by Alyssa Cole
“Whoa, bruv, I didn’t know all that,” Jamie said. “I thought it was because you just liked brawling. That’s some real Harry Potter, aye? Did your first sword choose you, like the wand?”
“Again with the Harry Potter shite,” Tavish grumbled, but a smile played at his lips. His full, kissable lips. Portia took a sip of tea and reminded herself that whatever this feeling was would pass. She didn’t do crushes. Usually she saw what she wanted and went for it, aided by a drink or two or five. As much as she hated to admit it, she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with attraction in a world where both drinking and fucking were off the table. This was her first big test, and Portia had always been the twin that did horribly at tests.
“King Arthur would be more accurate,” Portia pointed out, dragging her thoughts back to the conversation. “The Sword in the Stone. Excalibur.”
“Aye,” Tavish said. He glanced at her. “Though in the original Welsh legend the sword was called Caledfwich. It was known as Calisvol in Middle Cornish, and eventually Latinized to Caliburnus by—”
“Okay, we get it, bruv,” Jamie said. He gave a long-suffering sigh.
Portia was not having the same reaction at all. Her boss acted like a gruff, annoying jerk, but dammit there was something about a man who could casually mention Middle Cornish at dinner conversation without sounding pretentious that Portia found irresistible. It didn’t matter—she would resist.
“What do you think Tav’s patronus would be?” Cheryl asked, grabbing Jamie by the forearm and hopping in her seat.
Jamie sighed. “We’ve already discussed this, love. A honey badger.”
“Oh, that’s riiiight. He’s such a Hufflepuff.”
“A Hufflegruff more like,” Jamie said, hand at his chin as if he were giving the matter real thought.
“All right, all right,” Tavish said, standing again. He feigned annoyance but ran his hand gently over Jamie’s curls as he passed by him, as if his brother were a boy instead of a man almost as large as Tav. The small act made Portia’s chest go tight. It was a protective, possessive movement. She remembered stroking Reggie’s hair in the ICU, partially to give comfort to her sister and partially to assure herself that her sister was still there.
She didn’t know much about Harry Potter shite, as Tav had called it, but Jamie’s patronus would probably be a grumpy Scotsman with a sword.
Tav’s gaze turned to her. “If you find any peas under your mattress tonight you’ll have to deal with it yourself. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow, and no time for your nonsense, Princess Freckles.”
He downed the last of his beer, tossed the bottle in the recycling bin, and stalked out.
Cheryl and Jamie shot each other looks, but Portia didn’t mind his rudeness. It was a reminder that she wasn’t there to make friends, as the saying went, or at least not with him. The only role Tav would play in Project: New Portia was showing her how to make a blade and, possibly, how to use it. That was dangerous enough.
Chapter 4
The cold breeze off of the firth buffeted against Tav’s track suit as his trainers pummeled the concrete along the waterfront. Icy droplets of misty late spring rain slapped his face and hands, as if reprimanding him for his recent behavior.
He pushed himself at his slow and steady pace, hoping the sea air and the exertion would clear his head. The past few days hadn’t gone as expected, and he needed to discharge the nervous energy zipping through him.
Maybe then he’d be able to do his damned job.
He’d understood that taking on an apprentice would be an intrusion. Jamie had talked of “publicity” and “free marketing,” and those had both sounded like good things. And Tav had even grown somewhat excited about the idea—he genuinely enjoyed teaching, and it felt like he was leveling up in his craft. He was skilled enough to produce another swordmaker, which was a career milestone. He also wasn’t enough of an ass to forget that he had once been an apprentice, that this was the best way for his trade to be passed down. You couldn’t learn what it takes to be a master swordsmith by watching a blasted video alone. It required time at the side of a skilled professional, which was his problem. He hadn’t been feeling professional at all when it came to Portia.
How the fuck am I supposed to pull this off?
They’d received thousands of applications. There had been Highland boys, a cluster of girls from Mexico, a man from a small village in Kenya—applicants from all around the globe. Why had Jamie chosen her of all people? There had to have been more qualified applicants, or someone who needed the opportunity more. Or at the very least, someone that didn’t make him feel like a lad about to stain his britches at the sight of her.
Bloody hell.
He’d been unable to get the sight of her lunging and parrying out of his head since he’d watched her participate in Jamie’s class. She should’ve looked foolish, carrying on in her fancy jeans and blouse—he’d expected her to give up after the first exercise. But she’d stuck to it, chest heaving, curls in disarray, skin flushed from exertion. Her expression had been so determined that Tav hadn’t even paid much attention to her poor form. Portia wasn’t afraid of a little hard work, despite her whole put-together posh vibe.
He pushed himself a bit harder as he ran.
Tav wasn’t a playboy, but he wasn’t a monk either. He’d married young, tried to make it work, and failing that, stuck to what he knew best: weaponry and fighting. He had a good time with women he met at the pub, or the occasional longer-term acquaintance, but he preferred it when the only call he had to answer was the singing of metal against metal.
A woman had once told him he was like the weapons he made: cold, sharp, and designed to repel those who got too close. Tav had gotten a laugh out of that, but any blade lost its edge over time, and no metal was invulnerable if you heated it enough.
Tav lifted his knees a bit higher as he ran, upping the intensity as he passed a dog walker wrangling four large, wet dogs who were none too happy to be outdoors. One leapt after him, sniffing, and Tav grimaced at the visual, since that was how he felt when Portia was in his proximity.
His reaction to his apprentice didn’t make sense. He’d gone years without this . . . whatever it was that made him feel like a grumpy beast skulking around his castle. At meals, it was a battle to keep from glancing at her across the table. And she was smart, too. Interesting. It seemed like anything he, Jamie, or Cheryl brought up she could either discuss or was excited to learn more about. There had been an excitement in her gaze when he’d spoken about Excalibur, a hunger to know more where Tav was usually met with boredom. If Tav had been intent on diving into disaster, he wouldn’t have hurried out of the kitchen. He didn’t know how he’d face that hunger—not for him, but for his knowledge—when he had to train her, and survive it with his wits intact.
What is it about her? Tav couldn’t pinpoint it, and that’s what worried him.
He’d once believed in love and all that tripe—he’d thought what he felt for his ex-wife, Greer, would never fade. He’d thought their connection was something that would grow deeper with time, like the roots of a strong oak that delved deep into the earth. Instead it had been uprooted, and not even by a strong gale. Love had just kind of eroded out from under them while they weren’t looking, and their marriage had come crashing down with the slightest nudge.
Greer had moved on and seemed happy with her life. Tav had his family and his work and his students; that was all the fulfillment he needed, and it didn’t require giving his heart to someone and waiting for the other shoe to drop right onto that vital organ.
But this thing with Portia bothered him. She made him nervous, had him sprung like an old coil that had been rusted down for ages and didn’t know how to restrain itself when it got a spritz of lubrication.
Tav turned the corner, onto his street. He could see the armory in the distance and began pushing himself harder, a last sprint to round off the jog. He’d feel it tomorrow—his old knees would make sure of that�
��but he needed the burn of muscles and lungs to crowd out the other, deeper burn.
This is madness.
Why were thoughts about a woman he barely knew crowding out matters of more importance? He should be worrying about crumbling walls, the leak in Jamie and Cheryl’s bathroom, the council tax, and the inspection that would point out every repair needed in the place. The local renaissance faire was in two weeks, and he still hadn’t even put an advert in the paper or nailed down a final lineup of students to spar during the exhibitions. Instead, he’d been figuring out why he liked someone when in the end it didn’t matter. Basic decency said Portia was off-limits, and his own rules of engagement said likewise.
He pushed himself hard, past the people milling about in front of Doctor Hu’s with umbrellas, up the stairs and into the armory’s alcove, where he found Portia standing with three older women.
“Oh, so there aren’t any tours then?” one of them asked, sounding put out. It was something that happened every other week or so.
Portia glanced at him, brows lifting as she took in his panting rain-soaked state, and then turned her attention back to the women. “No, but I do think it’s a wonderful idea. It’s something we’re thinking about setting up. Do you want to sign up for the mailing list?”
Tav wasn’t about to turn his home into a tourist trap for strangers, but he gave Portia the benefit of the doubt and assumed that she was just trying to get them to bugger off. Adding them to the mailing list was a good touch, he had to give her that.
The women left, giving Tav a wide berth, and then Portia turned her smile onto him. “Hi.”
“Herm.” Tav wasn’t sure what that sound was even supposed to be, but it was the closest he could come to a greeting. Portia was wearing a T-shirt made of some kind of expensive fabric that managed to be loose and clinging at once. The deep vee exposed her freckled décolletage. Tav wanted to run right back out into the cold rain—Christ, he was the worst kind of creeper.
Greer had once come home agitated and near tears, weeping with anger and shame as she’d told him how her supervisor had leered at her as she’d tried to explain something to him. Tav had thought he wasn’t the kind of man that would let his base desires make a woman uncomfortable. He didn’t want to become that kind of man just because someone he was attracted to now worked with him. Worse, for him.
“Thanks for taking care of them,” he said, his gaze now on her simple black flats.
“No problem,” she said. “Though that wouldn’t be a bad idea. I was actually going to ask you if—”
“No,” Tav cut her off, meeting her gaze. “No tours.”
Tours would mean strangers crawling around where he worked and steps away from where he lived. It would mean that every crack in the wall, every flake of old paint, every repair that had to be put off until he could afford it would suddenly be given priority.
“You’re not even going to hear me out?” she asked.
“Nope. Setting up tours of the armory is about a million and one on the list of things that need to be done around here.”
“Well, what exactly are you doing? I’ve been trying to set up a meeting to figure that out but you keep putting me off.”
“I’m busy, lass. Don’t have time for messing about. We’ll talk next week.”
“Next week. Meaning two weeks since my arrival. Okay.”
She was annoyed, but it was the disappointment in her tone that grated at him. He faltered.
“Hasn’t Jamie given you work to do?”
“Jamie? Your brother, who is not a swordsmith? Yes, he has.”
Tav nodded and turned to head toward the stairs. “Well, that’s this week sorted then. I’ll have something for you next week.”
With that he glanced somewhere in the area of that damned nose of hers, nodded, and took off up the stairs. He heard Jamie’s voice coming from the kitchen and made a beeline for it. His brother was hunched over a pad of paper that lay on the counter, the cordless landline held to his ear with his shoulder, writing something down.
“I said he’s busy, mate. You asking to talk to him again doesn’t change that. Do you want to leave the message or no?” He scribbled something down. “Aye. He’ll ring back when he can.”
He dropped the phone onto its cradle with annoyance.
“What’s the script?” Tav asked, trying not to show the panic that surged through him. Had it been a call about the taxes? About the work that needed to be done on the building, or collections inquiring about his maxed-out credit card? He thought those would all go to his decrepit cell phone, but sometimes bill collectors got pushy . . .
Jamie straightened and when he spoke his voice took on a pompous air. “‘I’m calling once again on behalf of Mr. Douglas, with a new, increased offer on the property.’”
Tav slumped a bit in relief.
“They’re offering more? Fuck’s sake, what part of no don’t they understand?” Tav scrubbed a hand through his wet hair.
“You know these rich knobs. They can’t take no for an answer.” Jamie’s face was taut with annoyance, and he looked so much like their mother that Tav couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Well, no is the only answer they’re gonna get, aye?” Tav said. “I’d sell the armory to a stranger for a pound if it meant this Mr. Douglas wouldn’t get his hands on it.”
There was an awkward silence and when he glanced over, Jamie was staring at him.
“Are you really thinking of selling?”
Tav could imagine the thoughts running through his brother’s head. What would happen to the classes Jamie was working so hard to build up? And Cheryl’s food stand, that was just beginning to take off? Where would they live, and how would they rebuild? They were the same questions that had been plaguing Tav over the last few months. The property was his, but so many others depended on him. Cheryl. Jamie. The neighborhood kids and his students.
“Ach, no! It was just a hypothetical,” he said cheerfully. He realized too late that he wore cheerful like an ill-fitting jacket, and changed the subject. “Speaking of rich annoying people, I have a question for you. Why her?”
“Who?” Jamie said, his gaze sliding to the counter. He turned to the little pile of greens, carrots, and bananas sitting on a cutting board and began loading them into the blender.
“Is there another her who’s moved in recently?” Tav asked. “I’ve asked before and you keep dodging the question.”
“Oh. Portia. She had the most thorough application,” he said. “Most people said ‘Swords are cool!’ or ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Edinburgh’ or ‘Looks like fun!’ Or there was some sad story about why they deserved it; it was hard to reject those. She was the only one who sent a clear reason for why she was interested, what she hoped to learn from it, and also what skills she thought we could learn from her. It was impressive, mate. Also, I just had a . . . vibe, I guess. She was the best fit.”
“A vibe. What the hell, Jamie?”
Jamie shrugged and Tav knew that was the only answer he’d get.
“You have all the non-vibe info anywhere?” Tav asked.
“You have this info. In your email. Along with all the other emails you’ve been ignoring. Seriously, bruv, it’s been days since she arrived, months since she was selected, and you’re just now really digging into this?”
Well, yes. Tav had been hoping that maybe the problem would sort itself out. But Portia wasn’t a problem. She was a person in his employ and she deserved the minimum respect of him knowing what she was about, even if she did get under his skin like splintered steel.
“I guess I’ll give it a look,” Tav said, which was met with a mock gasp from Jamie.
“Tavish McKenzie, agreeing to check his email with no threat of mutilation. That’s something.”
“Jamie,” Tav growled.
“Next time Mum and Da’ ask me why you haven’t returned their emails, as if they’re just down the street and not all the way in Santiago, maybe I’ll tell them to send i
t Subject: Portia Hobbs, yeah?” Jamie pressed on with a waggle of his brows.
“Oh, shut up and make me a smoothie,” Tav said.
“Shutting. Up.” That didn’t stop Jamie from grinning as the whir of the blender filled the kitchen.
Brothers were really the worst.
Chapter 5
What do you mean there’s no Wi-Fi?”
Portia gripped the cup of watery, lukewarm coffee she’d served herself and looked around Mary’s snug little bookshop, with its pastry nook and comfy seating. The walls were lined with shelves so stuffed with books that they seemed to be art installations, and old, warm-bulbed lamps hung from the ceiling. Portia had thought it would be the perfect spot to relax and get some work done on her second GirlsWithGlasses travel post and her brainstorming for the armory’s website, but apparently not.
“Well,” Mary said, pausing in bagging the books she’d dug up for Portia, “I believe in old-fashioned connection, not internet connection. Everyone having their faces glued to their phones all the time is unhealthy. If people want to read, this is a bookstore, love.”
She said it in a pleasant tone that implied that she would cut anyone who tried to argue otherwise. This was backed up by the large box cutter on the counter in front of her.
“Right,” Portia said, taking the handles of the plastic bag with her purchases in it. She could use her phone as a mobile hot spot, but she didn’t have an unlimited data plan and, honestly, what kind of shop didn’t have Wi-Fi? She wasn’t going to butt in, though. After all, this was New Portia, who didn’t stick her nose in other people’s business all the time and worried about fixing her own flaws. But . . .
The bookshop was beautiful—it had the shabby chic atmosphere that trendy boutiques all over Brooklyn tried to replicate, but with the warm, cozy feeling that came with real aged wood and worn-in furniture. She knew Bodotria had a healthy number of young freelancers and artists, people who worked from home who would probably jump at the chance to work elsewhere. It seemed criminal not to mention a possible source of revenue.
