What do you mean there’s no Wi-Fi?”
Portia gripped the cup of watery, lukewarm coffee she’d served herself and looked around Mary’s snug little bookshop, with its pastry nook and comfy seating. The walls were lined with shelves so stuffed with books that they seemed to be art installations, and old, warm-bulbed lamps hung from the ceiling. Portia had thought it would be the perfect spot to relax and get some work done on her second GirlsWithGlasses travel post and her brainstorming for the armory’s website, but apparently not.
“Well,” Mary said, pausing in bagging the books she’d dug up for Portia, “I believe in old-fashioned connection, not internet connection. Everyone having their faces glued to their phones all the time is unhealthy. If people want to read, this is a bookstore, love.”
She said it in a pleasant tone that implied that she would cut anyone who tried to argue otherwise. This was backed up by the large box cutter on the counter in front of her.
“Right,” Portia said, taking the handles of the plastic bag with her purchases in it. She could use her phone as a mobile hot spot, but she didn’t have an unlimited data plan and, honestly, what kind of shop didn’t have Wi-Fi? She wasn’t going to butt in, though. After all, this was New Portia, who didn’t stick her nose in other people’s business all the time and worried about fixing her own flaws. But . . .
The bookshop was beautiful—it had the shabby chic atmosphere that trendy boutiques all over Brooklyn tried to replicate, but with the warm, cozy feeling that came with real aged wood and worn-in furniture. She knew Bodotria had a healthy number of young freelancers and artists, people who worked from home who would probably jump at the chance to work elsewhere. It seemed criminal not to mention a possible source of revenue.
Her motivations weren’t entirely altruistic, though. She needed a place where she could get away from the armory, and whatever weird tension there was between her and Tavish.
“Besides,” Mary continued, hefting a box from the pile of deliveries beside the counter and placing it in front of her, “I don’t want a bunch of people sitting around cluttering up the place.”
Portia looked around the shop, empty on a Saturday afternoon, then sighed.
“I don’t mean to be nosy—”
“Then don’t be,” Mary sang cheerily, stabbing her blade into the tape on the box.
Portia sighed. “Okay, I do mean to be. I was looking for a place to work on my own away from the armory.”
Mary paused and looked at Portia. “Is Tavish giving you any trouble?”
“No! Not at all.” That was part of the problem. Tavish had barely talked to her over the last week. He was always either locked away in his workshop or in his office or giving lessons in the gym—he was, it seemed, any place Portia was not.
When he was in her vicinity, he directed most of his conversation to Jamie and Cheryl, or to the floor. After a few rebuffs, Portia had stopped trying to engage him. She shouldn’t have cared, but it hurt her feelings to be boxed out like that, especially when she had already seen that he was capable of making pleasant conversation.
She’d imagined herself showing up in Scotland, winning everyone over with her mysterious New Portia ways. Instead, she’d immediately proven herself a liability and annoyance to Tavish and would be treated as such for the remainder of her apprenticeship. He hadn’t even chosen her for the job—that shouldn’t have stung either, but he clearly wasn’t thrilled with Jamie’s decision.
It didn’t matter, though. She’d only be there for a few months, and then she’d . . . do what? She didn’t know exactly. A speedbump loomed beyond a curve in the road for New Portia—what she was really going to do with her life—but she’d figure it out.
She focused on Mary again. “I just like having a space away from where I live to work. A lot of younger people do.”
“Is that your way of telling me I’m old and out of touch?” Mary asked archly.
Portia took stock of the situation; Mary was about as prickly as Tavish when it came to taking advice about her business it seemed, and honestly, Portia was in Scotland to make swords, supposedly, not to help reluctant strangers. She should apologize and just go about her business.
She dropped her elbows onto the counter and leaned toward Mary.
“Age has nothing to do with it, actually. The new coffee shop down the street is run by a man older than you, and it has Wi-Fi. And really good, strong coffee. It’s also packed right now.”
Mary drew herself up and looked down her nose at Portia for a long moment. Portia was not unaware that the woman was holding a sharp object.
“I see,” Mary said. She retracted the box cutter and lifted her chin. “Sorry for being so touchy. There’ve been people sniffing about lately, telling me my business can’t survive here and that I should just sell to them as I’m getting on in years.”
How the neighborhood was being gentrified was something she’d heard Tavish, Jamie, and Cheryl discussing over dinner. She’d listened awkwardly, wondering if they knew about her parents’ real estate ventures or how much property she owned in neighborhoods that had once been like Bodotria: emerging, as realtors liked to call them. She’d thought herself conscientious, someone who gave back and participated in her community, but she hadn’t really questioned what exactly the hoods were emerging from and who was left behind when they did. Her parents made sure there was low-income housing in their rentals and that they minimized displacement, but was it enough? Could anything be?
“Are you looking to sell? Or is someone trying to force you into it?” Portia asked.
“The latter, I suppose. There’s one thing you should know about me, though, Portia love,” Mary replied.
Portia was scared to ask, given the borderline frightening grin that Mary was sporting. “Um, what’s that?”
“I’m a spiteful old thing. I’ve been here since this neighborhood was called the Armpit of Edinburgh, when yuppies came through to gawk at the poor, pick up drugs, and for the thrill of maybe seeing a rumble.
“I don’t like asking for help, but if you’re offering advice other than ‘sell to the highest bidder’ . . .” Mary heaved a sigh. “If perhaps I did decide to allow wastrels to come in and bleed my internet dry, how would I go about doing that?”
PORTIA’S QUICK STOP at the bookshop had turned into an hour helping Mary look up affordable internet plans and better wholesale coffee, which then led to a discussion of ways she could bring in more customers. Portia had left Mary to call the owner of the wine shop down the street in order to arrange a book/wine pairing event, and was headed back to the armory when her phone rang.
The fact that she was receiving an actual call, and not an email, text, or video message from someone with a puppy filter over their face, meant it could only be one of two people.
She glanced at the incoming call flashing on the screen, and a familiar mix of happiness and aversion assailed her as she swiped to accept the call.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, putting the phone up to her ear. “You’re up early.”
“Hey, pumpkin.” Dennis Hobbs was a businessman who had succeeded in a sector that tried, and often succeeded, at keeping men like him out. He could be cold, arrogant, and ruthless—he wouldn’t have survived otherwise. But his Dad tone was warm and loving, and almost lured Portia into lowering her defenses. Almost. “Your mother and I just wanted to check in and see how your little trip was going.”
Little trip. There it was.
“My apprenticeship is going great. Scotland is beautiful.” She hadn’t seen much of it outside of the armory, but she was sure it was. “I’ve already launched a few projects to increase revenue for the business, and I’m working closely with my boss to come up with an entirely new marketing program.”
Okay, so none of those projects had been approved yet, and “working closely” meant “working in the same general latitude/longitude point on a map since he’s avoiding me,” but whatever. She’d had way more intense internships, and a stubborn man wasn’t some newfangled invention. She’d get through to him eventually, or Jamie, who actually seemed interested in her plans, would.
Her dad made a familiar sound, something like a chuckle mixed with an indulgent sigh. “As long as you’re having fun. But you know, we have Regina’s investment analyst position here waiting for you. We have a temp doing it now, since your sister’s media empire is really taking off and she’s decided to do that full time.”
Little trip. Media empire. Portia and Reggie’s relationship with their parents could be summed up in four words, it seemed. Reggie had always been the twin that got things done. Portia hadn’t been able to unless she was interested in them, or after putting them off for a few days, or weeks, or months.
“We’re going to need someone serious to take on the position, and we think it should be you,” her father said.
Pleased surprise tentatively fluttered in her chest. She didn’t want the job, but the fact that her parents were going to trust her to handle it had to mean something, didn’t it? This was their business after all. Maybe Project: New Portia had already begun to pay dividends.
“I know you don’t have a serious bone in your body, but your mother and I think this could be good for you,” her father continued, carelessly crushing that happiness with the weight of his words. “Really get you into a routine, you know? We just want to see you settled down.”
She was well aware. They’d made it abundantly clear before she left.
“It’s only three months, I suppose, but really, when are you going to get serious about your life? When we were your age, we were already married, parents, and starting our second business.”
“Your mother’s right, Portia. We’ve indulged you for years but . . . you’re almost thirty. Enough with the grad school, and the internships, and the ‘experience.’ You need to make some decisions about what you’re going to do with your life. Just look at how well Regina’s doing, and you don’t even have her . . . issues.”
She closed her eyes for a second, the disappointment rearing up over her and making her feel small and silly in its shadow. They were right. What was she even doing in Scotland? Project: New Portia was about getting on track for her future, but what future could come from this? It wasn’t like Tavish thought her any more capable than her parents did.
A familiar, clawing shame raked its nails down her back and over her shoulders, leaving tension in its wake.
“Portia?” Her father sounded concerned. Of course he was. He’d been saddled with a ridiculous daughter who thought a swordmaking apprenticeship was a step in the right direction.
“Yeah. Of course. I’ll think about the position and let you know soon.”
“I suppose swords might be more lucrative than real estate.” Her father’s voice was jokey, but there was that edge of tension that reminded her how many times she’d told her parents she’d think about something in the past. For her, thinking about things often meant putting it off until she forgot what she’d even been asked to do.
“Dad, can you send some more info about the job? I’ll do some research. I . . . yeah, it sounds like something I could see myself doing.” She usually reserved her research for things that actually interested her, but she could do this for her parents.
“Of course, pumpkin.” The pleasure in his voice made her throat go rough. She didn’t want the job—she knew that—but would it be so bad? She could make her family happy. She’d get to see them more, and maybe they would actually be proud of her instead of feigning interest in whatever she was dabbling in at the moment.
That was nice in theory, but then she imagined the reality: going into the office every day and having her parents ask her to do important things while totally expecting her to screw them up. Walking on eggshells to make sure her ideas weren’t too outside the box, too silly, and throwing her own dreams, hazy as they were, out in order to please her parents. That hypothetical future—constantly being held up to what her parents thought she should be capable of, but also never being able to forget her own past mistakes—made her body tense and her stomach start to ache. Disappointing her family from a distance was bad enough. Did they really want her doing it on a daily basis?
“Great. I’ll keep an eye out for the email,” she said. “I have to go work, Dad. Love you!”
She disconnected the call, feeling suddenly exhausted even though she’d already acclimated to the New York City/Edinburgh time difference. Echoes of previous conversations with her parents bounced around in her head.
“Maybe we shouldn’t have let her have access to the trust until she was thirty,” her mother had said before she boarded her flight to Scotland. “Just look at everything Regina has done, and Portia is still flitting around like a butterfly.”
One of the downfalls of the whole “gestating in the same womb” thing, apart from the matching outfits throughout childhood, was that her parents had always seen Reggie as a handy measuring stick instead of a completely different human with different strengths. Reggie had always been the smart twin, the levelheaded twin, the one who could impress with her immense knowledge and humor and common sense. And then she’d gotten sick, and after that it had been even more pronounced. Portia’s B’s and C’s had been nice, but Reggie had maintained her A average despite. Portia’s latest internship was interesting, but had she seen that Reggie had made another thirty under thirty list, despite?
She knew the truth that lay beneath the despite, though no one had ever really said it aloud. She’d overheard her mother on the phone, voice gravelly with exhaustion as she sat in the hospital waiting room. “What if we lose her? Regina was the one with so much potential. No, that didn’t come out right . . .” Portia had thought the same thing. She’d thought it as Reggie lay in the pediatric ICU, hooked up to tube and machines, while Portia with her perfect health began to fuck up even more. She’d thought it when Reggie was graduating magna cum laude and she was a year behind after switching colleges twice. She’d been running from that thought for years, a trail of mistakes in her wake. She could hardly blame them for it.
Her phone vibrated. Reggie had messaged, as if summoned by Portia’s angst.
Reggie: Hey, I just read through the first post you sent. It’s great! People are going to love it! ☺
Portia braced herself—her sister was kind, but not bubbly, and the exclamations/smiley face combo meant she was softening a blow. Had she hated the piece? She’d wanted to make Reggie proud . . .
Reggie: And
Reggie: I appreciate you trying to appeal to the geeks on the site
Reggie: Buuut
Portia: Oh no. What did I do wrong?
Reggie: What? You didn’t do anything WRONG. Geez.
Reggie: Just
Reggie: The character Banshee is Irish, not Scottish. I’m going to stick in a reference to Moira MacTaggert and mention that you felt like you were being banished to Muir island.
Portia: Have no idea where that is but sounds good.
Reggie: And a tardigrade is a microanimal. A TARDIS is the time and space travel machine from Doctor Who (Doctor, not Dr.–that’s his name, not his title), though the food at Cheryl’s “Doctor Hu’s” stand looks amazing. I might commission an additional piece on this for the Foodie section . . .
Portia: Thanks for catching those errors and saving me from being ripped apart in the comments, lol.
Reggie: No prob. You know I’m always here to ‘Well, actually’ you on these matters.
Portia: . . .
Reggie: Well, on any matter, I guess.
Portia: lol
Reggie: Speaking of, one of our contributors started a video channel. I just shared the latest video and thought of your whole “New Portia” thing. Maybe it would be helpful? Talk to ya later!
Portia clicked on the link that popped up, which led to a video entitled Hot Mess Helper.
She’d been feeling a little better after the brief text chat, but damn, Reggie could be blunt sometimes. She hit play because, why not? What was one more reminder of her perpetual fuckupitude?
A wide-eyed Latinx woman with brown skin and perfect contouring stared out from the screen with a look of exaggerated horror. “Heyyyyyyyyy, it’s Caridad, or as you’ll come to know me, your personal hot mess helper.”
Portia rolled her eyes and moved her thumb to hit the pause button, but then Caridad grinned and shook her head. “Don’t get offended! I’m one of you! Let’s see what we have in common.” She held up her hands, hitting her right index finger against the fingers of the left as she began her list. “Always missing deadlines? Fuck yeah. Is ‘Impulsive’ your middle name? Yup! Do you constantly forget to pay your bills, even though the money is just chillin’ in your bank account? Come on, you know you could have paid that shit three months ago. Can you play guitar, paint a still life in watercolor AND oil, and bake a seventeen-layer cake, but can’t remember to move your laundry to the dryer?”
Caridad paused for emphasis and Portia simply stared, shook. She felt personally attacked. The cake she had baked had only been ten layers, but still . . .
“Maybe you’re a lazy, selfish, fucked-up hot mess. Or maybe . . .” Caridad looked around conspiratorially, then tapped her finger against her forehead. “. . . it’s just how your brain is wired. And maybe there’s nothing wrong with that. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with you.”
Portia paused the video again, tears stinging at her eyes as she tucked her phone into her bag. She’d watch the rest later. This was all too close to home and too much to take in at once. It was nice to think this might be true, that Portia was just wired differently, but she had years of evidence and a string of eyewitnesses who would testify to the contrary. She had just never tried hard enough—everyone knew that. And now she was trying, legit trying, and things still weren’t going to plan.
Portia worked her bottom lip with her teeth, the press of enamel just a touch below painful. The description of her mistakes had been so accurate, though. Maybe the explanation was, too?
She was so deep in thought that she would have passed the armory by if she hadn’t bumped into Cheryl, who was dragging one of the bistro tables they stored in the courtyard toward her sidewalk shop.
The blue wooden police box Portia had seen upon first arrival served as Cheryl’s restaurant. She’d retrofitted it with a small kitchen setup, though she used the kitchen in the armory for large-scale prep and storage. She had a rotating menu of Doctor Who–themed Chinese entrees and made brisk business with locals and tourists alike.
Portia jogged up to help Cheryl with the table.
“Ta, Portia,” Cheryl said cheerfully, fishing a few sauce bottles from her deep apron pocket and placing them on the table once it was settled. “How’s your weekend? Did you explore the neighborhood?”
“The weekend’s good,” Portia said, pushing the conversation with her father and the snippet of video she had just watched out of her mind. “I haven’t really explored yet. I just came from visiting with Mary and stayed longer than I thought, and now I have to work.”
Cheryl frowned.
“But I’ve been to the supermarket and the Chip Shop. I’m planning to go to New Town and do some shopping soon, too.”
Cheryl glanced at Portia. “I wish you’d take some time to see the sights, and all. You’ve been fiddling with the database since you got here! It’s that American work ethic, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Portia said a bit sheepishly. She had spent the first two days designing beautiful, mentally ergonomic spreadsheets for the database . . . and then the last three slowly transferring the data, which was her own personal hell. She would have been done, but there was always something to look up for the website, or a sword design schematic she wondered about, or a neighborhood history question . . .
“To be honest, I didn’t think there’d be much for an apprentice to do, but you’re finding all kinds of stuff without even touching a scrap of metal!” Cheryl said this with bright-eyed enthusiasm, but then winced when she realized she’d touched a sore spot. “I’m sure Tavish will start teaching you soon. He’s just been busy.”
“How was your morning?” Portia asked. She didn’t want to talk about Tavish’s crystal-clear avoidance of her.
Cheryl windmilled one of her arms. “I’m a little sore from the broadsword practice this morning, but I think we’re ready for the exhibition. What about you? Do you need to borrow a dress? A corset?”
Portia had no idea what Cheryl was talking about. “Exhibition?”
The front door to the building opened then, and Kevyn walked out, hair mussed and sweaty as he demonstrated some sort of swinging sword move to Tavish, who followed him. Tavish was also sweaty, but for some reason he wore the sheen of sweat like a fine suit.
Cheryl waved her hands dramatically to get their attention. “Tav! You didn’t tell your apprentice about the exhibition?”
Portia could already feel the embarrassment gathering in the air, ready to rain down on her.
Tav turned, and his gaze flicked from Cheryl to Portia. His aggravation with her very presence was etched into the scowl lines that deepened on each side of his lush mouth as he looked at her. “Aye, I told her. Told her that’s what you and I were practicing for a week ago.”
He had mentioned an exhibition during that first meeting, but he hadn’t elaborated and Portia had been too busy imagining her humiliating return home.
“Well, did you invite her?” Cheryl asked archly.
Tav chuckled ruefully. “Why would I do that? So she could barrel into the middle of a match and attack someone again?”
Kevyn laughed, too, shaking his head as he took a seat at one of the tables. “Because she bloody works here?”
The tension that had started to release its grip on her back and shoulders readjusted and dug its claws in even deeper. Getting talked down to by your father over the phone was one thing, but being humiliated by your boss in front of people you barely knew was quite another.
“And because I run your social media and need to promote special events, like a public exhibition,” she added, trying to hide the hurt in her voice. She was a grown ass woman, and even when she didn’t feel like one she still had to keep up appearances. “And because I could help out.”
Tav sighed and rolled his neck. “I don’t have time to manage the exhibition matches, answer questions, handle sales, and watch over you.”
She didn’t think he was trying to be mean, but it was like he instinctively knew she was the kind of woman always teetering on the edge of disaster. As if he could tell that fucking up came naturally to her.
“I know you don’t have a serious bone in your body, but . . .”
Tav glanced at her and his expression changed. Softened just a little bit. “What’re you looking at me like that for? I simply don’t have time to mess about.”
“Tavish,” Cheryl said, her voice low with warning. “You’re being a wanker.”
“No. He’s right,” Portia cut in before he could respond. She wasn’t sure how she managed to keep the waver out of her voice, but she could be proud of at least one thing. It was likely smoothed over by the flash of anger that currently had her in its thrall. “If Tavish is incapable of explaining basic things to his apprentice, it’s probably best that I don’t go.”
“Wait a minute—”
“I mean, it’s not like I’ve streamlined the databases and reorganized the shipping process to save money over the past week because I’m apparently too silly to bother teaching swordmaking to. It’s not like I upended my life to move to a strange country, expressly to learn a new skill, only to be told I’m not capable of handling something that a child running a lemonade stand is entrusted with. So yeah, maybe it’s best I don’t go to the exhibition. Wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone.”
Her eyes were glossy with unprofessional tears and she wanted more than anything to disappear, or perhaps get carried away by a passing flock of birds. She felt ridiculous. She was ridiculous. She’d traveled thousands of miles just to be reminded that at the end of the day, Portia Hobbs wasn’t the kind of person you counted on—a lesson she’d learned well enough in the US of A.
Cheryl and Kevyn were silent—the oh shit this is awkward do we stick around or make ourselves scarce kind of silent. Tavish sighed and dropped into the seat beside Kevyn.
She was ready to go inside and pack her bags. If she stayed, he might see her cry, and she’d been humiliated enough for one day. She had a job waiting for her in New York after all, not that she would embarrass herself any less at that one.
“Come here, Freckles.” He looked up at her. “Please.”
She walked over stiffly and sat down across from him, not meeting his gaze.
“The problem is . . .”
She braced herself. She should stop him. She knew her own faults better than anyone and didn’t need to hear them listed out.
“. . . that I’m a bit of an arse. Grumpy. Stubborn. Recalcitrant—I’m sure you’ve got a thesaurus on your electronic hingmie.”
“What?” Portia asked. She had been so ready to be told about her faults that she had no response to Tav listing off his own.
He folded his hands together and spoke to her like he was taking her concerns seriously, something she hadn’t been expecting at all. “I’m used to working with my family, and my family is used to said arseyness.”
Cheryl had gone inside the food stand to continue setting up for lunch, but she made a sound of annoyance at that. “That’s no excuse! You’re supposed to treat your family with kindness, you muppet.”
Tav shot her a look, then turned his attention back to Portia. His expression was . . . contrite?
“I’m not suddenly going to be puking rainbows and hearts, but you’re right. I haven’t been a good boss. I pushed everything off onto Jamie and then left you to figure out the rest. If my master had done that during my apprenticeship, none of us would be here right now because I wouldn’t have become a swordmaker.”
“Are you apologizing?” Kevyn asked incredulously. He turned to Portia. “Did you hit him in the head when you maced him the other day, love?”
“I’m not apologizing. I’m saying that my behavior has been shit and I’ll try to do better.” His gaze was on Portia and even though he was frowning, she could see the slightest hint of vulnerability.
Fuck. No! Unfortunately, it seemed that “gruff but vulnerable” was a trait she could really appreciate in a man. She ignored the way her breath caught and reminded herself that gruff was a synonym for “acts like an asshole because other people enable him.”
“That sounds like an apology,” she said, then worked her bottom lip with her teeth. New Portia didn’t do enabling. “But if you’re really trying to be a better boss you can give me a real one.”
She felt the sudden, ingrained shame of having asked for something she wanted, but fought against it and waited.
Tav cleared his throat and inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry that I treated you like one of these knuckleheads instead of like a delicate flower,” he replied, eyes narrowed. “How’s that work?”
“Works great if it means I’m getting the delicate flower treatment from now on,” she shot back, and was shocked to see a ruddy pink begin to spread over both of his cheeks.
Shit. Gruff but vulnerable Tavish was bad enough, but flustered and blushing Tavish landed a direct hit on all her attraction buttons, pushing down on them with the pressure of a sonic boom. She sucked in a breath.
Actually, both are your boss and both are off-limits.
Tavish slapped his hands on the table and stood. “Right then. I’ve got work to do. Kev, you can tell her about the exhibition.”
With that he was up and swaggering back into the armory, moving quickly for such a big man.
“Ha!” Kevyn looked at Portia with wide eyes. “I just witnessed a miracle. The taming of Tavish.”
“I don’t do taming,” Portia said nonchalantly. “That requires time and effort that I could be putting into myself.”
“Are you both hungry? I have some tasty ribs on the menu today!” Cheryl called out.
Kevyn raised his brows. “Do you want to grab a bite while I tell you about the exhibition?”
Portia had writing and research to do, and should really finish those damn spreadsheets, but work could wait.
“Sure,” she said, then turned to Cheryl. “Can I have some dumplings with the ribs?”
Cheryl carried over their plates and joined them at the table, ready to spring from her seat if any customers approached.
“So. What are your feelings about renaissance faires? I know they’re dorky and everything but—”
Portia held up a hand to cut her off.
“Cheryl, I think there’s been some misunderstanding,” Portia said. “I’m not a geek, but I am a dork. There’s a ren faire every year at this park near where my friend Ledi lived in Manhattan, and I used to drag her along with me.”
Cheryl clapped with glee and Portia bit into the delicious lunch she’d been served. She could worry about Tavish and his weird behavior later. She had somehow come out of their conversation the victor, and she was going to celebrate.