Portia realized that they were both leaning across the table, gazes locked on each other. Tav’s eyes were dark with passion, and even though it wasn’t for her, the fact that he felt so deeply about anything made her stomach do some kind of pirouette.

She leaned back in her seat and cleared her throat. “Interesting.”

“Whoa, bruv, I didn’t know all that,” Jamie said. “I thought it was because you just liked brawling. That’s some real Harry Potter, aye? Did your first sword choose you, like the wand?”

“Again with the Harry Potter shite,” Tavish grumbled, but a smile played at his lips. His full, kissable lips. Portia took a sip of tea and reminded herself that whatever this feeling was would pass. She didn’t do crushes. Usually she saw what she wanted and went for it, aided by a drink or two or five. As much as she hated to admit it, she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with attraction in a world where both drinking and fucking were off the table. This was her first big test, and Portia had always been the twin that did horribly at tests.

“King Arthur would be more accurate,” Portia pointed out, dragging her thoughts back to the conversation. “The Sword in the Stone. Excalibur.”

“Aye,” Tavish said. He glanced at her. “Though in the original Welsh legend the sword was called Caledfwich. It was known as Calisvol in Middle Cornish, and eventually Latinized to Caliburnus by—”

“Okay, we get it, bruv,” Jamie said. He gave a long-suffering sigh.

Portia was not having the same reaction at all. Her boss acted like a gruff, annoying jerk, but dammit there was something about a man who could casually mention Middle Cornish at dinner conversation without sounding pretentious that Portia found irresistible. It didn’t matter—she would resist.

“What do you think Tav’s patronus would be?” Cheryl asked, grabbing Jamie by the forearm and hopping in her seat.

Jamie sighed. “We’ve already discussed this, love. A honey badger.”

“Oh, that’s riiiight. He’s such a Hufflepuff.”

“A Hufflegruff more like,” Jamie said, hand at his chin as if he were giving the matter real thought.

“All right, all right,” Tavish said, standing again. He feigned annoyance but ran his hand gently over Jamie’s curls as he passed by him, as if his brother were a boy instead of a man almost as large as Tav. The small act made Portia’s chest go tight. It was a protective, possessive movement. She remembered stroking Reggie’s hair in the ICU, partially to give comfort to her sister and partially to assure herself that her sister was still there.

She didn’t know much about Harry Potter shite, as Tav had called it, but Jamie’s patronus would probably be a grumpy Scotsman with a sword.

Tav’s gaze turned to her. “If you find any peas under your mattress tonight you’ll have to deal with it yourself. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow, and no time for your nonsense, Princess Freckles.”

He downed the last of his beer, tossed the bottle in the recycling bin, and stalked out.

Cheryl and Jamie shot each other looks, but Portia didn’t mind his rudeness. It was a reminder that she wasn’t there to make friends, as the saying went, or at least not with him. The only role Tav would play in Project: New Portia was showing her how to make a blade and, possibly, how to use it. That was dangerous enough.

Chapter 4

The cold breeze off of the firth buffeted against Tav’s track suit as his trainers pummeled the concrete along the waterfront. Icy droplets of misty late spring rain slapped his face and hands, as if reprimanding him for his recent behavior.

He pushed himself at his slow and steady pace, hoping the sea air and the exertion would clear his head. The past few days hadn’t gone as expected, and he needed to discharge the nervous energy zipping through him.

Maybe then he’d be able to do his damned job.

He’d understood that taking on an apprentice would be an intrusion. Jamie had talked of “publicity” and “free marketing,” and those had both sounded like good things. And Tav had even grown somewhat excited about the idea—he genuinely enjoyed teaching, and it felt like he was leveling up in his craft. He was skilled enough to produce another swordmaker, which was a career milestone. He also wasn’t enough of an ass to forget that he had once been an apprentice, that this was the best way for his trade to be passed down. You couldn’t learn what it takes to be a master swordsmith by watching a blasted video alone. It required time at the side of a skilled professional, which was his problem. He hadn’t been feeling professional at all when it came to Portia.

How the fuck am I supposed to pull this off?

They’d received thousands of applications. There had been Highland boys, a cluster of girls from Mexico, a man from a small village in Kenya—applicants from all around the globe. Why had Jamie chosen her of all people? There had to have been more qualified applicants, or someone who needed the opportunity more. Or at the very least, someone that didn’t make him feel like a lad about to stain his britches at the sight of her.

Bloody hell.

He’d been unable to get the sight of her lunging and parrying out of his head since he’d watched her participate in Jamie’s class. She should’ve looked foolish, carrying on in her fancy jeans and blouse—he’d expected her to give up after the first exercise. But she’d stuck to it, chest heaving, curls in disarray, skin flushed from exertion. Her expression had been so determined that Tav hadn’t even paid much attention to her poor form. Portia wasn’t afraid of a little hard work, despite her whole put-together posh vibe.