The lump in her throat grew about three sizes, and not in a joyous Grinch kind of way.

“I was still debating, you know,” he said. “Guess that takes care of that.”

“I can say it was a joke,” she said. “Maybe they won’t even read it. They probably get all kinds of bizarre emails.”

He shrugged. “Mistakes happen.” His gaze lingered a bit too long on her, and she tried not to read any implications into it.

She wanted to apologize again. She wanted to smack her head against the desk. She really, really wanted a drink. She stood.

“I’m gonna go,” she said.

“That’s probably a good idea.”

She grabbed her tablet then put it down.

“Yeah, maybe leave the electronic devices behind before you find another way to wreak havoc on my life.”

That hurt a bit more, but she deserved it. She deserved worse. She didn’t apologize again, she simply headed past him, the pressure of her mistake ballooning to push her out of the room. It pushed her out of the armory, and down the street to the half-empty pub on the corner that she usually passed on the way to Mary’s bookshop. Her body had gone on autopilot, taking her to the only familiar and comforting place in a strange land.

She walked slowly up to the bar and sat down, inhaling the familiar scent of stale alcohol and shattered dreams that permeated bars of a certain age. The place was dark and moody, the long wooden bar old and full of gouges and likely to give any patron a splinter.

She felt a sense of relief that made her ashamed.

“What can I get you, love?” the old man behind the bar asked.

Portia looked over the beers on tap; some she knew and some she hadn’t seen before. She knew that one drink wouldn’t hurt her. But would it be just one? And if it wouldn’t hurt, it certainly wouldn’t help, would it?

Do you need another reason to beat yourself up? More important, do you really need this?

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was Portia Hobbs and she could solve this problem without a dose of liquid courage.

“A ginger ale,” she said, settling on the wobbly bar stool.

“With . . . ?” His furry eyebrows raised.

“A slice of lime.”

He looked confused but set the drink in front of her a moment later, along with a bowl of peanuts.

She stared at the drink and the peanuts, which had been caressed by lord knew how many unwashed fingers. She inhaled the scent of the bar and wondered how hard it would be to get the smell out of her hair and clothing. She glanced up at the soccer game playing on the small flat screen in a corner of the bar and tried to follow the tiny colorful specks as they ran back and forth across the screen. She slowly sipped the flat soda. Anything to avoid thinking about how big of a mistake she’d just made. She was fairly certain her bags would be packed and sitting outside the armory when she returned.

“This seat taken?”

She took in a shuddering breath.

“That depends. It’s reserved for people who don’t know I’m a complete and utter tosser, so you’ll probably have to sit over there.” She pointed across the room.

“I didn’t say I thought you were a tosser,” Tav said, sitting beside her anyway, sideways so that he was facing her and had his back to the rest of the bar. He didn’t touch her, but his presence pressed against her. She’d have to ask Ledi if humans were sensitive to particles being displaced in times of distress.

“It kind of goes without saying this time around.” She took a sip of her ginger ale.

“Are you an alcoholic?” he asked, catching Portia by surprise. She coughed a bit, as the swallow of soda went down the wrong tube. Tav’s big hand came to her back and patted.

“No?” she said. “I was a problem drinker. As in, I drank to escape my problems.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” he asked, then his gaze landed on the bartender. “A Belhaven’s Best for me, thanks.”

“Yeah, but I also became other people’s problem when I drank.” Portia realized Tav’s hand was still on her back. It was just . . . resting there. Like that was normal. And it felt normal, and good and comforting, and all those things she’d been pushing out of her head since their kiss. “I don’t even know why my friends and family put up with me.”

“Probably because humans make mistakes and other humans forgive them.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and he was watching her. “Or not,” she countered.

“You know I thought I was a pessimist, but you’ve got me beat in that department.” His beer arrived, and he took a swig of the dark ale. “This place used to be a dive you know.”

Portia wondered what he considered divey if the bar in its current state didn’t fall under that umbrella.

“One night Jamie and I came here, a bit after he’d turned eighteen. Drinking together like two grown men and all that.” His hand moved absently, rubbing up and down over the small of her back. “Two wankers decided to pick a fight. They didn’t know we were brothers and assumed we were the next closest thing two men could be. Jamie wanted to leave. But I was the big brother, had to show him that I’d handle things, right?”

She met his gaze then. “Your wry expression leads me to believe all didn’t go to plan.”