Page 9 of The Tartan Thesis

Beau responds before the professor can. “That’s impressive. Those are all hard languages to learn, given how few people know them at this point.” I can’t tell if he’s being patronizing or not. I consider the low number of Scots and Gaelic speakers to be one of the greatest tragedies of English oppression. Something that James often downplayed or dismissed.

Maeve weighs in, saving me from that train of thought. “That’s true. I’m from Galway and was lucky enough to grow up in a family that still speaks Irish. Otherwise it would’ve been a hard one to pick up while also learning French.”

Great, I’m the only one who doesn’t know French. Perfect.

Not wanting to detract from my great start with the professor, I listen as Beau and Maeve continue to speak with her. Having stepped on so many conversational landmines with Beau already, I file away mental notes on each of them to smooth out future interactions. Professor Moreau’s inscrutable expression, Maeve’s enthusiasm, the way I can’t stop staring into Beau’s earnest eyes.

I’m drinking the last of my whisky when someone calls Professor Moreau away. Maeve suggests refills, and I nod in agreement.

Beau turns and extends his arm, inviting Maeve to go first. “Lead the way, m’lady,” he drawls and flashes her a smile.

“Such a gentleman,” Maeve says and strides toward the drinks table. Then Beau motions for me to go in front of him as well.

“No, you first,” I say, gesturing with a forced smile. “I insist.”

He searches my expression, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Well, if you insist,” he says and follows Maeve.

I try not to watch his backside as I walk behind him, but it’s impossible not to admire his well-built frame again. His tailored jacket highlights the way his broad shoulders taper to a lean waist, his muscular ass pushing out the vents of his jacket with every step. He’s so fit, I wonder briefly if we’re even the same species.

I tear my eyes away and pour myself another dram of whisky as Maeve asks about Beau’s academic background.

“I double-majored in Finance and History in my undergrad at UT Austin,” Beau says. “Then I worked in financial advisory at one of the Big 4 accounting firms for a couple of years before going to Rice for my MBA and a master’s in European History.”

I’d assumed he’d gone to Ivy League schools, but given that Rice University is often called “the Harvard of Texas,” I reluctantly admit his academic pedigree is impressive.

“So you’re a Texan, eh?” Maeve asks. “Have you ever been to a rodeo before?” Then her eyes widen. “Wait! Have you been in a rodeo before?”

Beau lets out a deep chuckle. “The biggest rodeo in the world is held in Houston each year, and I grew up going to it. My parents are big volunteers and donors to the rodeo’s scholarship fund, so I’ve been to a lot of events there. I even met 50 Cent at a fundraiser one time.”

“That’s cool, but it didn’t answer the bigger question,” Maeve says.

“Which is?” Beau asks innocently, taking another sip.

“Have you ridden a bull or not?” Maeve is eating this up, and I hate to admit that I’m curious too.

“Well, those are two different questions,” he says and taps his chin like he’s pondering his answer, adding to Maeve’s suspense.

She pokes him in the ribs, making him jump. “Fine, I’ll answer both,” he says, trying not to spill his drink. “Have I ridden a bull? Just a mechanical one at a bar in Austin while drinking with a bunch of fraternity brothers in college. As for being in a rodeo, you are looking at the 2003 Mutton Bustin’ champion.” He’s very matter-of-fact when he says this, but it’s clear by the look on Maeve’s face that she is just as stumped by this last statement as I am.

Maeve’s head ticks to the side as a hand goes to her hip. “What are you on about? Are you doing something weird with sheep?”

Beau almost spits out his drink. “What? No!” he says, red in the face. “It’s a competition held at rodeos where kids get laced up in gear and helmets and are put on a sheep’s back. The startled animal goes running off, and the kid who holds on the longest wins.”

He’s smiling at the incredulous looks on our faces. “What? It’s fun.”

“Isn’t that harmful for the sheep?” I ask as Maeve eagerly asks if the kids ever cry when they fall off.

“Nah, it’s mostly five-year-olds, so the sheep have more wool than human on them. And yeah, some kids cry,” he says, failing to keep his grin at bay. “A couple of my buddies do an over/under on how many will shed tears on any given night.”

“That’s diabolical,” Maeve says with a cackle. “I love it.”

“It is equal parts adorable and hysterical,” Beau admits, and I smile despite myself.

“What about you, Torin?” Maeve asks. “Where’d you go to uni and all?”

And Beau chimes in with a smile, asking, “And what kinds of animals have you ridden?”

Before I can answer, someone whistles loudly. I turn to see a middle-aged man in a gray suit and recognize him from my interview for the program. He’s friendly but intimidating, and the room falls into silence to hear what he has to say.