Page 87 of The Tartan Thesis

My hands come up to his coat without thinking, holding on as his mouth moves against mine. God, he’s good. How on earth has he never had a boyfriend before?

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get those cold, sexy legs inside.”

We head to the house, and I point to Beau’s painting sitting on the table as we pass. His whole face lights up with what I’m beginning to think of as his “coo smile,” making me grin, too.

We tiptoe up the stairs, and I turn to him when we reach the landing; I need those lips one more time. His hands cradle my jaw as we taste each other once more.

This one is different again. The slowest and sweetest yet. Like he’s trying to tell me something with the way his lips move over mine.

When he pulls back, he takes both of my hands, looks me in the eyes, and says, “Thank you for tonight. It was my best Hogmanay ever.” He seems sober now, but his voice is hoarse with an intensity I haven’t experienced from him before.

“Wasn’t this your first Hogmanay?” I ask, eyebrow quirked.

“Yes,” he says, voice rumbling, “but it’s going to be a hard one to beat.”

“That it is,” I say, kissing him again. “And thank you for apparently being the hottest date at the party.”

He chuckles and gives me one more peck before opening my bedroom door for me. “Goodnight, Torin.”

“Night, Beau.” I go in and turn, watching him go to his room, glancing back at me with a smile, before I close the door.

I change into pajamas, too knackered for a shower, and crawl into bed. I don’t hear any more movement on the landing or in the bathroom, so I assume Beau is just as ready to drop as I am.

Still, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling.

“Best Hogmanay ever,” I whisper into the silence.

It really was.

And Beau—

Fuck.

My fingers curl against the sheets, remembering his arms around me, the slow drag of his mouth… he’s a good kisser. But we hadn’t kissed in days. And he didn’t touch me tonight until he was a few drinks in. I turn onto my side, pulling the duvet higher. It felt real. But what if it wasn’t? What if this doesn’t mean to him what it means to me?

I stare at the wall. If he is into me… then what? Do I let it happen? Do I risk it? Or do I hold the line and focus on my studies, my goals, everything I’ve worked toward?

Earlier I’d been so sure, confident I could enjoy being his Highland fling. But that was before, before I’d felt his lips on mine, his hands on my body. I’m deeper in than planned, and whatever is happening is getting harder to resist or ignore.

I know firsthand that dating a colleague is dangerous. If I want to work for Professor Drummond, then I can’t constantly be staring at Beau in class and thinking about how nice it was to lay my head on his muscular chest. Nor will it be possible to steer clear of him if we date and then break up.

I scrub a hand over my face. I need clarity, a decision.

I continue to mull it over until I roll over in bed and see my shoes, sparking a fairy-tale moment in my overtired brain. In Sondheim’s classic musical, Into the Woods, Cinderella can’t decide if she wants to be caught by the prince or not, so she chooses to leave the shoe behind, thereby leaving the prince to make the decision instead. If he comes knocking on her door to find her, then she’ll know that he truly wants her.

The fact is: we kissed, but nothing has ultimately changed. I still want my assistantship and a tenured position at a good university, and Beau and I are still classmates. We’ve made nothing official, so unless he unequivocally pursues me when we get back to Edinburgh, then I have nothing to worry about. He can decide if he wants to take this further, and I can focus on my studies in the meantime. If he doesn’t make a concerted effort to date me, then I’ll know that this was just convenient fun for him, and we can continue on as friends and colleagues.

I’ll leave it up to him. Simple as that.

Decision made, I settle into my pillow, letting the logic wrap around me. But even as I close my eyes, I find myself listening for footsteps on the landing. Hoping, wishing, that Beau would come and hold me for the rest of the night.

26

Beau

Burns Night

Translation: An evening to celebrate the life and poetry of Robert Burns, Scotland’s national bard