Portia had spent K-12 as one of the few students of color at her prep school, so she wasn’t shocked that students could be so cruel. Syed had seemed to lash out at his friends for no reason, but of course there’d been a reason. She knew from experience that when you tried to bottle your feelings up inside, you inevitably sprang leaks in places that seemed entirely unrelated.
“He’s been acting out the last couple of weeks. Now that I think about it, that’s when the immigration debates made it onto the front pages again, with knobs in suits saying we need to block our borders and ‘preserve our heritage.’ Fucking hell.” Tav ran a hand through his thick hair, leaving his palm splayed atop his head. “You know, you think this shite is done with, and then you see weans spouting the same rubbish you heard when you were one.”
His gaze flashed to hers in preemptive challenge and his hand dropped to his side. “Mum is Chilean. And her husband, my real dad if not biological, is Jamaican. Kids thought it was funny to taunt about going back where you came from when I was growing up, too. Except they usually thought I’d taunt along with them.”
This was a champagne problem compared to other forms of bigotry, but she had her own uncorked bottles courtesy of her wealth and lighter complexion. She wasn’t going to downplay the fact that it had been really shitty and confusing for him, despite the fact that he was privileged in other ways.
“Racists suck, and I imagine being expected to hate on your family sucks too,” she said.
Tav shook his head.
“I’m fine. People assume the A in Tavish A. McKenzie stands for Alistair or some shite and not Arredondo, and that the McKenzie comes from some venerable Scottish clan and not a Jamaican slave owner.” He shook his head. “But Mum always told me how welcoming people were to her when she arrived. How there was a sense of solidarity with those who had suffered elsewhere and had to leave everything they knew behind, not a desire to keep them out.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “People have always been wankers, but I never thought she was wrong. I look at Syed and wonder if she is now, though. He shouldn’t have to feel unwelcome in his own country.”
For the first time she met him, he seemed more than irritable—he was furious.
She adjusted her armful of foam. “He shouldn’t, but he has you to talk to. And to show him sweet wrestling moves.”
Tav made a grunt of acknowledgment.
“Aye. I wish I could do more. Half the weans are worried their parents will be kicked out of their homes after benefits are cut, the other half that they’ll be kicked out of the country with all this talk of borders and nationality and refugees. It’s not right.”
Portia’s instinct was to raise a hand to his face to soothe him. Instead, she took two steps back. That wasn’t how this worked. It wasn’t how it worked at all. She was at her job, and just because Tav looked handsome while brooding over the well-being of children didn’t change the fact that he was her boss.
“I’m sure having this program helps,” she offered instead. “You’re doing something.”
“It’s not enough. And with the way sales are going . . .” He shook his head and she imagined she knew what he felt—the sick, impotent knowledge that some things were beyond your control. She would’ve suggested they get a pint, which had been her usual remedy for that malady, but that was her old game plan.
“What’s your favorite type of sword?” she asked, continuing to gather the foam ones scattered on the ground.
“Medieval claymore,” he said without hesitation. “A nice heavy, long two-hander.”
Portia fumbled the swords she’d collected and shot him a look, but she realized that he wasn’t trying to be funny—she was the only one whose mind had taken a running leap into innuendo land.
“Why?” she asked. “What do you like about it? How does it handle compared to, say, a broadsword?”
Tav picked up the last length of foam from the floor and poked her in the arm with it. “Are you trying to distract me from the woes of the world, Freckles?”
She grinned at him. “Is it working?”
“You don’t have to ask questions to distract me.”
She would’ve taken it as an insult if she hadn’t seen the way his five-o’clock shadow shifted as a slow smile creased his cheeks. The tension was still there around his eyes, but his hazel gaze was like warm maple syrup, and it poured awareness over her.
They were alone in the gymnasium, and he was joking with her in that way. This was something she was familiar with—heat cloaked behind humor. Tavish probably didn’t realize it, but he was offering something, something she only had to reach out and take hold of to change things between them.
Damn, she wanted to, and she felt that want low in her belly and in her breasts and everywhere lust could make itself known in her body. She even felt a strange stirring behind her rib cage, and that was what snapped her into action.
She yanked the length of foam, trying to gather it along with the rest and put some space between them, but he held on to his end without releasing it. He was studying her.
“What?” she asked, dropping her gaze to his hand wrapped around the bright purple foam.
“Did you kill a man or something? Are you on the run from the law?” he asked.
She snorted. “What kind of questions are those?”
“I’m trying to figure out what brought you of all people to here of all places. And I notice you didn’t answer.”
“I’m not on the run and I haven’t killed a man. Yet.” She paused and looked up at the ceiling as if searching her memory. “Wait, are we talking in spirit or body? I’ve committed several spiritual homicides according to my friend.”
“Your friend the princess?” She looked up at him again to find him smirking.
“Yes. Ledi isn’t one to mince words.”
“Spiritual mankiller. I believe it,” he said, and then released his end of the foam noodle. She stumbled back, catching herself, and he grabbed his duffel bag and headed for the exit. “Good thing we Scots are made of hardy stuff. Can you sweep and mop and lock up afterward?”
With that he was gone.
Portia pulled out her phone and took a selfie of herself holding the armful of foam noodles, which was quite an accomplishment, and spent the next few moments choosing between filters on InstaPhoto instead of trying to figure out what exactly had just happened between them.
Chapter 9
The afternoon of the Ren Faire was a good one, with barely any clouds in the sky and the weather butting up against warm. Clusters of flowers and trees bursting with green dotted the park, and the attendees, many of whom were decked out in medieval costumes, were having a grand time taking part in activities like archery, basket weaving, and pottery making.
Tav made a circuit of the festival, where he’d stopped to chat with the various vendors who had set up stalls in the park to hawk their wares—there was mead and ale, homemade toiletries, leather goods, and pottery aplenty. Ahead of him, a person in a full suit of armor who was probably regretting their costume walked stiffly with their companion, who wore a red and yellow striped blanket over their shoulders and sported a horse head mask.
The faire had been growing in popularity over the years; more businesses had begun to showcase their goods and their skills, and more and more cosplayers, or whatever Cheryl called them, had started to take part, gallivanting about as knights, fair maidens, and serfs. He found the costumes amusing, if often ahistorical, but there was nothing funny about one in particular.
Tav saw the moment both the armor’s visor and the horse mask’s muzzle turned toward Bodotria’s booth, and he followed them as they made their way over.