She peeked at him and tried to force a smile. It was more of a grimace, but that didn’t stop the realization that the apprentice Jamie had picked out for him was lovely, scrunched face, red eyes, and all. A bloody fool, to be sure, but lovely.
Her curly hair was a dark auburn, highlighted here and there with strands of wheat and honey. Her skin was golden brown, and a spray of freckles dusted her high cheekbones. She looked posh as fuck, too. Her shirt and trousers were obviously tailored, perfectly accentuating her curves, and her luggage was on the high end of high end.
Tav imagined that her being wealthy and beautiful was likely related to her lack of common fucking sense. Problem was, common sense was in high demand at a place where one small mistake could result in slicing, stabbing, or burning yourself or others.
He exhaled deeply against his frustration. “If you are going to carry a weapon, and mace is a weapon despite that hot pink container you carry yours in, make sure you know how to use the bloody thing.”
She nodded.
“Had you ever even given it a test run before? Out in a park or something?”
She shook her head miserably. “I know you’re supposed to, but it seemed . . . dangerous?”
“Right. Next. You arrive at an establishment that’s home to a historical European martial arts training center, see two people fighting with weapons, and it doesn’t even occur to you that they might be sparring?” he asked. “Did you think we were having some kind of medieval turf war?”
Her eyes fluttered open again, her long damp lashes framing deep brown orbs. Jesus, why hadn’t Jamie chosen some tosser from down the pub with a face like a hairy ass?
Enough. You’re too old for this shite. It’s not like you’ve never seen a pretty face before.
“I didn’t see her weapon,” Portia said quietly, as if she hadn’t hurled herself at an armed man twice her size half an hour ago. “And I didn’t know about the European martial arts—or that it even existed, to be honest? It’s not on your website.”
If Tav didn’t know she was apologizing, he might have thought that was judgment in her tone.
“I heard someone in danger and I just rushed in without thinking,” she continued. “I tend to do that.”
“Save strangers?” he asked. “What are you, a vigilante?”
“No. Rush in without thinking. Or thinking I’ve thought, but . . .” She looked down at her hands and frowned. “Never mind.”
“We were practicing for an exhibition,” Tav explained, feeling a bit like an ogre as she sat hunched in her seat. “We do them from time to time to attract new customers and showcase the products. We also take part in competitions. Cheryl, my sister-in-law, can get a little feisty when she’s losing. You’ve got to be careful from here on out, though. You could have been seriously injured running at me like that.”
That was what got to Tav apart from the pain and the interruption to his day—he could have accidentally killed her if he’d been more poorly trained. Christ, what a way to start the day.
“I’m sorry,” Portia said again, her voice low and husky with fatigue. That full, dusky pink lower lip trembled a bit and her teeth pressed into it to still it. “This wasn’t quite how I envisioned the apprenticeship kicking off, but . . .”
She lowered her head so that she was glancing up at him through her lashes, with her pouty lips slightly parted, and something dropped in Tav’s chest like a hammer striking an anvil. She had Tav’s full attention, that was certain. And that was a problem.
Her gaze suddenly sharpened, pinning him. “. . . if you’d picked me up at the station like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have accidentally sprayed you.”
Tav snorted back a disbelieving laugh. “You cheeky . . .”
He rummaged about through the books and bolts of steel on his desk, snatching up a piece of crinkled sandpaper and the ivory grip of the medieval dagger he’d been working on the evening before. He began sanding the blade slowly, deliberately, the comforting scrape of it distracting him from the fact that he’d apparently lost any and all cool he’d accumulated in his thirty-eight years of life.
He let her sit there in silence as he worked; in battle, sometimes it paid to wait before an attack, to let your opponent grow more unnerved as they anticipated your next move. He also didn’t know how to respond.
“So, you’re saying this is my fault then?” he managed, which was shite. He had forgotten to pick her up, but Jamie had forgotten to remind him to remember. Tav’s phone battery had died and he hadn’t bothered to charge it and . . . well, and then he’d started sparring with Cheryl, leaving Portia alone at the train station at a dodgy hour of the morning.
Portia took a deep breath and her long, delicate fingers flexed in her lap before she threaded them together. She was sitting all prim and proper, like she was a schoolteacher explaining why picking bogies in class was distasteful. “I’m merely pointing out that this could have been avoided. Leaving a guest waiting is impolite, even if it’s an employee.”
“You’re right, but I don’t think forgetfulness merits this,” he replied. He pointed toward his face with the hand holding the sandpaper. “I have to go teach the weans in a bit. I stink of turnt milk and I’m probably gonna give them nightmares, fuck’s sake.”
“Weans?” Her brows rose.
“We run a program for weans in the neighborhood.” Her head tilted, augmenting the confusion expressed by those dainty brows. “Wee ones. Children.” Recognition sparked in her eyes and he continued. “We run programs for neighborhood kids of varying ages. Gives ’em something to do besides hang around the park and get into trouble.”
And with the new police presence in the neighborhood, thanks to the influx of people they thought worthy of protecting, there was plenty of trouble to be found.
“This isn’t on your website, either,” she said.
“Because I’m not asking for a bloody medal for it,” he snapped. He had in fact received a medal for it, from a community group, but that was none of her concern.
“Letting people know it exists would be effective in extending the reach of the program, though,” she said. Her hand reached toward her purse, where her phone stuck out of a pocket, then she seemed to think better of it and returned her attention to him.
Tav wouldn’t admit that he already had more weans enrolled than he could handle. He couldn’t afford assistants other than Jamie and Cheryl, when they had time from their own busy schedules. The food he handed out, as well as clothes, school supplies, and other expenses that cropped up, were already stretching his meager bank account thin. All shite that was none of her concern. He’d figure it out. On his own.
He fixed her with a stern look. “You’re changing the subject.”
“Right. About the incident . . .” she said gingerly.
“The attack, more like,” he cut in.
She sighed. “Is there anything in the employee manual that covers this?”
Tav didn’t return the hopeful smile she laid on him—he wouldn’t be charmed. Not by someone who was going to be underfoot for the next three months. He was going to have to work in close quarters with her every day.
The back of his neck went warm.
“We don’t have an employee manual. I am the employee manual,” he replied brusquely, annoyed at his reaction to her. She was too young for him—he had at least a decade of age and an infinite amount of raw cynicism on this woman. And more importantly, she was off-limits. He refused to be that boss, using his employee roster as a dating pool. Given that his only other two employees were his brother and his sister-in-law, it would be particularly egregious.