Portia couldn’t disagree, though she envied his ability to distance himself from “fake personas” and “silly rituals.” She couldn’t imagine moving through the world without having to do the calculations for about a million different variables that factored into how people would treat her. She felt the slightest bit of irritation that Tavish didn’t have to think of all of this, then she saw the uncertainty in his eyes and sighed.

“Tavish, what did you think of me when you met me?” she asked.

His irritation slipped away and was replaced with an uncharacteristic blank stare. “Pardon?”

“Actually, I don’t want to know,” she said quickly, waving her hands. It wasn’t too hard to figure out given his past behavior. “But when you talk about fake personas and silly rituals, remember that some of us can’t opt out of that stuff. Before I even open my mouth, I’m judged based on whether I’m perceived to be pretty enough or wearing the right thing—not too revealing, not too frumpy, not too cheap looking, not too fancy. When I do talk, it’s whether I’m articulate enough. So while you’re rightfully annoyed by this, just remember that at least half of the population has to adopt these fake personas and silly rituals just to get through the day.”

She expected him to push back, but he dropped his elbows to the table and stared at his hands. When he looked back at her, his brows were lifted and he looked both shocked and ashamed.

“Christ, you’re right.”

Portia was confused. “About what? The patriarchy? Well, yeah.”

“No. Well that and the other thing about when I first met you. Don’t you see? I was your David Dudgeon.”

It was clear his exhaustion had finally gotten to him.

“Maybe we should take a break? Do you want some tea?”

“No. Well, I always want tea, but listen. When you showed up I acted like an arsehole to you for . . . reasons. That were no fault of your own. And then we went to Holyrood and David acted like an arsehole to me for no reason.”

“Well, your taking his money and title is a pretty strong reason,” she said. She wasn’t sure where this was going and was slightly worried.

“I’m not being clear,” he said, shaking his head. “And aye, I’m a bit knackered, but I’m not hallucinating or anything. I’m realizing. Realizing that I treated you unfairly and never really apologized for it. And that was when the only power I had was master-at-arms. If I’m going to think myself a better man than David, not being a bigoted wank stain is the lowest bar to clear. I need to do better. And I need to apologize, for real this time. So: Portia Hobbs, I’m sorry for being a shite boss and making you feel bad about yourself, and for doubting you just because I made a snap judgment. It wasn’t all right, and you’ve my word I won’t do it again.”

Portia was stunned. She was usually the one doling out heartfelt apologies. She was tempted to sooth him, to tell him it had been fine.

“Yeah. That really sucked and I was disappointed and felt like an idiot. Thank you for apologizing.”

They sat in awkward post-apology silence until Tav stretched in his seat.

“What next?” he asked. “Do I have to balance a book on my head?”

He gave her his normal smile, and she returned it, resetting the serious mood that had blown up out of nowhere. That had been awkward, but she felt happy. Seen. Respected. She wanted him to feel the same way.

“Actually . . .” Portia pushed out of her seat and strode around the table to stand behind him. She placed her hands lightly on his shoulders, but pulled them away when he jumped at her touch. “Sorry, I should have asked before touching you.”

“No, it’s fine,” he said, his voice a bit gruff. “You can, erm, touch me.”

His voice went low on the last two words and desire unfurled and spread its wings someplace beneath Portia’s rib cage.

Touch me.

The words echoed in her head, turning what should have been something ordinary and platonic into a heated challenge.

She placed one hand on his shoulder this time, tentatively. He didn’t jump, but she felt his muscles bunch beneath her palm in response. “I think you’re used to bending over things, with all the grinding, and forging, and poring over medieval texts. You need to work on your posture. Pull your shoulders back, just a bit.”

She squeezed his shoulder more firmly and pulled. She placed her other hand flat against the middle of his back and gently pushed up and forward. His body followed the motion naturally, his chest moving up and out and shoulders dropping back and down. She noted how the muscles of his back flexed beneath her palm, then twitched even though he was supposed to be relaxed. She pushed the thought aside—she was helping him, and she could keep any dirty thoughts about Tav’s musculature to herself.

“Am I doing this right?” he asked.

“Hm, this usually works better with a mirror . . . oh! Look at your reflection in Cheryl’s restaurant fridge. This is the posture you should aim for.” She flexed her hands for a moment, emphasizing exactly how his body was aligned beneath them. “Imagine there’s a string from the top of your head and down through your spine, and someone is pulling it up. Yes, lift your chin like that. Can you see how this posture gives you an air of power and grace?”

“Aye.” His voice was rough, and she could feel his heart begin to beat faster beneath her palm. Her pulse was apparently trying to be polite, too, because it rushed to keep pace with his.