A shiver went through her and settled in her belly, warm like good whiskey and just as bad for her. Somewhere deep inside of her, the kernel sprouted one bright green leaf.

Dammit.

She looked down at him and there was heat in his gaze, a heat that probably matched the sensation that inched up her neck and over her skin. His eyes dropped to her chest and she tugged her hand away, crossing her arms over her traitorous nipples. Damned soft-cup bras.

“I was joking, Nip—Freckles,” he said, his voice rough. Color flooded his face, and he cleared his throat. “Sit down already.”

She slunk into the seat across from him, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. He seemed to be suddenly awkward too, though, which made things slightly better.

“How are the ribs?” she asked. “I’d been dreaming about those ribs since yesterday and you got the last of them.”

He raised a brow, examining the sauce-slathered meat. “They’re even more delicious than usual, now that you mention it. Mmmm.”

She really could have gone her whole life without hearing Tavish make that noise. It was low and obscene and her body was totally down with both of those things. She crossed her legs. “It’s bad enough I have to sit here and watch you eat them, you don’t have to tease.”

His gaze went from his food to her eyes. It was warm and mischievous and she desperately wished standoffish jerk Tav would reappear because goddamn. “Here’s the thing with teasing. It might seem like torture now, sitting there wanting what you can’t have, but when you finally get it? It’ll be the best you’ve ever had. The best ribs, that is.”

Portia watched him take a bite, shocked into silence by how easily he’d managed to undo all of her resolve with his words. It had been better when he snapped and grouched at her because this . . . this was not sustainable. Project: New Portia had only three rules and she was about ready to jump across the table and straddle her boss, breaking one of those foundational pillars and bringing everything crashing down onto her head, like she always did.

“I’ll be fine with my own meal,” she said. She realized her hands were gripping the table and dropped them into her lap.

Tav lifted one shoulder and both brows, not really a shrug, but an acknowledgment.

“Well. How’s the research for the website going?” he asked.

Portia waited a beat for him to say something rude, but that was it. It was a real question? Not a trap? She was used to having to force information onto him—and well, most people. She relaxed in her seat a little bit.

“It’s going okay. I found some leads on the background of Dudgeon House,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows. “Dudgeon House?”

“That’s the original name of this building. You know, the one you’ve owned for twenty years?” She gestured to the armory looming up beside them.

“Is it now? Huh. That’s good to know.” He popped a fried shrimp into his mouth.

Something wasn’t computing.

“How do you know about all these obscure medieval accords and treaties, but nothing about the place where you’ve lived for so long?”

“Because I’ve been too busy trying to keep the place up, start a business, and run what’s basically become a community center to give a shite what it was called a hundred years ago.” He shrugged. “Part of the reason I didn’t sell it off is I wanted to show people that a poor kid from Bodotria could do just as well as anyone else if given the chance. And I’ve done okay.”

Portia wasn’t a therapist, but if she were she might ask him if perhaps he had projected his anger at his biological father onto the building.

“You’ve never considered selling it?” She’d seen the estimated market value for the building online. Tav would be able to buy a more modern building better suited to his purposes and have plenty left over. The building had already been worth a lot but its value had shot up exponentially compared to everything else in the neighborhood. She wasn’t keen on joining her parents’ business, but she did have basic real estate sense.

“Of course, I have. I’d be daft not to. Look around,” he said, pointing down the cobblestone street with a sauce-stained finger. “But if I sell, that’s one more building that gets converted into a place where they turn up their nose at the people who’ve lived here all their lives. I want to change the neighborhood for the better in a way that doesn’t involve good people getting pushed out of their homes and stores.”

Portia made a vague noise of agreement.

“And it’s the same rich fuck buying everything up and turning it into what he thinks the other rich fucks who move in will want. Selling would be a last gasp effort.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek, gnawing at the discomfort caused by Tav’s words. She was, after all, a rich fuck. Her parents’ investment group focused on real estate. Her income came from rent from buildings they’d bought for her in neighborhoods that had undergone rapid property value increases. Skyrocketing rents were what allowed her to do things like be a perpetual student and drop everything to be a swordmaker’s apprentice.

“That sounds . . . not great,” she said.

“Verra not great,” he replied drily.

Portia didn’t know what to say then. Banter usually flowed pretty easily between them, but now her family’s wealth felt like a dirty secret. And there was this kernel of a crush, like a pea under her mattress. Her brain bounced like a roulette ball, trying to settle on a topic, but the wheel kept spinning as she stared at Tav, feeling increasingly foolish.