“Tavish,” Cheryl said, her voice low with warning. “You’re being a wanker.”
“No. He’s right,” Portia cut in before he could respond. She wasn’t sure how she managed to keep the waver out of her voice, but she could be proud of at least one thing. It was likely smoothed over by the flash of anger that currently had her in its thrall. “If Tavish is incapable of explaining basic things to his apprentice, it’s probably best that I don’t go.”
“Wait a minute—”
“I mean, it’s not like I’ve streamlined the databases and reorganized the shipping process to save money over the past week because I’m apparently too silly to bother teaching swordmaking to. It’s not like I upended my life to move to a strange country, expressly to learn a new skill, only to be told I’m not capable of handling something that a child running a lemonade stand is entrusted with. So yeah, maybe it’s best I don’t go to the exhibition. Wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone.”
Her eyes were glossy with unprofessional tears and she wanted more than anything to disappear, or perhaps get carried away by a passing flock of birds. She felt ridiculous. She was ridiculous. She’d traveled thousands of miles just to be reminded that at the end of the day, Portia Hobbs wasn’t the kind of person you counted on—a lesson she’d learned well enough in the US of A.
Cheryl and Kevyn were silent—the oh shit this is awkward do we stick around or make ourselves scarce kind of silent. Tavish sighed and dropped into the seat beside Kevyn.
She was ready to go inside and pack her bags. If she stayed, he might see her cry, and she’d been humiliated enough for one day. She had a job waiting for her in New York after all, not that she would embarrass herself any less at that one.
“Come here, Freckles.” He looked up at her. “Please.”
She walked over stiffly and sat down across from him, not meeting his gaze.
“The problem is . . .”
She braced herself. She should stop him. She knew her own faults better than anyone and didn’t need to hear them listed out.
“. . . that I’m a bit of an arse. Grumpy. Stubborn. Recalcitrant—I’m sure you’ve got a thesaurus on your electronic hingmie.”
“What?” Portia asked. She had been so ready to be told about her faults that she had no response to Tav listing off his own.
He folded his hands together and spoke to her like he was taking her concerns seriously, something she hadn’t been expecting at all. “I’m used to working with my family, and my family is used to said arseyness.”
Cheryl had gone inside the food stand to continue setting up for lunch, but she made a sound of annoyance at that. “That’s no excuse! You’re supposed to treat your family with kindness, you muppet.”
Tav shot her a look, then turned his attention back to Portia. His expression was . . . contrite?
“I’m not suddenly going to be puking rainbows and hearts, but you’re right. I haven’t been a good boss. I pushed everything off onto Jamie and then left you to figure out the rest. If my master had done that during my apprenticeship, none of us would be here right now because I wouldn’t have become a swordmaker.”
“Are you apologizing?” Kevyn asked incredulously. He turned to Portia. “Did you hit him in the head when you maced him the other day, love?”
“I’m not apologizing. I’m saying that my behavior has been shit and I’ll try to do better.” His gaze was on Portia and even though he was frowning, she could see the slightest hint of vulnerability.
Fuck. No! Unfortunately, it seemed that “gruff but vulnerable” was a trait she could really appreciate in a man. She ignored the way her breath caught and reminded herself that gruff was a synonym for “acts like an asshole because other people enable him.”
“That sounds like an apology,” she said, then worked her bottom lip with her teeth. New Portia didn’t do enabling. “But if you’re really trying to be a better boss you can give me a real one.”
She felt the sudden, ingrained shame of having asked for something she wanted, but fought against it and waited.
Tav cleared his throat and inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry that I treated you like one of these knuckleheads instead of like a delicate flower,” he replied, eyes narrowed. “How’s that work?”
“Works great if it means I’m getting the delicate flower treatment from now on,” she shot back, and was shocked to see a ruddy pink begin to spread over both of his cheeks.
Shit. Gruff but vulnerable Tavish was bad enough, but flustered and blushing Tavish landed a direct hit on all her attraction buttons, pushing down on them with the pressure of a sonic boom. She sucked in a breath.
Actually, both are your boss and both are off-limits.
Tavish slapped his hands on the table and stood. “Right then. I’ve got work to do. Kev, you can tell her about the exhibition.”
With that he was up and swaggering back into the armory, moving quickly for such a big man.
“Ha!” Kevyn looked at Portia with wide eyes. “I just witnessed a miracle. The taming of Tavish.”
“I don’t do taming,” Portia said nonchalantly. “That requires time and effort that I could be putting into myself.”
“Are you both hungry? I have some tasty ribs on the menu today!” Cheryl called out.
Kevyn raised his brows. “Do you want to grab a bite while I tell you about the exhibition?”
Portia had writing and research to do, and should really finish those damn spreadsheets, but work could wait.
“Sure,” she said, then turned to Cheryl. “Can I have some dumplings with the ribs?”
Cheryl carried over their plates and joined them at the table, ready to spring from her seat if any customers approached.
“So. What are your feelings about renaissance faires? I know they’re dorky and everything but—”
Portia held up a hand to cut her off.
“Cheryl, I think there’s been some misunderstanding,” Portia said. “I’m not a geek, but I am a dork. There’s a ren faire every year at this park near where my friend Ledi lived in Manhattan, and I used to drag her along with me.”
Cheryl clapped with glee and Portia bit into the delicious lunch she’d been served. She could worry about Tavish and his weird behavior later. She had somehow come out of their conversation the victor, and she was going to celebrate.
Chapter 6
Tavish had been grinding in his workshop for hours and the restless energy hadn’t left him. Two weeks of body-intensive labor, really putting his back into production and sparring, plus a newfound interest in jogging, and he still hadn’t gotten the sudden, simmering need that had coincided with Portia’s arrival out of his system.
He turned on the power grinder and began the first passes of the sgian-dubh blade over the whirring, textured surface, smoothing away the imperfections in the metal. Someone had placed a somewhat substantial order for the small traditional daggers, and he was trying to get them out as quickly as possible, before the customer could change their mind. With his recent business luck, he couldn’t risk delay or sending out anything but perfect products.
He tried to clear his mind of everything else but the work before him. He braced himself against the shock that ran up the tang, gripped tightly in his hand, and reverberated through his body. Beveling the edge of the blade to make it sharp required slightly less concentration than other parts of the process. It required focus, like everything he did, but years of experience meant that stray thoughts of his business woes, or of his apprentice, wouldn’t result in the loss of hours of work.