He rummaged about through the books and bolts of steel on his desk, snatching up a piece of crinkled sandpaper and the ivory grip of the medieval dagger he’d been working on the evening before. He began sanding the blade slowly, deliberately, the comforting scrape of it distracting him from the fact that he’d apparently lost any and all cool he’d accumulated in his thirty-eight years of life.

He let her sit there in silence as he worked; in battle, sometimes it paid to wait before an attack, to let your opponent grow more unnerved as they anticipated your next move. He also didn’t know how to respond.

“So, you’re saying this is my fault then?” he managed, which was shite. He had forgotten to pick her up, but Jamie had forgotten to remind him to remember. Tav’s phone battery had died and he hadn’t bothered to charge it and . . . well, and then he’d started sparring with Cheryl, leaving Portia alone at the train station at a dodgy hour of the morning.

Portia took a deep breath and her long, delicate fingers flexed in her lap before she threaded them together. She was sitting all prim and proper, like she was a schoolteacher explaining why picking bogies in class was distasteful. “I’m merely pointing out that this could have been avoided. Leaving a guest waiting is impolite, even if it’s an employee.”

“You’re right, but I don’t think forgetfulness merits this,” he replied. He pointed toward his face with the hand holding the sandpaper. “I have to go teach the weans in a bit. I stink of turnt milk and I’m probably gonna give them nightmares, fuck’s sake.”

“Weans?” Her brows rose.

“We run a program for weans in the neighborhood.” Her head tilted, augmenting the confusion expressed by those dainty brows. “Wee ones. Children.” Recognition sparked in her eyes and he continued. “We run programs for neighborhood kids of varying ages. Gives ’em something to do besides hang around the park and get into trouble.”

And with the new police presence in the neighborhood, thanks to the influx of people they thought worthy of protecting, there was plenty of trouble to be found.

“This isn’t on your website, either,” she said.

“Because I’m not asking for a bloody medal for it,” he snapped. He had in fact received a medal for it, from a community group, but that was none of her concern.

“Letting people know it exists would be effective in extending the reach of the program, though,” she said. Her hand reached toward her purse, where her phone stuck out of a pocket, then she seemed to think better of it and returned her attention to him.

Tav wouldn’t admit that he already had more weans enrolled than he could handle. He couldn’t afford assistants other than Jamie and Cheryl, when they had time from their own busy schedules. The food he handed out, as well as clothes, school supplies, and other expenses that cropped up, were already stretching his meager bank account thin. All shite that was none of her concern. He’d figure it out. On his own.

He fixed her with a stern look. “You’re changing the subject.”

“Right. About the incident . . .” she said gingerly.

“The attack, more like,” he cut in.

She sighed. “Is there anything in the employee manual that covers this?”

Tav didn’t return the hopeful smile she laid on him—he wouldn’t be charmed. Not by someone who was going to be underfoot for the next three months. He was going to have to work in close quarters with her every day.

The back of his neck went warm.

“We don’t have an employee manual. I am the employee manual,” he replied brusquely, annoyed at his reaction to her. She was too young for him—he had at least a decade of age and an infinite amount of raw cynicism on this woman. And more importantly, she was off-limits. He refused to be that boss, using his employee roster as a dating pool. Given that his only other two employees were his brother and his sister-in-law, it would be particularly egregious.

And business ethics aside—Tav was done with relationships. He wasn’t the type to convince himself he didn’t believe in labels or just wasn’t a relationship guy or whatever knobs were telling themselves these days. He’d married young; he’d been a silly kid fresh out of uni and so besotted with his wife, Greer, that he hadn’t realized divorce was a thing that could exist in the perfect world they’d envisioned with each other.

He’d tried. He’d failed. He didn’t want to feel that awful, impotent guilt as his hopes and dreams for the future circled the drain ever again, and there was only one surefire way to avoid it.

“Oh. I just assumed—”

“Jamie is the one who set up this apprenticeship, lass. I had nothing to do with it,” he continued, ignoring the way her expression caved a bit at that. His younger brother had said it would be a clever way of bringing attention to the business and for Tav to finally get the help he needed, and Tav had gone along with it. He’d never been able to say no to Jamie, but then again, Jamie had never been one to ask unreasonable things of him. Until now. Expecting Tav to put up with Portia for three months was entirely unreasonable.

“He’s the one who contacted the newspapers to promote it, went through the applications that came in, and selected yours. I’d say it’s because you had a pretty face, but now I’m wondering if maybe he wasn’t just trying to find a way to aggravate me to death.”