“Dudgeon House was home to the Mariner’s Guild for one hundred years, after which it was bought by a private owner and converted into Firth Hospital,” she read. She went back to the index, and found the entry for Firth Hospital.

She skimmed again, reading through the various public works done by the hospital. “The hospital was purchased by the Duchess of Richmond and Lennox, who opened a home for the destitute.”

That was the end of the entry, but she at least had a name. She pulled up the web browser on her tablet and set to work searching for the rest of the history of the building. Two long, frustrating hours later, all of her normal internet sources, and about a thousand possible avenues, had come to dead ends. This wasn’t even super important to the site, but not being able to find what she wanted bothered her.

She entered her notes into the document she was compiling in her note-taking app, then stood and stretched to work out the tightness in her back and shoulders. There was a bit of burn from the Defending the Castle class the night before, but she was getting the hang of that. It was a good release for the excess energy that had plagued her since the exhibition a week ago.

Portia had seen Tav’s moves in his classes with the kids, but that had been different than seeing him take on a man his size and with matching skills. It hadn’t been a real fight, but the way Tav had moved and the skill he’d displayed had been legit. The man could swing a sword, which Portia hadn’t ever thought would be her kink. And the way he’d pulled back his mask and smiled victoriously at her when he’d won . . . like it had been for her.

No.

Portia distracted herself like any modern woman—she picked up her phone and toggled through her social media sites. The photos from the Ren Faire on the armory’s InstaPhoto were getting some good engagement, but the video of Tav’s fight that she’d linked to her latest GirlsWithGlasses post had taken on a life of its own. Some of the readers had even started a hashtag—#swordbae—sharing it with GIFs of his fight, which she was sure Tav would just love. Oh well.

She copied a link to a post with the hashtag and pasted it into her International Friend Emporium chat.

Portia: Tavish is a meme. He’s going to kill me.

Nya: Maybe he won’t find out since he doesn’t use the internet. That could work to your advantage!

Portia: Finally, his stubborness will be an asset, lol

Portia went back to scrolling the hashtag. #swordbae’s admirers had apparently found her earlier blog posts about the apprenticeship (OMG, THIS IS JUST SO), descended upon the armory’s InstaPhoto feed (whoa, #swordbae is talented af), and shared older social media pics (look at how beautiful this building is! I can’t even!!) and the photo the Bodotria Eagle had shared of them (Is #swordbae wifed??). #swordbae posts gushed over Tav’s accent, his muscles, his talent, and the way he looked at the camera at the end of the clip—only Portia knew he had actually been looking at her.

Her body went warm again, and she decided it was time for a break. And for food, because she’d been so absorbed in her work that she’d forgotten to eat. Again.

She ventured out of her room in search of a late lunch. The now-familiar halls of the building were quiet; there was no whir of Tav’s grinder. Maybe he was out making deliveries.

Maybe you shouldn’t be conjecturing about his location because it doesn’t matter what he’s doing.

“Hey! There you are!” Cheryl said, looking up from her stir fry as Portia approached. It was nice to have someone be so unreservedly glad to see her, and washed away some of the bad taste left behind by her mom’s call. The ribs she’d become a fan of would do the rest.

“Hey! Can I get the Dalek Delight again?”

“Oh, sorry, we’re all out. He just got the last of it.” Cheryl pointed her wooden spoon over to the other side of the stand, where Tav sat at one of the tables, shoveling away the ribs that would have been Portia’s in a just world.

“Of course he did,” Portia muttered. “I’ll have the Skyfish-ball skewers and a side of Galli-fried rice. If someone didn’t eat all of that, too.” She shot a glare at Tav, who was happily biting into a delicious-looking rib.

“Sure thing. I’ll bring it over to Tav’s table when it’s ready.”

She’d hit Doctor Hu’s during a lull and Tav was the only other customer, and apparently Cheryl wasn’t aware of the fact that even though Tav was less of a jerk, he and Portia had never really been alone for non-work-related reasons. He generally made himself scarce in the shared areas unless Cheryl or Jamie were around.

There was also the actual problem: she had a kernel of a crush on the man. She needed to grind that kernel into meal, but in the meantime she would just act like everything was fine. Old Portia had been great at that, and New Portia could be, too. Not everything from her old life needed to go in the trash. She donned her blasé employee expression and walked over to him, wishing she had fewer manners so she could just ignore him and sit alone with her phone as she ate, like a normal millennial.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Yes.” He took another bite of food without looking up.

Well, someone was living her dream of a manners-free life. She wasn’t in the mood for his jabs—her mom’s call had wiped away the successes of the previous weeks, leaving her feeling vulnerable.

She turned to walk away, but something wrapped around her wrist, holding her in place. Tav’s thumb and forefinger. He was strong as fuck, his grip enough to hold her though she knew he was exerting the barest effort. If he really tried to hold her down . . .