The photographer snapped away while grinning from ear to ear, then lowered his camera. “Perfect. Thanks!”

He walked away, already reviewing the images on the digital viewing screen, and Portia released Tav and moved away without a word, tending to the customers as he stood, suddenly too warm in his fighting gear. A few customer’s swarmed around, asking about Tav’s sword and purchasing items and signing up for lessons.

Eventually Kevyn and Cheryl jogged up to the booth.

“Oy! Time for your match with Master Bob!”

Portia whirled around. “Are you going to fight?”

Tav shouldn’t have felt a surge of cockiness at the interest in her expression, but he did. It wasn’t as if he was battling for honor or anything—it was an exhibition. Still . . . He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword in what he knew was a dramatic pose. She’d called him Sir Tavish and he was playing the part. That was it. “Aye, lass.”

Portia glanced at the products on the table and frowned a bit. “Break a leg!”

“If you want to go watch, I can take over for a bit,” Kevyn offered.

Cheryl slipped an arm through Portia’s. “Yes, come watch! Let’s see if Master Bob can get Tav on his knees as quickly as you did!”

Tav shot Cheryl a look, but he was the only one aware her words had more than one meaning.

They made their way to the small clearing where the martial arts exhibition was taking place. A crowd had gathered, and Bob was already in the middle, waving his ridiculous sword around. The older man was a bit of a show-off for Tavish’s tastes, but he was good at what he did and at playing up the theatrical side of their profession.

“McKenzie!” Bob bellowed, pointing his sword in Tav’s direction as he caught sight of him. “Keeping an opponent waiting is an insult, laddie.”

“OMG, I need to get video of this.”

Tav glanced over to find Portia tugging her cell phone out from between her breasts.

“You keep things in there?” he asked in a choked voice, trying not to look there in front of the crowd. He was so taken aback that he couldn’t even be annoyed about her wanting to record him.

“Yes.” She was busy navigating to her camera app. “Most women’s clothing doesn’t have pockets. Titty pockets are a functional adaptation.”

“Ooo, titty pockets,” Cheryl said, ruminating on the descriptor. “I call it my cheb shelf, but I like that, too.”

Master Bob made a sound of impatience. “Are you going to gawk at your lady friend or come to fight, McKenzie? Or are you scared of being paggered?”

There was a rumble in the crowd as everyone registered the playful insult.

“Get him, Master Tav!” a familiar voice called out. Tav looked over to find Syed and some of the students from his lessons cheering him on.

Portia looked up at him, her eyes bright and the record light on her phone blinking, and he almost forgot he wasn’t a knight. He was just a regular bloke who liked making shiny, pointy objects. A bloke who hated being videoed. But maybe he could put on a show for Portia and the weans just this once.

Tav lowered his mask down and stepped into the circle. He slowly pulled his sword out, whipped it back and forth for effect, then pointed it at his opponent.

“Do your worst, Robert.”

The crowd burst out into raucous applause, happy for the show, and Tav remembered that first time he’d watched an exhibition—how it had changed his life. How it had infused him with a sense of joy, as had his own apprenticeship, when he’d finally decided what he wanted to do with his life.

Portia had been right—he hadn’t been enjoying his work lately. With all the worries about money and the building, he was well on his way to being as dissatisfied with swordmaking and teaching as he had been with his office job. But this? This reminded him of everything he loved about the armory, and how fun his line of work could be.

Bob rushed toward him with a roar and Tav launched himself forward too, kicking up dirt behind him as their swords met with a resounding clang.

“I’ll go easy on you laddie,” Bob whispered as he pressed forward with all his weight against his sword. “Don’t want to embarrass you in front of your woman.”

Tav chuckled. He knew Bob was really asking for him to take it easy, but he wouldn’t be rude enough to point that out.

“Thanks, mate. I owe you one,” Tav said, then pushed Bob back and spun away, twirling the sword above his head in a move that would have left him exposed in a real battle but would impress the hell out of Portia.

This was a marketing opportunity after all—even if the line between selling his product to the crowd and himself to Portia had been hopelessly blurred.

It didn’t matter. After this fight, the exhibition would be over and the illusion would fade. But, like infatuation, it was glorious while it lasted.

Chapter 10

Portia wasn’t fond of coding, but tweaking the website’s template herself had been worth it. It had taken way longer than hiring someone, given all the web searches she’d had to do to supplement her knowledge of coding, but it had been free and was something she could use in the future. There’d been an uptick in business since the exhibition and her GirlsWithGlasses post, but she’d carved out time using the to-do list journal she’d started after bingeing on Hot Mess Helper videos. Caridad called it the “Brain Basura” list, though the technique was anything but garbage. Every morning, Portia took five minutes to “empty the trash” rattling around in her head and “sort” it into “bins” in varying levels of priority: SMELLY BROCCOLI—DISPOSE OF NOW; PRETTY GROSS—CHUCK IT ASAP; STARTING TO SMELL WEIRD; and SNIFF EH. She also jotted down random thoughts but only reviewed them later in the day when her “check the trash” alarm chimed.