A Duke by Default (Reluctant Royals #2)(38)

“Did you know that a tardigrade is a microanimal not a police box?” she asked.

His brow creased in confusion. “What’s that now?”

“Never mind,” she said, shaking her head. “Just ignore that.”

This was why crushes were ridiculous. They sapped you of power and rotted your brain.

Why isn’t my food here already? Cheryl, please save me from myself.

“All righty. Ignoring.” He picked up a rib and sucked the meat off the bone, his lips slick as he worked it over. Portia must have made a sound because he paused and his gaze went to her face.

“Okay, you’ve been staring at me like I have two heads for a minute now. Don’t tell me,” he said, wiping at his mouth with a blue paper napkin. “My eating is uncivilized.”

“Um.” She was tempted to tell him what she’d really been thinking of—his lips on her body. Then Tavish’s mouth pulled into a slow grin and she realized he’d understood at least some portion of that without her saying a word.

Shit.

“Here you go!” Cheryl dropped a tray in front of Portia, her smile faltering a bit as she looked back and forth between them. “Everything all right?”

“She’s just eyeing my meat,” Tav said. He picked up another rib and worked the meat from the bone in teasing pulls with his front teeth.

Portia was certain her face had never gone hotter. She was blushing, and Tavish was enjoying the fact that she was blushing, which made her face burn even more. She missed her days of drunken hedonism, when almost nothing could faze her. She’d lost her tolerance for flirting it seemed; just the tiniest sip of one hundred proof Tav had left her dizzy.

Cheryl’s face scrunched in confusion, but then a group of tourists in Union Jack T-shirts ambled up to the sandwich board menu and she went to greet them.

Come on. You’ve eaten men like this for breakfast—or had them eat you. Get a hold of yourself.

Portia picked up one of the fish ball skewers. “Give me one reason not to jab you with this.”

“I’ll give you two—one, it would be a waste of food, and two, I might like it.”

She forced herself to relax. This was just talk, and she was fantastic at “all talk, no action.” They were two adults, flirting, and nothing else had to come of it. Besides, he’d say something dickish soon enough, and kill the hum of attraction in her body like a mosquito on a bug zapper.

She placed the skewer down and began cutting at the fish balls with her plastic fork and knife.

“Seriously? You can’t use your hands for that?”

See? Zap.

“I prefer using my hands for more enjoyable things,” she said before spearing half an orb and popping it into her mouth. “Like making swords.”

“Why are you here?” he asked suddenly.

“The human body requires energy to run . . .” She couldn’t remember the rest of the smart-ass response she’d lifted from her friend Ledi. Something about the powerhouse of the cell . . . she shrugged. “I was hungry.”

“No. Why did you apply for the apprenticeship? Here? And don’t distract me with the spiritual mankiller tripe. You’ve enough experience to get a real, high-paying job. At a museum, or consulting, or anything really. But you’re here, on my arse about learning how to make a sword.”

He seemed to be genuinely curious and not just annoyed with her.

“Well . . . I’ve tried working at a museum. And art galleries. And offices. Nothing fit. It was like wearing a pair of too-small heels. You grin and bear it for a while, keep up appearances, try not to be a bother to everyone around you, but one day it’s too much and you have to step out of the shoes or amputate your toes. Know what I mean?”

“I hope that coming here was the stepping out of the shoes and not the toe amputation part of that,” he said. “But aye, I know what you mean. That’s how the armory started. I was going to work in a shite office every day, hating every minute of it. Coming home to a wife who thought she’d married a reliable office jockey keen on swords, then got met with the truth—she’d married an unreliable sword jockey who hated offices.”

His smile was rueful, and Portia tried to imagine him dressed in a suit, slogging to an office every day with a grimace on his face as he daydreamed of steel and battle.

“What happened?” She knew plenty of people who had divorced—it had been one of her reasons for never getting serious. Yeah, there were her parents but the data spoke for itself. Divorce was almost inevitable, but marriage didn’t have to be. It just seemed like a lot of work to end up miserable and trapped. She could get that anxiety for free without putting up with an annoying partner or wedding planning stress.

Tav chuckled. “Damned if I know. After making sure I had enough income coming in from the rent here, I quit my job and started apprenticing with a swordmaker I’d met through the martial arts stuff, and it was the first time since I’d graduated that I was happy to get up and go to work.

“Greer tried to be excited for me, to care because I did, but it just wasn’t what she wanted in her life—to be married to a niche tradesman. We grew apart.” He looked off into the distance, then smiled and shrugged. “She’s a good lassie. Living the life she wants now, just how I’m living the life I want. Which brings us back to you.”