“Jamie,” Tav growled.

“Next time Mum and Da’ ask me why you haven’t returned their emails, as if they’re just down the street and not all the way in Santiago, maybe I’ll tell them to send it Subject: Portia Hobbs, yeah?” Jamie pressed on with a waggle of his brows.

“Oh, shut up and make me a smoothie,” Tav said.

“Shutting. Up.” That didn’t stop Jamie from grinning as the whir of the blender filled the kitchen.

Brothers were really the worst.

Chapter 5

What do you mean there’s no Wi-Fi?”

Portia gripped the cup of watery, lukewarm coffee she’d served herself and looked around Mary’s snug little bookshop, with its pastry nook and comfy seating. The walls were lined with shelves so stuffed with books that they seemed to be art installations, and old, warm-bulbed lamps hung from the ceiling. Portia had thought it would be the perfect spot to relax and get some work done on her second GirlsWithGlasses travel post and her brainstorming for the armory’s website, but apparently not.

“Well,” Mary said, pausing in bagging the books she’d dug up for Portia, “I believe in old-fashioned connection, not internet connection. Everyone having their faces glued to their phones all the time is unhealthy. If people want to read, this is a bookstore, love.”

She said it in a pleasant tone that implied that she would cut anyone who tried to argue otherwise. This was backed up by the large box cutter on the counter in front of her.

“Right,” Portia said, taking the handles of the plastic bag with her purchases in it. She could use her phone as a mobile hot spot, but she didn’t have an unlimited data plan and, honestly, what kind of shop didn’t have Wi-Fi? She wasn’t going to butt in, though. After all, this was New Portia, who didn’t stick her nose in other people’s business all the time and worried about fixing her own flaws. But . . .

The bookshop was beautiful—it had the shabby chic atmosphere that trendy boutiques all over Brooklyn tried to replicate, but with the warm, cozy feeling that came with real aged wood and worn-in furniture. She knew Bodotria had a healthy number of young freelancers and artists, people who worked from home who would probably jump at the chance to work elsewhere. It seemed criminal not to mention a possible source of revenue.

Her motivations weren’t entirely altruistic, though. She needed a place where she could get away from the armory, and whatever weird tension there was between her and Tavish.

“Besides,” Mary continued, hefting a box from the pile of deliveries beside the counter and placing it in front of her, “I don’t want a bunch of people sitting around cluttering up the place.”

Portia looked around the shop, empty on a Saturday afternoon, then sighed.

“I don’t mean to be nosy—”

“Then don’t be,” Mary sang cheerily, stabbing her blade into the tape on the box.

Portia sighed. “Okay, I do mean to be. I was looking for a place to work on my own away from the armory.”

Mary paused and looked at Portia. “Is Tavish giving you any trouble?”

“No! Not at all.” That was part of the problem. Tavish had barely talked to her over the last week. He was always either locked away in his workshop or in his office or giving lessons in the gym—he was, it seemed, any place Portia was not.

When he was in her vicinity, he directed most of his conversation to Jamie and Cheryl, or to the floor. After a few rebuffs, Portia had stopped trying to engage him. She shouldn’t have cared, but it hurt her feelings to be boxed out like that, especially when she had already seen that he was capable of making pleasant conversation.

She’d imagined herself showing up in Scotland, winning everyone over with her mysterious New Portia ways. Instead, she’d immediately proven herself a liability and annoyance to Tavish and would be treated as such for the remainder of her apprenticeship. He hadn’t even chosen her for the job—that shouldn’t have stung either, but he clearly wasn’t thrilled with Jamie’s decision.

It didn’t matter, though. She’d only be there for a few months, and then she’d . . . do what? She didn’t know exactly. A speedbump loomed beyond a curve in the road for New Portia—what she was really going to do with her life—but she’d figure it out.

She focused on Mary again. “I just like having a space away from where I live to work. A lot of younger people do.”

“Is that your way of telling me I’m old and out of touch?” Mary asked archly.

Portia took stock of the situation; Mary was about as prickly as Tavish when it came to taking advice about her business it seemed, and honestly, Portia was in Scotland to make swords, supposedly, not to help reluctant strangers. She should apologize and just go about her business.

She dropped her elbows onto the counter and leaned toward Mary.

“Age has nothing to do with it, actually. The new coffee shop down the street is run by a man older than you, and it has Wi-Fi. And really good, strong coffee. It’s also packed right now.”

Mary drew herself up and looked down her nose at Portia for a long moment. Portia was not unaware that the woman was holding a sharp object.

“I see,” Mary said. She retracted the box cutter and lifted her chin. “Sorry for being so touchy. There’ve been people sniffing about lately, telling me my business can’t survive here and that I should just sell to them as I’m getting on in years.”