She liked interacting with people, especially if she got to talk about things she was interested in. She’d been researching way more than necessary for the website, and this would be a way to use her knowledge.
“Look, lass, these events are to bring in new people to the lessons and to buy our product. I need staff that really knows what they’re talking about, who can communicate with both a complete amateur and someone who’s been studying for years.” His expression lit up, like he’d thought of something really clever, and he snapped his fingers. “It’s like that pop-up ad you wanted to get rid of on the site, yeah? Let’s say I put you to work at the Bodotria Armory stall. Someone comes up and asks for a sgian-dubh or some kind of armor. If you have to run and grab me or Jamie or Kevyn, then they might just walk off and buy from someone who knows what they’re on about. Or they might buy, and then spread the word that we’re not the real deal. Customers are fickle.”
He gave her a self-satisfied grin, as if he’d just explained her uselessness to her with her own words, and they could now move on from this.
He was underestimating her.
Portia let him pat himself on the back for a moment and then walked over to the table where several weapons lay waiting for shipping. She picked up a short squat blade with an ornate black hilt, ran her fingertip along the dull edge, then pointed it at Tavish.
Tav held up his hands, mild alarm lifting his brows. “Hey now, I know you have a violent streak, but—”
“Skean dhu, a short single-edged blade, name derived from the Gaelic Sgian-dubh, meaning hidden, as the blade was something that could be kept on the body after other weapons were deposited at the door of a dwelling, per Highland tradition. Usually worn tucked into the stocking in Highland dress. Not to be confused with . . .” She put the blade down and sifted through the knives, picking up a similar blade. “. . . the mattucashlass, which is a double-edged blade worn under the armpits and used in hand-to-hand combat.”
“Portia—”
She didn’t look at him, simply dropped the knife down and picked up a knife with a longer blade and a slimmer hilt, this one in bronze. “Those knives are earlier versions of this baby, the Scottish dagger known as a dirk. It’s a long thrusting dagger descended from the medieval ballock dagger, but became an integral part of Scottish weaponry.”
She turned to him, batting her lashes even though she would rather have chucked the dagger in his general direction. “As for clothing, do you mean an actual suit of armor? Functional or decorative? Or more like a brigandine, a padded vest, traditionally canvas or leather, lined with steel plates? We can talk mortuary swords, claymores, broadswords, the compound Sinclair—”
“All right, Freckles.” He held his hands up, probably to shut her up but she liked to think of it as a sign of defeat.
“I can do this all day,” she said. “I told you, I’ve studied lots of things, and what I don’t know I look up instead of just assuming. You should try it sometime.”
Now that she was done and Tav was just staring at her, embarrassment started to creep up her neck. The man was an expert in swordmaking and a literal master. And she’d just thrown her 101 knowledge at him and expected what exactly?
Tav was still looking at her, then he . . . smiled. Really smiled. She could see his teeth and everything. Dammit, she’d thought she’d won that battle for a second, but if she’d known it would pull this reaction from him she would have let him go on thinking her silly.
Tavish McKenzie sporting a glower was sexy. Tav with those full lips curved up and crow’s feet framing his eyes because he was grinning so hard? Her stomach lurched like she was on a crappy carnival ride and she realized with horror that despite not doing crushes, despite definitely not doing bosses, she liked Tavish. For real. She hadn’t had a butterflies-in-her-stomach crush smack into her full force like this since senior year of high school when she’d wanted Hector Washington to ask her to the prom SO BADLY. He’d asked Reggie instead. She’d gotten over that short-lived infatuation quickly and she’d get over this one even faster.
“Okay. You win,” he said. Light, casual, as if he’d always been capable of talking to her like this. “You can work the table. If you can do that at the table, I’m sure we’ll have no problem with sales.”
Relief flowed through her and she let out the breath she had been holding. If she wasn’t mistaken, the stats were New Portia 2–Thigh Man 0 in whatever weird Hot Jerk Challenge they had going on. 3–0 if she counted the macing.
It was strangely arousing to know that despite his stubbornness, Tav was able to concede his mistakes. She might have to retract his addition to Fuckboy Monthly, the fake periodical she and Ledi had started, which was now mostly filled by Nya’s online dating encounters since Ledi was monogamous and Portia was celibate-ish.
No “ish,” bish. Celibate. Focusing on self. Not getting ideas about your boss.
“Erm . . .” Tav shoved his hands into his pockets. His muscles flexed beneath his snug-fitting T-shirt as he lifted his shoulders in an awkward motion, so Portia fixed her gaze on his left nostril. Nostrils were safe. “What are you doing this afternoon?” he asked.
Could he be . . . ? No. No way was he asking her on a date. Her body went tense because she wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea, despite her mental pep talk.
“I’ve got the after-school lesson with the weans if you’d like another apprentice duty. Bit more fun than packing boxes. You should come help if you aren’t afraid of breaking a nail or somesuch.”
“Oh.” Portia’s annoyance pushed any appreciation of his attractiveness, and the mingled relief and disappointment that he was still talking strictly business, to the background of her mind. “If you’re going to rely on sexist clichés, at least get some fresh material. And if I do break a nail off, it’ll be someplace extremely unpleasant for you.”
He chuckled and stepped around her as he headed for the door. “The class starts at five.”
Chapter 8
Hey, welcome to part two of so you think you’re a hot mess. Don’t forget to hit that subscribe button below because if you’re anything like me? You won’t remember to do it at the end of the video. You might not even make it to the end of the video if something else distracts you. So hit subscribe and then we can talk about the elephant in the room: ADHD!”
Caridad sprayed two cans of confetti foam at the screen and Portia hit pause and stared out at Tavish and his students.
ADHD?
She’d never really considered it. She’d always been told that she was flighty, flakey, lazy, scattered, impulsive . . . but she was also curious, and super engaged when something interested her. Still, the negative always outweighed the positive, and she’d always figured that she was just . . . a fuck-up.
Something in her loosened with relief as the possible diagnosis repeated itself in a loop in her brain. ADHD! ADHD! ADHD! She had a word to use for her behavioral patterns. There were other people who felt the same way she did, maybe.
Still . . . it was strange thinking of herself as having a medical diagnosis for her behaviors. For years, her parents had subtly guilted her for not doing more with her life when she “didn’t have Regina’s issues.” Reggie had been kicking ass since she’d left the ICU and went into a physical therapy program; she’d certainly never seen herself as having any “issues” that could stop her from achieving her dreams, and neither had Portia. But their parents’ expectations had become a wedge that Portia had used to push herself away from everyone, even her sister. Things were different now, but what if someone had paid attention earlier? Or what if her parents had just accepted her instead of constantly comparing her?