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.