by Alyssa Cole
Portia glanced at the products on the table and frowned a bit. “Break a leg!”
“If you want to go watch, I can take over for a bit,” Kevyn offered.
Cheryl slipped an arm through Portia’s. “Yes, come watch! Let’s see if Master Bob can get Tav on his knees as quickly as you did!”
Tav shot Cheryl a look, but he was the only one aware her words had more than one meaning.
They made their way to the small clearing where the martial arts exhibition was taking place. A crowd had gathered, and Bob was already in the middle, waving his ridiculous sword around. The older man was a bit of a show-off for Tavish’s tastes, but he was good at what he did and at playing up the theatrical side of their profession.
“McKenzie!” Bob bellowed, pointing his sword in Tav’s direction as he caught sight of him. “Keeping an opponent waiting is an insult, laddie.”
“OMG, I need to get video of this.”
Tav glanced over to find Portia tugging her cell phone out from between her breasts.
“You keep things in there?” he asked in a choked voice, trying not to look there in front of the crowd. He was so taken aback that he couldn’t even be annoyed about her wanting to record him.
“Yes.” She was busy navigating to her camera app. “Most women’s clothing doesn’t have pockets. Titty pockets are a functional adaptation.”
“Ooo, titty pockets,” Cheryl said, ruminating on the descriptor. “I call it my cheb shelf, but I like that, too.”
Master Bob made a sound of impatience. “Are you going to gawk at your lady friend or come to fight, McKenzie? Or are you scared of being paggered?”
There was a rumble in the crowd as everyone registered the playful insult.
“Get him, Master Tav!” a familiar voice called out. Tav looked over to find Syed and some of the students from his lessons cheering him on.
Portia looked up at him, her eyes bright and the record light on her phone blinking, and he almost forgot he wasn’t a knight. He was just a regular bloke who liked making shiny, pointy objects. A bloke who hated being videoed. But maybe he could put on a show for Portia and the weans just this once.
Tav lowered his mask down and stepped into the circle. He slowly pulled his sword out, whipped it back and forth for effect, then pointed it at his opponent.
“Do your worst, Robert.”
The crowd burst out into raucous applause, happy for the show, and Tav remembered that first time he’d watched an exhibition—how it had changed his life. How it had infused him with a sense of joy, as had his own apprenticeship, when he’d finally decided what he wanted to do with his life.
Portia had been right—he hadn’t been enjoying his work lately. With all the worries about money and the building, he was well on his way to being as dissatisfied with swordmaking and teaching as he had been with his office job. But this? This reminded him of everything he loved about the armory, and how fun his line of work could be.
Bob rushed toward him with a roar and Tav launched himself forward too, kicking up dirt behind him as their swords met with a resounding clang.
“I’ll go easy on you laddie,” Bob whispered as he pressed forward with all his weight against his sword. “Don’t want to embarrass you in front of your woman.”
Tav chuckled. He knew Bob was really asking for him to take it easy, but he wouldn’t be rude enough to point that out.
“Thanks, mate. I owe you one,” Tav said, then pushed Bob back and spun away, twirling the sword above his head in a move that would have left him exposed in a real battle but would impress the hell out of Portia.
This was a marketing opportunity after all—even if the line between selling his product to the crowd and himself to Portia had been hopelessly blurred.
It didn’t matter. After this fight, the exhibition would be over and the illusion would fade. But, like infatuation, it was glorious while it lasted.
Chapter 10
Portia wasn’t fond of coding, but tweaking the website’s template herself had been worth it. It had taken way longer than hiring someone, given all the web searches she’d had to do to supplement her knowledge of coding, but it had been free and was something she could use in the future. There’d been an uptick in business since the exhibition and her GirlsWithGlasses post, but she’d carved out time using the to-do list journal she’d started after bingeing on Hot Mess Helper videos. Caridad called it the “Brain Basura” list, though the technique was anything but garbage. Every morning, Portia took five minutes to “empty the trash” rattling around in her head and “sort” it into “bins” in varying levels of priority: SMELLY BROCCOLI—DISPOSE OF NOW; PRETTY GROSS—CHUCK IT ASAP; STARTING TO SMELL WEIRD; and *SNIFF* EH. She also jotted down random thoughts but only reviewed them later in the day when her “check the trash” alarm chimed.
The system had helped keep her on track of multiple projects better than anything else she’d tried. She was a little proud of herself, and maybe she wasn’t just getting a big head. Something had shifted in the way Tavish treated her since the exhibition. It was almost like . . . he respected her? And not even grudgingly.
A vibration on the table beside her slowly broke through her focus, and she grabbed the phone while still skimming the HTML code pane.
“Hello?”
“Hi, honey.”
Portia’s stomach executed an elevator free fall at the subtle Southern twang on the other end of the line, an unfortunate automatic reaction that piled shame on top of her anxiety. She should have been happy to hear this voice, and yet . . .
“Hey, Mom. How are you?”
“You know how it is—well, I guess you wouldn’t—busy with work. So busy! Just had a meeting with some investors and now I’m heading over to Brownsville to check out a site that’s for sale. I managed to scoop everyone on this, so I’m hoping to have it wrapped up before anyone tries to edge us out.”
Her mom could be vicious when it came to work, which was a boon in their profession. Reggie’s innate competitiveness had helped her thrive in the family business before pursuing her own dreams, but Portia hated this kind of work, where one mistake or second-guessing yourself could lose the company serious money.
“I’m pretty busy, too, actually.” Portia was embarrassed by the wheedling defensiveness that surged into her tone. It reminded her of when her parents had come home from parent-teacher night comparing Reggie’s honor roll to Portia’s uneven performance, and she’d point out that she’d gotten an A+ in art. “I’m totally redoing the website for the armory. Trying to get it done as quickly as possible because my marketing plan has really been paying off and—”
“That’s nice. Your father talked to you about the position we want to fill, correct?”
A wave of sadness washed through her, leaving anger when it receded. She wished her mother could even pretend to be interested in what she was working on. Feigned interest was a form of politeness Catharine Hobbs excelled at, but she seemed to reserve that talent for other people. Portia would love to know what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that empty cordiality.
“Dad told me you’re looking to fill the position with someone who will stick around for a while.” Portia picked up a pen and started doodling beside the sketches of the various layouts for the website on the pad next to her laptop, then dropped it in frustration. She was a grown woman, even if talking to her mom made her feel like a moody teen.
Her mother sighed. “Well?”
The pressure in that one word was enough to give Portia the bends. One moment she’d been happily immersed in a project she cared about and now she’d been hooked by her mother’s supposed concern and dragged kicking back to the surface of reality.
“I told Dad I would think about it,” she replied.
“If I recall, you didn’t have to think too long about accepting this silly apprenticeship.” Her mother’s voice was coated in disappointment, like poison on the end of a barb that would stay in Portia’s system long after
the chastisement was forgotten. “Good to know you care more about some random Scottish people than your own family.”
That tone had always been enough to make Portia burst into tears, and she swallowed against them now. “It’s not like that, Mom.”
She imagined telling her mother about the ADHD tests she’d taken online, all with the same results, but she wouldn’t have been able to stand it if her mother casually dismissed her discovery.
“Oh, I know,” her mother said. “It’s never like that. You do what you want, skip from one thing to another, but being a Jill of all trades, and master of none, can only get you so far. You need a marketable skill and you can’t even take the one we’re handing you?”
Portia closed the laptop, hoping the last changes had saved but not really caring. The site was just another thing she’d mess up eventually, wasn’t it?
“I have to go,” she said. “I have a meeting.”
“Oh, there’s the woe-is-me voice. I’m not trying to be the bad guy, Portia. I just want you to get your life—”
“Talk to you later, Mom.”
Portia sat for a moment after laying her phone down before shaking her head side to side, as if she could knock loose the unhelpful thought patterns her mother had kick-started in her brain.
Jill of all trades and master of none. Jill of all trades and master of none.
It would be one thing if she could dismiss the words outright, but her mother wasn’t totally wrong . . . still, that didn’t mean that taking a job with her parents was right either.
She tried to remember what Dr. Lewis had told her.
“Just because your parents don’t appreciate what you do doesn’t mean it holds less value. You’re trying to be true to yourself, and not to hurt anyone in the process. What more can you ask of yourself?”
Portia wasn’t sure, but she wished she knew. There had to be something that would please both her and her parents, didn’t there?
She didn’t feel like working on the site anymore, so she gently cracked open the book about guild halls of the seventeenth century Mary had given her. Beating herself up wasn’t useful; research was. She’d seen Dudgeon House listed as one of the earlier names for the building the armory was in, and searched it out in the index.
“Dudgeon House was home to the Mariner’s Guild for one hundred years, after which it was bought by a private owner and converted into Firth Hospital,” she read. She went back to the index, and found the entry for Firth Hospital.
She skimmed again, reading through the various public works done by the hospital. “The hospital was purchased by the Duchess of Richmond and Lennox, who opened a home for the destitute.”
That was the end of the entry, but she at least had a name. She pulled up the web browser on her tablet and set to work searching for the rest of the history of the building. Two long, frustrating hours later, all of her normal internet sources, and about a thousand possible avenues, had come to dead ends. This wasn’t even super important to the site, but not being able to find what she wanted bothered her.
She entered her notes into the document she was compiling in her note-taking app, then stood and stretched to work out the tightness in her back and shoulders. There was a bit of burn from the Defending the Castle class the night before, but she was getting the hang of that. It was a good release for the excess energy that had plagued her since the exhibition a week ago.
Portia had seen Tav’s moves in his classes with the kids, but that had been different than seeing him take on a man his size and with matching skills. It hadn’t been a real fight, but the way Tav had moved and the skill he’d displayed had been legit. The man could swing a sword, which Portia hadn’t ever thought would be her kink. And the way he’d pulled back his mask and smiled victoriously at her when he’d won . . . like it had been for her.
No.
Portia distracted herself like any modern woman—she picked up her phone and toggled through her social media sites. The photos from the Ren Faire on the armory’s InstaPhoto were getting some good engagement, but the video of Tav’s fight that she’d linked to her latest GirlsWithGlasses post had taken on a life of its own. Some of the readers had even started a hashtag—#swordbae—sharing it with GIFs of his fight, which she was sure Tav would just love. Oh well.
She copied a link to a post with the hashtag and pasted it into her International Friend Emporium chat.
Portia: Tavish is a meme. He’s going to kill me.
Nya: Maybe he won’t find out since he doesn’t use the internet. That could work to your advantage!
Portia: Finally, his stubborness will be an asset, lol
Portia went back to scrolling the hashtag. #swordbae’s admirers had apparently found her earlier blog posts about the apprenticeship (OMG, THIS IS JUST SO), descended upon the armory’s InstaPhoto feed (whoa, #swordbae is talented af), and shared older social media pics (look at how beautiful this building is! I can’t even!!) and the photo the Bodotria Eagle had shared of them (Is #swordbae wifed?☹). #swordbae posts gushed over Tav’s accent, his muscles, his talent, and the way he looked at the camera at the end of the clip—only Portia knew he had actually been looking at her.
Her body went warm again, and she decided it was time for a break. And for food, because she’d been so absorbed in her work that she’d forgotten to eat. Again.
She ventured out of her room in search of a late lunch. The now-familiar halls of the building were quiet; there was no whir of Tav’s grinder. Maybe he was out making deliveries.
Maybe you shouldn’t be conjecturing about his location because it doesn’t matter what he’s doing.
“Hey! There you are!” Cheryl said, looking up from her stir fry as Portia approached. It was nice to have someone be so unreservedly glad to see her, and washed away some of the bad taste left behind by her mom’s call. The ribs she’d become a fan of would do the rest.
“Hey! Can I get the Dalek Delight again?”
“Oh, sorry, we’re all out. He just got the last of it.” Cheryl pointed her wooden spoon over to the other side of the stand, where Tav sat at one of the tables, shoveling away the ribs that would have been Portia’s in a just world.
“Of course he did,” Portia muttered. “I’ll have the Skyfish-ball skewers and a side of Galli-fried rice. If someone didn’t eat all of that, too.” She shot a glare at Tav, who was happily biting into a delicious-looking rib.
“Sure thing. I’ll bring it over to Tav’s table when it’s ready.”
She’d hit Doctor Hu’s during a lull and Tav was the only other customer, and apparently Cheryl wasn’t aware of the fact that even though Tav was less of a jerk, he and Portia had never really been alone for non-work-related reasons. He generally made himself scarce in the shared areas unless Cheryl or Jamie were around.
There was also the actual problem: she had a kernel of a crush on the man. She needed to grind that kernel into meal, but in the meantime she would just act like everything was fine. Old Portia had been great at that, and New Portia could be, too. Not everything from her old life needed to go in the trash. She donned her blasé employee expression and walked over to him, wishing she had fewer manners so she could just ignore him and sit alone with her phone as she ate, like a normal millennial.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Yes.” He took another bite of food without looking up.
Well, someone was living her dream of a manners-free life. She wasn’t in the mood for his jabs—her mom’s call had wiped away the successes of the previous weeks, leaving her feeling vulnerable.
She turned to walk away, but something wrapped around her wrist, holding her in place. Tav’s thumb and forefinger. He was strong as fuck, his grip enough to hold her though she knew he was exerting the barest effort. If he really tried to hold her down . . .
A shiver went through her and settled in her belly, warm like good whiskey and just as bad for her. Somewhere deep inside of her, the kernel sprouted one bright green leaf.
> Dammit.
She looked down at him and there was heat in his gaze, a heat that probably matched the sensation that inched up her neck and over her skin. His eyes dropped to her chest and she tugged her hand away, crossing her arms over her traitorous nipples. Damned soft-cup bras.
“I was joking, Nip—Freckles,” he said, his voice rough. Color flooded his face, and he cleared his throat. “Sit down already.”
She slunk into the seat across from him, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. He seemed to be suddenly awkward too, though, which made things slightly better.
“How are the ribs?” she asked. “I’d been dreaming about those ribs since yesterday and you got the last of them.”
He raised a brow, examining the sauce-slathered meat. “They’re even more delicious than usual, now that you mention it. Mmmm.”
She really could have gone her whole life without hearing Tavish make that noise. It was low and obscene and her body was totally down with both of those things. She crossed her legs. “It’s bad enough I have to sit here and watch you eat them, you don’t have to tease.”
His gaze went from his food to her eyes. It was warm and mischievous and she desperately wished standoffish jerk Tav would reappear because goddamn. “Here’s the thing with teasing. It might seem like torture now, sitting there wanting what you can’t have, but when you finally get it? It’ll be the best you’ve ever had. The best ribs, that is.”
Portia watched him take a bite, shocked into silence by how easily he’d managed to undo all of her resolve with his words. It had been better when he snapped and grouched at her because this . . . this was not sustainable. Project: New Portia had only three rules and she was about ready to jump across the table and straddle her boss, breaking one of those foundational pillars and bringing everything crashing down onto her head, like she always did.
“I’ll be fine with my own meal,” she said. She realized her hands were gripping the table and dropped them into her lap.
Tav lifted one shoulder and both brows, not really a shrug, but an acknowledgment.
