9. Chapter 9
Torin
Rocket
Translation: Penis
Usage: Another word for an idiot
I wait alone in the classroom to make sure Beau is long gone before I leave. It’s the least I can do after going off on him like that.
I run a hand over my face as I traipse out of the building. The way Beau had looked when I mentioned his midterm grade…
I wish I could take it back. All of it.
The look of hurt on his face. Fuck, he’s never going to forgive me. I wouldn’t if I were him.
How can I make it up to him? I have to try. It’s the least I can do.
I drop onto a bench, pull out a notepad, and scribble some ideas about what I have to offer Beau in terms of working together. After a few minutes, I stare at the page and sigh. I really only have one thing in my arsenal: Scottish culture and history lessons.
I’m not sure I want to go down this road again, given all that happened with James, but it’s what Beau needs most right now. And the professor told us to learn from one another. Maybe this is what he meant. Maybe I’m supposed to help him become a better scholar of Scottish history.
I throw the notepad back into my bag and head toward his house. Professor Drummond recommended we wait to meet, but I can’t let this fester. I need to apologize, and I need to do it now. To show Beau I mean it.
And I need to make a stop on the way.
I hesitate at Beau’s door before knocking. Christ, my palms are clammy. I rub them on my pants, shifting from one foot to the other.
No answer.
I knock again, harder this time. I look up and down the pavement, gaze following a yellowing leaf as it floats down from a tree to join its fallen comrades.
Further knocks yield the same result.
I check my watch. Another minute goes by. I settle against the doorframe and pull out a research paper from my bag. Any grad student worth their salt always keeps a stash of PDFs within reach.
The article turns out to be better than expected. I sit down on the pavement, spread the paper across my knee, notepad balanced beside it, pen and highlighter in hand. I put in some earphones and drift into the past. My happy place.
A pair of trainers appears in front of me. Again.
My eyes flick up. Beau stands over me, face flushed, hair damp. He must have been working out. No smile. No dimples. Just a flat mouth and glaring eyes. I pull out my earphones.
“You couldn’t wait till tomorrow?” he asks, deep voice rumbling.
I guess I shouldn’t have expected a warm welcome. Maybe this was a bad idea. I also didn’t plan what I was going to say, so “I fucked up” comes flying out of my mouth. Great start, Ramsay. Open with profanity. Very scholarly.
Beau tilts his head, clearly not impressed. I scramble to my feet, Beau not even watching as I send a highlighter flying over his shoulder in my haste to try again, a car running over it the instant it lands.
This is going well.
“Beau, I’m sorry,” I say. He maintains his flat-lipped stare. “About today,” I continue.
“Torin, this didn’t start today,” he says, his eyes flashing, a sharp edge in his drawl.
“You’ve been antagonistic to me since day one.
Yes, you humiliated me today, and you do need to apologize for it, but that’s not all there is to it.
If you don’t realize that, then you should leave and try again tomorrow. Like Professor Drummond told you.”
“You’re right,” I say quickly as he turns toward his door. “I’ve been awful to you. A right rocket. And you’ve done absolutely nothing to deserve it.”
More staring. Fuck, those eyes are sexy when he’s mad.
“This honestly has nothing to do with you,” I say, wanting to explain. “I took my shit out on you because you were the easy target.”
He flinches. That was evidently not the correct phrasing.
He looks away, shaking his head, unlocks his door, and steps inside. I assume I’ve been dismissed until he calls over his shoulder, “Are you coming in or not?”
He’s still fuming, but this feels like a step in the right direction. Or maybe he’s luring me in so he can kill me.
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.
“I am, but the reason I’ve been so competitive with you is because I want to be Professor Drummond’s research assistant. Working for him is a first-class ticket to tenure at a good university.”
Beau nods slowly, takes another drink. My attention follows the glass a little longer than it probably should.
“When I found out you also want to research cultural genocide in the Highlands…” I rub the back of my neck.
“I got nervous, especially when I see how good you are at charming the faculty.” I hear myself rambling, but I can’t stop.
“Basically, I see you as the biggest threat to me getting that position. I know Scottish history better than anyone else in the program, and I won’t pretend otherwise, but you’re the charming one.
That counts for more than it should in academia. ”
Beau blinks at me. I don’t know if it’s my lack of humility about my encyclopedic knowledge of Scottish history or the fact I’ve just called him charming to his face; I’d rather not ask.