“I really hope you were going to say yes to this,” she said.
“I really hope I was going to as well,” he said. “Only one reason I wouldn’t have.”
“Because you value your privacy and freedom?”
He snorted. “No. Because I’m scared shiteless, lass.”
She burst out laughing and he joined in, his hand on her back pulling her closer to him as the silliness lifted away the dour mood that had surrounded them. She realized then that she had turned completely in her seat and her feet rested on the base of his stool. Her thighs were flanked by his. His hand was on her back, and hers rested on his arm, and their faces were so close . . .
“You know, if I have to do this I’m glad to have you as my squire,” he said. His gaze was intense, the hazel green sliding over her like a velvet cloak.
“Even after this?” she asked.
“The mistake only happened because you were trying to look out for me. Like any squire worth her mettle would.” He plucked a straw from a container on the bar with his free hand and traced it over the curve of her ear, and Portia couldn’t hide the tremble that went through her. “I dub thee, Squire Freckles.”
“I guess this is a step up from an apprentice,” she said, her voice low and her body suddenly warm.
“Yes. A knight places a lot of his trust in his squire.”
“Is that code for ‘a knight gets to boss his squire around’?” she asked.
“Well, yes, but the squire can also make demands. It’s a very intimate relationship.”
Portia’s breath caught in her chest. Was this chivalrous foreplay or what?
Her phone rang then, and she had to force her gaze from his as she answered.
“Hello?”
“Hello. My name is Francis Baker, secretary to the Duke of Dudgeon. I am calling to request your presence and that of Tavish McKenzie for tea at Holyrood Saturday afternoon.”
“Tea at Holyrood? Saturday afternoon?” Tav was staring at her, so she mustered her best professional voice. “Why yes, His Grace would be delighted.”
There was a pause, as if the woman on the other end was debating whether to challenge the use of that appellation.
“Excellent. I’ll send you an email with the particulars. Make sure you read them or you’ll end up on a tour instead of at our meeting.”
She hung up the phone and Portia followed suit.
“It’s begun, has it?” he asked.
She nodded and he downed the rest of his beer and slid off of his seat. He extended his hand to help her down and held it for the few steps it took to get to the door, before dropping it to pull the wooden door open for her. She didn’t read too much into it—he’d just admitted that he was scared. Friends could do things like hold hands during scary times, and rub each other’s backs, and . . .
“So. Where do we begin?” he asked roughly. He was nervous.
Portia looked up at him.
“With some tiny sandwiches.”
Chapter 15
What are you wearing?”
Tav didn’t have to look at Portia to know that her nose was wrinkled in distaste. He held his arms out to allow her to see the suit in all its glory. It had been her idea to go on a practice run before tea with this royal secretary, and he’d dressed up at her insistence.
She, of course, looked stunning. She wore a simple black dress that looked like something from Breakfast at Tiffany’s and probably cost as much as a ring from Tiffany’s. Her heels were high and made her legs look fantastic, and her hair surrounded her face, the curls sleek and moist. Tav felt even more like a lunkhead, but that was something he would have to get used to.
He tugged at his lapels. “You said to wear my best suit.”
“Tavish.” Yup. Definite nose wrinkling. “This suit is a wrinkled polyester nightmare that’s about a size too small. And what are those?”
She pointed at the work boots he’d paired with the suit.
“My dress shoes fell apart a couple of years ago.” He sighed. “I used to wear this suit to the office. I haven’t exactly had need of a suit for some time.”
She closed her eyes and pressed a delicate fingertip to the bridge of her nose. “Okay. We’re going to George Street anyway. I’ll add suit shopping to our itinerary. We have a little bit of time before the afternoon tea.”
“Oh no,” he said. “I’m not paying an arm and a leg for something we can get for a fraction of the price at Bodotria Commercial Center.”
He was being unnecessarily mulish, but he hated this shite. He’d thought he was well done with this kind of rubbish after quitting his job, but here he was, semi-willingly allowing himself to be pulled back in. Portia was looking at him with an expression he’d seen several times before Greer had finally broken down and asked for a divorce.
No, this is totally different. He couldn’t compare Portia to his ex-wife because of his own insecurities. She was there trying to help him, and Greer had been trying to help him as best she’d known how.
“I’ll pay for the suit, so you don’t have to worry about the cost,” she said, slipping her phone into her handbag. “Our SuperLift is outside.”
She moved past him and made her way to the car idling out front. Kevyn sat behind the wheel. Great. So he’d have an audience for his humiliation.
He stalked up beside her and placed a hand on the car’s roof. “I could have driven us,” he said.
“You can drive?” She seemed genuinely surprised.
“Everyone can drive!”
“I can’t. Oh, that’s right, you make the deliveries . . . well, this was a simple communication error. Noted for next time. Now let’s go.” She slid under his arm and pulled the door open. After wrestling with the passenger seat, she pulled it down and forward.
“After you.” She gave him a bright smile and he pulled a face as he smushed himself into the backseat. Portia adjusted the front seat and settled herself in.
“Hey, Kevyn,” she said sweetly, and the git had the nerve to be blushing when he turned to face her.
“How’s it going, love?”
“How are the wife and wean, Kevvo?” Tav asked, shoving his face forward between them.
Kevyn grimaced. “Hey, Tav. They’re good, they are.” He turned his face back toward the road.
“The Armani shop please,” Portia said.
“Ohhh, fancy!” Kevyn put the car into gear and pulled out into traffic.
Tav sucked in a breath. “No. I’m not buying a new suit and you definitely aren’t paying for it,” he attempted to whisper.
She looked back at him and his gut clenched at the annoyance in her gaze. She was rich. They both knew it. But this was not one of those moments where she needed to remind him of it.
“I know that this feels really shitty,” she said, surprising him. “I’ve had problems with forcing my goodwill on people in the past, and I know it doesn’t always have the intended result. But I have a concrete reason for paying for this suit. I’m the one who got you into this situation.”
“No, technically that was Mum and this Dudgeon wanker.”
“Tavish.” She batted those lashes of hers, like he’d be doing her a favor by letting her buy him an overpriced suit.
“This still just doesn’t sit right with me.”
She gave him a look. “Tell me how you’re feeling right now. Agitated? Uncomfortable?”
“Bloody right I’m uncomfortable!”
She grinned. “Why?”
“Because I’m stuffed into this suit like a goddamn wanker—”
She held up a finger. “So. This suit makes you feel like a wanker. Going to the meeting tomorrow is going to be stressful enough, don’t you want to wear something that makes you feel confident?”
“I don’t see how a suit—”
She pushed her finger closer. “When you fight in an exhibition, you choose the clothing that allows you greatest range of motion while keeping you safe. Yes or no?”
He nodded and his nose brushed the tip of her finger. She blinked rapidly, but didn’t move her hand.