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.
“Well. How’s the research for the website going?” he asked.
Portia waited a beat for him to say something rude, but that was it. It was a real question? Not a trap? She was used to having to force information onto him—and well, most people. She relaxed in her seat a little bit.
“It’s going okay. I found some leads on the background of Dudgeon House,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows. “Dudgeon House?”
“That’s the original name of this building. You know, the one you’ve owned for twenty years?” She gestured to the armory looming up beside them.
“Is it now? Huh. That’s good to know.” He popped a fried shrimp into his mouth.
Something wasn’t computing.
“How do you know about all these obscure medieval accords and treaties, but nothing about the place where you’ve lived for so long?”
“Because I’ve been too busy trying to keep the place up, start a business, and run what’s basically become a community center to give a shite what it was called a hundred years ago.” He shrugged. “Part of the reason I didn’t sell it off is I wanted to show people that a poor kid from Bodotria could do just as well as anyone else if given the chance. And I’ve done okay.”
Portia wasn’t a therapist, but if she were she might ask him if perhaps he had projected his anger at his biological father onto the building.
“You’ve never considered selling it?” She’d seen the estimated market value for the building online. Tav would be able to buy a more modern building better suited to his purposes and have plenty left over. The building had already been worth a lot but its value had shot up exponentially compared to everything else in the neighborhood. She wasn’t keen on joining her parents’ business, but she did have basic real estate sense.
“Of course, I have. I’d be daft not to. Look around,” he said, pointing down the cobblestone street with a sauce-stained finger. “But if I sell, that’s one more building that gets converted into a place where they turn up their nose at the people who’ve lived here all their lives. I want to change the neighborhood for the better in a way that doesn’t involve good people getting pushed out of their homes and stores.”
Portia made a vague noise of agreement.
“And it’s the same rich fuck buying everything up and turning it into what he thinks the other rich fucks who move in will want. Selling would be a last gasp effort.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek, gnawing at the discomfort caused by Tav’s words. She was, after all, a rich fuck. Her parents’ investment group focused on real estate. Her income came from rent from buildings they’d bought for her in neighborhoods that had undergone rapid property value increases. Skyrocketing rents were what allowed her to do things like be a perpetual student and drop everything to be a swordmaker’s apprentice.
“That sounds . . . not great,” she said.
“Verra not great,” he replied drily.
Portia didn’t know what to say then. Banter usually flowed pretty easily between them, but now her family’s wealth felt like a dirty secret. And there was this kernel of a crush, like a pea under her mattress. Her brain bounced like a roulette ball, trying to settle on a topic, but the wheel kept spinning as she stared at Tav, feeling increasingly foolish.
“Did you know that a tardigrade is a microanimal not a police box?” she asked.
His brow creased in confusion. “What’s that now?”
“Never mind,” she said, shaking her head. “Just ignore that.”
This was why crushes were ridiculous. They sapped you of power and rotted your brain.
Why isn’t my food here already? Cheryl, please save me from myself.
“All righty. Ignoring.” He picked up a rib and sucked the meat off the bone, his lips slick as he worked it over. Portia must have made a sound because he paused and his gaze went to her face.
“Okay, you’ve been staring at me like I have two heads for a minute now. Don’t tell me,” he said, wiping at his mouth with a blue paper napkin. “My eating is uncivilized.”
“Um.” She was tempted to tell him what she’d really been thinking of—his lips on her body. Then Tavish’s mouth pulled into a slow grin and she realized he’d understood at least some portion of that without her saying a word.
Shit.
“Here you go!” Cheryl dropped a tray in front of Portia, her smile faltering a bit as she looked back and forth between them. “Everything all right?”
“She’s just eyeing my meat,” Tav said. He picked up another rib and worked the meat from the bone in teasing pulls with his front teeth.
Portia was certain her face had never gone hotter. She was blushing, and Tavish was enjoying the fact that she was blushing, which made her face burn even more. She missed her days of drunken hedonism, when almost nothing could faze her. She’d lost her tolerance for flirting it seemed; just the tiniest sip of one hundred proof Tav had left her dizzy.
Cheryl’s face scrunched in confusion, but then a group of tourists in Union Jack T-shirts ambled up to the sandwich board menu and she went to greet them.
Come on. You’ve eaten men like this for breakfast—or had them eat you. Get a hold of yourself.
Portia picked up one of the fish ball skewers. “Give me one reason not to jab you with this.”
“I’ll give you two—one, it would be a waste of food, and two, I might like it.”
She forced herself to relax. This was just talk, and she was fantastic at “all talk, no action.” They were two adults, flirting, and nothing else had to come of it. Besides, he’d say something dickish soon enough, and kill the hum of attraction in her body like a mosquito on a bug zapper.
She placed the skewer down and began cutting at the fish balls with her plastic fork and knife.
“Seriously? You can’t use your hands for that?”
See? Zap.
“I prefer using my hands for more enjoyable things,” she said before spearing half an orb and popping it into her mouth. “Like making swords.”
“Why are you here?” he asked suddenly.
“The human body requires energy to run . . .” She couldn’t remember the rest of the smart-ass response she’d lifted from her friend Ledi. Something about the powerhouse of the cell . . . she shrugged. “I was hungry.”
“No. Why did you apply for the apprenticeship? Here? And don’t distract me with the spiritual mankiller tripe. You’ve enough experience to get a real, high-paying job. At a museum, or consulting, or anything really. But you’re here, on my arse about learning how to make a sword.”
He seemed to be genuinely curious and not just annoyed with her.