9. Chapter 9 #2
“Academic politics are very real,” I go on, trying not to sound bitter. “It’s never just about the work, and you have something I don’t. You can play the games required, and I doubled down on proving my ability to interpret the past better than anyone else. Especially you.”
There’s a silence as Beau continues to stare at me like I’ve just confessed something mildly unhinged. “Huh,” he says thoughtfully, crossing one ankle over the other. God, there are veins there, too.
“What?” I ask, trying to keep the alarm out of my voice.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been yelled at for being too charming before,” he says. I find it considerably easier to breathe when the slightest trace of dimples returns.
“Aye, I know it all sounds a little mad, but like I said before, it really has nothing to do with you. I created this big competition in my own head, convinced you were the ultimate adversary, but as it turns out, I’m my own worst enemy.”
He nods, humming his understanding.
“And I want you to know that after I found out about your grade—”
“You mean when you eavesdropped on me and Maeve,” he says, smirking.
Face. Red. “Aye. That.”
He waves for me to go on.
“When I heard your grade, I decided I should pull back, that I should be less hard on you in class. When I started to speak today, I was planning to get you started with some good fodder or agree with something you said. I wanted to deflect the focus Professor Drummond was directing at you.”
Beau blinks again.
“So, in conclusion,” I rush to say, because I can’t bear the silent blinking much longer, “I’m sorry.
” I look down at my hands again, no longer able to meet his intense gaze.
“I’m sorry we started off on the wrong foot.
I’m sorry I’ve been a dobber in class. And I’m especially sorry for yelling at you in front of everyone.
You didn’t deserve any of that, and Beau, I want to make it right. ”
He doesn’t respond. I slowly look up to find him staring at me. I look back down because fuck, those eyes are dangerous, too blue, too direct, too intimidating, and I can’t deal with any of that right now.
“Torin,” he says. There’s that note of command again. I raise my eyes to his. “Thank you.”
The breath I’ve been holding leaves me all at once.
“Now it’s my turn to apologize and explain,” he says.
“Beau, no,” I say, waving my hands to ward off whatever he was about to say. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. This was all me.”
“No,” he says, his voice stern. “You got to speak. Now it’s my turn.”
The authoritative tone does something unpleasantly interesting to my nervous system. I nod and shut up.
He watches me another moment before going on. “I didn’t handle myself well when we first met. You were nice as could be, and I made a terrible impression because of my own insecurities. That got us off on the wrong foot, and for that, I apologize.” His eyes are so intense I almost forget to reply.
“Thank you,” I say, still believing his apology is unnecessary. “My ex-boyf—” I pause. Beau’s brows furrow. I try again. “I had also just gone through a breakup and was probably being too sensitive.”
His expression clears, but he’s looking at me differently than before. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, sounding genuine. “Your reaction to my poor attempt at banter makes more sense now, but it still doesn’t excuse my behavior.”
I shift on the stool, pushing my bowl a few inches across the island, not knowing how to respond.
“As for what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always thought I’d end up in the oil and gas industry.
My great-grandparents owned some land with mineral rights in Louisiana.
When oil was found on their property, they essentially became rich overnight.
They invested well, bought up some companies, and that’s what my family’s done ever since.
They drill for oil. I never considered doing anything else. ”
I nod, playing with my spoon.
“It wasn’t until I got to college that I really discovered history.
” He braces his hands on the counter. “I have ADHD, so I have to work hard to focus on subjects that don’t interest me.
If I’m not fascinated by a topic, my brain treats it like something in grayscale, something dull.
But I had an incredible US history professor for a required course my first semester.
His excitement about the past and how it led us to where we are today was palpable in all his lectures.
His classes were like a burst of bright color, drawing me in. I was hooked.”
My heart softens thinking of a younger Beau, finding something bright and colorful in a sea of gray, something to be excited for.
“I was in school to study business,” he goes on, “and knew my parents wouldn’t let me switch majors outright, so I minored in history.
I signed up for more classes with that professor and picked other courses that seemed interesting, like Medieval European history.
Before I knew it, my academic advisor was asking if I wanted to double major given how many credits I already had, and I ended up with two undergraduate degrees. ”
“And then you got two master’s?” I ask.
“Yes.” He smiles, and it’s surprisingly not smug.
He grabs an orange out of a bowl and begins tossing it between his deft hands.
“I was able to get my master’s in history because I got a master’s in business at the same time.
Otherwise my parents wouldn’t have paid for it.
” He shrugs and places the fruit back in its place.
“I could’ve taken out loans to cover my living expenses, but there’s a clause that denies me access to my trust fund if I have a negative net worth.
I got my MBA alongside my history master’s so they would pay for it and I could still access the trust when I reached the assigned age. ”
“Wait. You have a trust fund?” I ask. That would explain the house, the car, the clothes…
“Yes,” he says flatly, “and I have control over it now. That’s how I’m able to be here for my PhD.
I chose Edinburgh because Scottish history is the brightest spot of all, nothing gray about it.
” He sets his jaw and continues, “And because I wanted to go and do something on my own. Even if it is with money I inherited.”
I nod and can’t help but wonder how much money Beau has exactly. My family does well enough now, but our modest wealth is a recent development. I certainly don’t have an investment portfolio I can draw from whenever I want.
He must see me calculating because when my eyes meet his again, he says, “I don’t usually talk about money, but I brought up the trust for two reasons. One,” he says, holding up his thumb, “you were very transparent with me, so I’m trying to be forthcoming as well.”
A second finger comes up on that beautiful hand.
“And two, I want to make it clear that I have adequate funding and will not be taking on an assistantship while I’m here. I don’t need the money and don’t want to be a professor.”
I stare at him, and he goes on to make his point clear.
“I am not your competition in any way,” he says, crossing arms over his chest again, looking far less surly now.
I go to lean back, remember I’m on a backless stool, and sit forward again, absorbing this revelation. I’ve been a raging ass for weeks now, trying to compete with someone who had zero intention of ever competing with me. I really am my own worst enemy.
“Fuck,” I say. “I really am sorry.”
“You’re sorry that I don’t have to worry about money?”
“No, I’ll cry you a river over that later,” I quip a little too quickly.
“There’s the Torin I know,” Beau drawls, a grin pulling at his ample lips.
I roll my eyes but smile, glad we’re on firmer ground.
“And…” he says, then hesitates, like he doesn’t want to complete whatever sentence he started.
“And what?” I ask.
“I shouldn’t say anything. It’ll only make you feel worse.”
“Please just tell me,” I say with a sigh. “I’d rather get it all over with, and I doubt you can make me feel any worse at this point.”