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.”