The Tartan Thesis Rivalry

1. Chapter 1

Torin

Auld Reekie

Translation: Old Smokey

Usage: The nickname for Edinburgh (ed-in-burr-uh), the capital of Scotland

Two weeks ago, my boyfriend of one year broke up with me via text message. I’d thought the sting of such a juvenile form of separation would be gone by now, but as I stare at my phone, it hurts just as much as the first time I read it.

James

Torin, this isn’t working. I’m staying in London. Hope we can still be mates.

The message sits pinned at the top of my screen like a tiny blue obituary. I tell myself I haven’t deleted it out of principle. Or spite. Or academic curiosity. Any good historian will study a disaster from multiple angles, especially our own.

I’d called him immediately to ask what the fuck was happening. We were meant to be moving in together next week, starting our PhDs in Edinburgh together.

He’d declined my calls twice before picking up on the third attempt, voice flat, already elsewhere.

He didn’t want to come back to Scotland; apparently, I’d never truly made him a priority.

When pressed for details, he’d said I was addicted to my work.

Obsessed with it. In other words, it was me, not him.

We haven’t talked since.

I set my phone facedown on the sink and check my appearance in the small bathroom mirror once more. I smooth down my new shirt, an unnecessary purchase—but armor comes in many forms—and attempt to tame my wavy hair into something that suggests competence.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Are you nearly done?”

“Sorry,” I call, unlocking it and slipping past my flatmate, someone whose name I barely know, into the narrow hallway of the flat I had to secure in under forty-eight hours because James decided Edinburgh wasn’t for him after all.

Having to live with two total strangers makes me resent him even more.

I grab my bag, a gift from my sister who insisted it looked scholarly, and step out to a rare warm September day.

I last approximately thirty seconds in my jacket before shrugging it off.

My shirt is already sticking to my back, sweat trickling down my spine—heat, nerves, or humiliation, I’m not sure.

My mind drifts back to that last conversation.

Obsessed, he’d said. The word follows me down the pavement.

Obsessed with my work. Obsessed with history.

Obsessed with getting things right. And in a way, he was right.

I’ve known what I wanted to do with my life since I was wee; my dream is to become a history professor.

But “focused” or “driven” seem more accurate words.

Admirable qualities. I’ll need to be both of these things.

For the next three years, I’ll work to earn my PhD, performing excellent research and publishing as often as possible.

Whatever it takes to become tenured faculty.

Other than my family, there’s nothing as important to me.

Scotland has been through so much, constantly told what to be, consistently underestimated, and despite its momentary losses, it’s remained true to itself, a beautiful, formidable, and distinguished nation.

And if James doesn’t understand my passion for Scottish history, then perhaps I’m better off without him.

As for his accusation of not making him a priority, he is dead wrong.

I took ample time away from my studies during the second year of our master’s to socialize alongside him and help him with his own studies.

Not that he ever acknowledged my assistance.

Not even when he was named Outstanding Master’s Scholar instead of me.

Another reason to leave James in the past. Ungrateful git.

I wipe sweat off my brow, my trousers and shirt already stifling me.

Maybe I’ll splurge at a café since it’s my first day back to school. An iced Americano would cool me down before I get to graduate student orientation. And help me focus. God knows I need all the help I can get.

First impressions matter in academia. More than anyone likes to admit. Research I can handle. Writing too. People, well… they are another matter.

Interacting with strangers has always made me nervous, and every conversational misstep I’ve collected over the years has only made it worse. The thought of a room full of new classmates and faculty makes me feel sick. Those are exactly the people I need to impress.

Perhaps pouring caffeine on the situation is unwise.

As I’ve done every day for the past week, I start rehearsing conversations in my head.

Hi, I’m Torin Ramsay. Smile. It’s nice to meet you.

Eye contact. Yes, my shirt is stuck to my back.

Thank you for noticing. Don’t panic. If I’m caught off guard, I might say something nonsensical or simply freeze up, unable to reply.

The streets are almost empty at this early hour, so I pull out my phone and review my list of conversation starters. Glencoe. Highland Clearances. Scottish languages. Safe topics. Topics I find interesting. Otherwise, I tune out quickly and then say something stupid.

A text notification pops up as I’m walking, and I’m looking down when a pair of trainers appears in front of me.

My gaze travels upward. To the golden hair and tanned skin on muscular legs, past athletic shorts, up his lean torso to broad shoulders and huge arms extending from a sleeveless shirt. Then I reach his face. Piercing blue eyes below perfectly coiffed blond hair.

He’s around my age and height but built like a demigod, a real-life Hercules.

For a few seconds we just stare at each other, both of us open-mouthed.

I reach for one of my conversation starters, but none of them prepared me for this.

Where I’m accidentally inches away from one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen.

The handsome stranger recovers first, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Howdy,” he says. “I’m Beau. Beau Fontenot.” His teeth are perfect, his voice deep and rich, his accent American.

Still frozen, I register the word “howdy.” A scene from Oklahoma! springs to mind—Hugh Jackman, cowboy hat, bronzed skin glistening with sweat. After history, musicals are my greatest love. Maybe he’s from Oklahoma?

I tear my brain away from the image of ripped Australians, but I’m still standing awkwardly in front of a ripped American. Unable to maintain eye contact any longer, I fixate on the patch of sweat in the middle of his large chest, trying to remember what he’d said.

He tilts his head to catch my eye again and holds out a strong, veiny hand. “And you are?”

Right. Introducing myself was one of the things I’d just practiced. My mouth is still hanging open, so I turn it into a smile. “I’m Torin.” His hand is still out, so I reach out and take it.

His grip is firm and warm, and a shiver runs down my spine. “Nice to meet you, Torin,” he drawls.

“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, scrambling to remember his name. “Beau,” I add—still holding his hand. I quickly let go.

When I look back up, he’s still smiling, this time with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, one that suggests I’m not the only person he’s left momentarily speechless.

Taking comfort in that, I look around to get my bearings.

A Range Rover sits at the curb with a small pile of boxes in the boot, and the door to an upscale townhome is open beside us.

“Looks like you’re moving in?” I ask, internally commending myself for keeping the conversation going.

Beau glances at the boxes. “Yeah, I got here a couple days ago, but the items I shipped from Texas only made it here this morning. Just picked them up because it was going to be another two days before they could deliver.” He grabs the parcel on top, and I try not to watch his arms flex as he carries it over and sets it on the pile just inside the doorway.

Beau comes back for another box, glancing at me with that same amused smile. Dimples crease his cheeks. Because of course he has dimples.

Dimples is #7 on The List. My sister and I saw “The List of Non-Sexual Things That Are Actually Sexy AF” on BuzzFeed years ago and decided to make our own. The List currently has seventeen items, and I have a feeling Beau could check off a lot of them.

I mean, how often does one meet a handsome Texan who says things like “howdy” and has dimples? I glance around for something, anything to talk about. Spotting the remaining boxes, I ask, “Do you need any help with those, Beau from Texas?”

Beau sets another package inside and looks me up and down. “Nah. They’re pretty heavy. I can handle it.”

My face grows hot and not just from the steadily climbing temperature outside.

Did this stranger just imply that I’m not strong enough to carry a box for a few meters?

I may not have his bulging muscles, but I grew up on a farm.

My strength comes from hard work and raising animals, not from going to an air-conditioned gym like a spoiled princess.

Before I can reconsider, I throw my jacket on top of one of the boxes and pick it up.

Beau was right: it's heavy. I carry it inside anyway, refusing to show any strain as I follow him into the building.

When he turns around, I hand it to him with what I hope is a casual expression and not the smug one trying to escape.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but recovers quickly.

“Thanks,” he says, flashing an impressed smile. He takes it and sets it with the rest, then hangs my jacket on the door handle on our way to the last few packages.

Now on more even footing, I take the initiative again. “So, what brings you to Scotland?”

He lifts another box, and this time I do watch his arms flex, bringing a different kind of heat, this time to my center.

“I’m here for school,” he says.

I hope my surprise doesn’t show. I would’ve assumed he was a model or an actor, that he’s here to shoot a new Hollywood blockbuster or feature in a Calvin Klein ad. The heat in my core intensifies as I picture him in a pair of boxer briefs.

I carry another box, trying not to think about black-and-white photo shoots. He takes it from me and asks, “Are you from Edinburgh?”

“No, the Highlands,” I say as we grab the last two packages.

“And what brings you to the big city?” There’s more of his Texas twang on those last two words, like he’s playing it up for me. He’s wearing that amused smile again, and I can’t tell if he’s taking the piss or not.

I hold my judgment, not wanting my anxiety to get the better of me again. “I also moved here for uni. I’m starting my PhD.”

Beau wipes the sweat off his brow with a toned forearm before taking the last box from me. “Dr. Torin has a nice ring to it.”

“Actually, I’ll be Dr. Ramsay. Ramsay’s my surname.” I cringe at this pedantic blunder, shifting from one foot to the other. I could’ve told him thanks and moved on, but I had to put my foot in my mouth.

“Dr. Ramsay sounds even better,” he says, seemingly unbothered by my response. The way he smiles at me banishes my embarrassment and brings back the warmth in my core.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he says, before checking it.

I glance around. We’re in the foyer next to a massive sitting room with a large fireplace, leather couches, antique tables, a writing desk, and what I’m pretty sure are Tiffany lamps.

The sort of space that suggests serious money.

The Tag Heuer on his wrist and the high-end furnishings support that theory.

He can probably afford this whole place by himself.

A pang of irritation surfaces. The flat James and I were going to share wasn’t as nice as this, but it wasn’t nearly as cramped and outdated as my current living situation.

I study Beau while he’s distracted. A furrow appears between his brows, and it’s hard to tell if he’s entertained or confused.

He pulls the hem of his shirt up, absentmindedly scratching his torso—#12 on The List—and I glimpse a light dusting of golden hair on bronzed honest-to-God abs.

I’m somewhere between finding him hot and thinking he must be incredibly vain.

He looks up to find me staring, a sheepish smile tilting up the corner of his full lips. “Sorry,” he mutters, returning his phone to his pocket, “I get distracted sometimes.”

“No worries,” I say, surprised at the shift from the confidence he’d exuded before.

“Can I get you anything?” Beau asks quickly. “Tea might take a while, but I’ve got water, electrolytes. All kinds of stuff.”

I’m tempted, but he’s probably just being nice. It’s best to leave before I say something else stupid.

“No, I’m alright, thanks. I should be on my way,” I say as I turn to the door.

Beau strides ahead of me, taking my jacket off the handle and handing it to me. We’re close enough that I can smell him now. The words “woodsy” and “masculine” spring to mind, each more ridiculous than the other. Can’t believe I’m smelling a stranger.

I’m staring again. “Well, erm—welcome to Scotland!”

“Thanks,” Beau says, his easy smile and relaxed posture returning. “Thanks for the help.”

We maintain eye contact for another moment before I turn and step onto the pavement. “You know,” he calls after me, “you’re stronger than you look.”

My brain, hardwired to hear criticism, registers his words as an insult. Before I can stop myself, I whip around to face him. “And I’m surprised that someone as pretty as you would use all those muscles for something other than posing for his Instagram.”

Beau steps closer to me and only pauses for a second before one corner of his mouth turns up. “You think I’m pretty?”

Shite. Of course this rich, smug prick thinks I’m complimenting him.

“No, that’s not—” I start as I try to find words to make it clear I do not think he’s pretty, made somewhat difficult by the fact that he is, annoyingly, incredibly attractive.

Beau’s smile becomes even more wicked as my mouth opens but produces absolutely nothing. Is he enjoying this?

Taking a breath, I scrape together my remaining dignity and say, “I have to go.”

“Thanks for the warm welcome,” he calls as I turn and walk away. Then, so quietly that I barely hear, he says, “And the compliment…” just before the door clicks shut.