[International Friend Emporium group chat]
Ledi: Portia. What is this video? I just woke up, my brain isn’t ready for all of this.
Nya: *fans self* I never thought I would enjoy watching a man use a power tool, but perhaps access to the Home and Garden channel here in the States has warped my brain.
Portia: that’s my boss guys
Portia: THAT’S MY BOSS
Portia:
Nya: Wait, this is the jerk you’ve been going on about for three weeks? Girrrrrrrrl. You said he was attractive, but you’ve been holding out.
Ledi: Um. I love Thabiso very much, but your boss could get it. Hold my crown. *limbers up*
Portia: What have I done to deserve this speedbump on the road to Project: New Portia?
Ledi: . . .
Ledi: Do you want the annotated list or the summary? I have to finish this thesis but I can find the time.
Portia:
Ledi:
Nya: Is everything else going okay, besides your boss being fine af?
Ledi: Nya, where are you picking up this lingo? You need to stop hanging out on Tumblr.
Nya: I can’t win. You made fun of me when I said a man steams my headwrap.☹
Ledi: LOLOL
Portia: LMFAO
Ledi told them about the latest Thesoloian intrigue, something involving goat poop recycling, and her studies. Nya recounted her latest dates and the newest dating simulator game she’d found—Byronic Rogues from Mars. Portia gave them an update on the armory’s website and shared a bit about her deep dive into researching the building that housed the armory and the martial arts school. She was digging much deeper than she had to, but this was the kind of thing that excited her—random useless minutiae. People had assumed that her constant schooling was a way of avoiding reality—she couldn’t blame them, since her perennial studies had been paired with drinking and partying—but she mostly just really loved learning.
When their conversation petered out, she switched over from the messenger app to her social media; the little red notification bubble had a number in the hundreds and was ticking up as she watched.
Whoa.
She tapped into the notifications tab and began scrolling through the dozens of responses and shares.
@girlswithglasses @dideyedothat OMG, you maced him? Girl, how do you even still have a job??
@girlswithglasses @dideyedothat LMFAO Macing your boss on your first day? #internshipgoals
@girlswithglasses @dideyedothat This was hilarious! I can’t wait for the next update! (And I wouldn’t trust you with any swords either, beloved.)
@girlswithglasses @dideyedothat You need to get on that haggis. Just trust me on this.
@girlswithglasses @dideyedothat Ooo, is that your boss’s back in that selfie? I would spray him all right, but not with mace. #sorrynotsorry
Portia’s first post for GirlsWithGlasses’s adventure section had finally gone up and it was a huge success if her notifications were any indication.
She scrolled through the reaction GIFs, messages of encouragement, and people playfully dragging her after reading her account of her first days of her internship. She was still mortified, but turning the experience into something useful eased her embarrassment.
She switched over to the armory’s account and noted that their follower count had gone up by five hundred and it was still early in the day in the US.
Impressive, Reggie. Her sister’s site really was doing well, since that five hundred was likely a fraction of the people who’d read the post.
She scrolled through GIFs and chose an animated one of a large man struggling in vain to pull a sword from a stone. Hello new followers! Hope you enjoyed our apprentice’s post on @GirlsWithGlasses. Stick around, we have lots of exciting stuff coming your way soon! she typed out, then hit send.
Portia put the phone down and returned to the more mundane task before her—packing knives for shipping—but her mind was still on social media. She wasn’t exactly surprised that people were into her story. It had been funny. But she had underestimated just how many people would be into it. She’d sent the video of Tavish she’d finally gotten him to agree to with her second post. If her friends’ reactions in their group chat, and the people already ENHANCE-ing her selfie to try to get a glimpse at Tavish’s were any indication, it would do even better. She needed to put the finishing touches on the armory’s site before that post went up.
“Do you have a telekinetic power that allows you to pack the boxes while standing there and staring into space?” Tavish made his way across the office and dropped a box of finished knives onto the table in front of her.
She’d grown slightly used to the Jerk Lite version of Tavish, so she didn’t even flinch.
“Do you think it wise to annoy me before handing over a box of knives?” She smiled sweetly at him.
He huffed. “If you’re as good with a knife as you were with that spray, you’ll end up stabbing yourself, too, lass.”
Portia rolled her eyes at him. “Never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
“Nah.” His mouth quirked up the tiniest bit, as if his smile were struggling to lift the weight of his Portia-induced frown lines but couldn’t shoulder the impossible task.
“I wasn’t staring into space, anyway. I was working,” she said, pushing her curls back behind one ear. “I was trying to think of a new marketing strategy.”
“What strategy is that?” he asked, his brows knitting together. “The do chat on MySpace strategy?”
Portia gasped and bought her hand to her chest, feeling an actual jolt of shock at the anachronism. “MySpace? Really?”
He just stared at her.
She picked up her phone to open a social media app that wasn’t from the Mesozoic era. “Look. I wrote a blog post on my sister’s site—unlike me, she has her shit together, and her site is extremely popular. So all these people reblogged it and shared it on social media, then the armory got all these new followers, and . . .”
Portia trailed off, as she was too busy watching Tavish wave his hands around his head like he was being attacked by a swarm of bees.
“I told Jamie and I’ve told you—I don’t know about this internet shite. I don’t care about this internet shite.”
“Tavish, I know your line of work might confuse you, but this is the twenty-first century. You’re . . . well, you’re not young, but even my grandmother has been using the internet since I was a child. Internet access has been classified as a human right. Enough with the acting like it’s some newfangled concept you can just avoid. It’s a business tool.”
“I can find the information I need for my research in books. Made of paper,” he countered. “I check my email when I have to. I don’t need to spend hours killing brain cells with pictures of people’s lunch or videos of wee kitties playing with a ball of yarn.”
“Oh my god,” she said. “You hate kitten videos, too? You are a monster. And FYI, baby donkeys are the cute animal of choice right now.”
“Noted,” he said. “Thanks for that lesson, but maybe you could get back to packing? In the real world, people have paid real money for these products and they’re expecting them.”
He seemed aggravated and not just at her. Portia plucked a knife from the box, grabbed one of the leather pouches it was to be packaged in, and slid it inside. “Speaking of that . . .” Talking about money was so gauche, but she had to. “I know I mentioned my internet searches of Bodotria Armory before I took the apprenticeship, but I looked at finances yesterday. Sales are down. A lot.”
His mouth twisted. “I suppose Jamie let you look at that?”
She nodded, trying to hide her annoyance. “Yes. He showed me the online bookkeeping system.”
Tavish ran a hand through his hair, the strands shifting from black to grayer, and back again. “You know, when I was an apprentice, I did what I was told and didn’t go sticking my nose into my master’s business.”
Portia could have really told him about himself, and his use of the word master, but chose to take the honey route over the vinegar. “When I spoke to Jamie about this apprenticeship, we agreed that I would help where I could. For me to do that, I need to know what we’re working with. What happened a year ago to cause such a sudden drop in sales?”
“Fuck if I know. Everything was going fine, and then it wasn’t.” If he had some big secret he was hiding, he had a great poker face. He seemed exasperated, not defensive. “Several of the largest buyers—castles and historical sites around the country that we’d done years of business with—just up and severed ties. I got stonewalled when I tried to find out why.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered.
“You weren’t able to sweet talk anyone into buying again? Hard to imagine,” she said.
He stalked the few steps that separated them and the smell of leather and steel and almond soap enveloped her. “Has it occurred to you that I know how to interact with people in a cordial and pleasant manner?” he growled.
“Not once.” That wasn’t exactly true—she’d seen him be gentle with Jamie, and Cheryl, and his students. He was gruff to be sure, but he only seemed to tap into his special reserve of assholeishness whenever she was around, even though she was trying her damnedest to help him. “I have to ask, do you even enjoy your work anymore? Do you want to survive this slump? Because you aren’t acting like it.”
“Look, princess—”
“Actually, my best friend is the princess. She’s one of the hardest working people I know, so if you’re using that as a derogatory term think again. I’m in a fairly high tax bracket, but nowhere near royalty.”
His gruff expression scrunched into one of confusion. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, although I guess tax brackets in the US would be different than they are here.”
“No, about the princess—fuck’s sake, never mind. Look, Miss High Tax Bracket, I know how to run a business. I’ve done pretty damn well at it. I don’t need some stranger waltzing in here and acting like I’m incompetent.”
Portia pressed her lips together to prevent the first thing that came to mind from slipping out. This was why she’d only dealt with men in blocks of time that could be measured by hours and were capped with “have a nice life.” Any longer than that and you had to put up with tantrums like this.
“Let’s rewind to when you first stepped into this room.” She moved her index fingers rapidly around one another in a circular motion, then pointed one at Tavish. “The only person acting like anyone is incompetent is you. I’m asking you about sales because I need to know if there’s a specific situation that needs to be addressed in our marketing. You say there isn’t, so there isn’t, but you can’t get annoyed every time I ask for information. Pretending a problem doesn’t exist doesn’t make it magically go away. Lord knows I’ve tried it.”
He was just looking at her again, in that way that he probably looked at a defective sword before throwing it into a scrap heap, then ran his hand through his hair with a frustrated growl. “I’m just not used to this. I really didn’t expect you to be so . . .”
“Competent? Irreplaceable?” Portia didn’t think she was any of those things, but fake it till you make it was a key component of shaping the new her.
“. . . meddlesome,” Tavish finished.
“And I didn’t think you would be so . . .” Portia’s gaze darted to his face, and the silver hair at his temples, and his salt-and-pepper scruff, and that full mouth, and suddenly everything she had been trying to ignore about him stuck an arm out and clotheslined her as she tried to run from her attraction to him.
Oh no. Way to fucking go, Portia.
Tav was staring at her, waiting for her to finish her sentence.
“. . . tall,” she finished, unable to think of another descriptor that wouldn’t reveal her for the loser she was.
Tav quirked a brow. “Tall. Right.”
Redirect! Redirect!
“You still haven’t let me know what I’ll be doing at the exhibition this weekend. I made graphics and I’ve been promoting it on social media and getting a great response. I think I’d be really good at doing sales, despite your supposed ability to be cordial.”
She liked interacting with people, especially if she got to talk about things she was interested in. She’d been researching way more than necessary for the website, and this would be a way to use her knowledge.
“Look, lass, these events are to bring in new people to the lessons and to buy our product. I need staff that really knows what they’re talking about, who can communicate with both a complete amateur and someone who’s been studying for years.” His expression lit up, like he’d thought of something really clever, and he snapped his fingers. “It’s like that pop-up ad you wanted to get rid of on the site, yeah? Let’s say I put you to work at the Bodotria Armory stall. Someone comes up and asks for a sgian-dubh or some kind of armor. If you have to run and grab me or Jamie or Kevyn, then they might just walk off and buy from someone who knows what they’re on about. Or they might buy, and then spread the word that we’re not the real deal. Customers are fickle.”
He gave her a self-satisfied grin, as if he’d just explained her uselessness to her with her own words, and they could now move on from this.
He was underestimating her.
Portia let him pat himself on the back for a moment and then walked over to the table where several weapons lay waiting for shipping. She picked up a short squat blade with an ornate black hilt, ran her fingertip along the dull edge, then pointed it at Tavish.
Tav held up his hands, mild alarm lifting his brows. “Hey now, I know you have a violent streak, but—”
“Skean dhu, a short single-edged blade, name derived from the Gaelic Sgian-dubh, meaning hidden, as the blade was something that could be kept on the body after other weapons were deposited at the door of a dwelling, per Highland tradition. Usually worn tucked into the stocking in Highland dress. Not to be confused with . . .” She put the blade down and sifted through the knives, picking up a similar blade. “. . . the mattucashlass, which is a double-edged blade worn under the armpits and used in hand-to-hand combat.”
“Portia—”
She didn’t look at him, simply dropped the knife down and picked up a knife with a longer blade and a slimmer hilt, this one in bronze. “Those knives are earlier versions of this baby, the Scottish dagger known as a dirk. It’s a long thrusting dagger descended from the medieval ballock dagger, but became an integral part of Scottish weaponry.”
She turned to him, batting her lashes even though she would rather have chucked the dagger in his general direction. “As for clothing, do you mean an actual suit of armor? Functional or decorative? Or more like a brigandine, a padded vest, traditionally canvas or leather, lined with steel plates? We can talk mortuary swords, claymores, broadswords, the compound Sinclair—”
“All right, Freckles.” He held his hands up, probably to shut her up but she liked to think of it as a sign of defeat.
“I can do this all day,” she said. “I told you, I’ve studied lots of things, and what I don’t know I look up instead of just assuming. You should try it sometime.”
Now that she was done and Tav was just staring at her, embarrassment started to creep up her neck. The man was an expert in swordmaking and a literal master. And she’d just thrown her 101 knowledge at him and expected what exactly?
Tav was still looking at her, then he . . . smiled. Really smiled. She could see his teeth and everything. Dammit, she’d thought she’d won that battle for a second, but if she’d known it would pull this reaction from him she would have let him go on thinking her silly.
Tavish McKenzie sporting a glower was sexy. Tav with those full lips curved up and crow’s feet framing his eyes because he was grinning so hard? Her stomach lurched like she was on a crappy carnival ride and she realized with horror that despite not doing crushes, despite definitely not doing bosses, she liked Tavish. For real. She hadn’t had a butterflies-in-her-stomach crush smack into her full force like this since senior year of high school when she’d wanted Hector Washington to ask her to the prom SO BADLY. He’d asked Reggie instead. She’d gotten over that short-lived infatuation quickly and she’d get over this one even faster.
“Okay. You win,” he said. Light, casual, as if he’d always been capable of talking to her like this. “You can work the table. If you can do that at the table, I’m sure we’ll have no problem with sales.”
Relief flowed through her and she let out the breath she had been holding. If she wasn’t mistaken, the stats were New Portia 2–Thigh Man 0 in whatever weird Hot Jerk Challenge they had going on. 3–0 if she counted the macing.
It was strangely arousing to know that despite his stubbornness, Tav was able to concede his mistakes. She might have to retract his addition to Fuckboy Monthly, the fake periodical she and Ledi had started, which was now mostly filled by Nya’s online dating encounters since Ledi was monogamous and Portia was celibate-ish.
No “ish,” bish. Celibate. Focusing on self. Not getting ideas about your boss.
“Erm . . .” Tav shoved his hands into his pockets. His muscles flexed beneath his snug-fitting T-shirt as he lifted his shoulders in an awkward motion, so Portia fixed her gaze on his left nostril. Nostrils were safe. “What are you doing this afternoon?” he asked.
Could he be . . . ? No. No way was he asking her on a date. Her body went tense because she wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea, despite her mental pep talk.
“I’ve got the after-school lesson with the weans if you’d like another apprentice duty. Bit more fun than packing boxes. You should come help if you aren’t afraid of breaking a nail or somesuch.”
“Oh.” Portia’s annoyance pushed any appreciation of his attractiveness, and the mingled relief and disappointment that he was still talking strictly business, to the background of her mind. “If you’re going to rely on sexist clichés, at least get some fresh material. And if I do break a nail off, it’ll be someplace extremely unpleasant for you.”
He chuckled and stepped around her as he headed for the door. “The class starts at five.”