think of a thing to say.

My gaze drops to his full lips, his tongue darting out briefly to wet them, and I lean toward him, drawn forward by instinct, needing to kiss him again.

“You lads about ready?” Freya calls up the stairs.