Portia pulled out her phone in a smooth movement and began swiping.

Tav leaned forward again. “The man asked a question, Freckles.”

“Sorry, I can’t hear either of you because I’m using my bawbag blocker app.” Her gaze was trained on the screen and her mouth was a solemn line.

Kevyn laughed and pulled into a blessedly empty space by the curb. “Well. Here we are. Enjoy your shopping trip, Tav.”

Tav reached into his pocket, which was a remarkable feat given how tight his suit was. “How much?”

“I already paid,” Portia said, waving her phone. “Technology. One day you’ll catch up.”

She hopped out.

“Careful with that one, Tav,” Kevyn said, turning in his seat as Tav struggled to follow her. “She’s a live one.”

Tav recalled the morning when he’d leaned in to meet her impulsive kiss and almost drowned in her.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

FINE. TAVISH COULD admit when he was wrong. Sometimes, at least. But as they walked out of the shop and he caught sight of himself reflected back in a window, he had to admit he felt . . . different. He didn’t think he’d be trading in his jeans and tees for suits in the workshop, but he’d never had a suit like this before. Portia had run the shop workers ragged in a firm but polite manner, and in no time at all he’d been set up with a suit that accented all his attributes but allowed him to move freely and comfortably.

He looked . . . bloody posh.

“Checking yourself out again?” Portia sidled up beside him and Tav almost said something crass, but then he glanced at his reflection. At hers next to his. They looked good together like this. Was this the kind of man Portia was used to dating? Dressed in a suit that cost a year’s rent for some people? How would that kind of man respond?

“You told me I’d have to start appreciating the finer things in life. What can I say? I was appreciating, lass.” He ran a hand through his hair.

She scrunched her nose. “Oh wonderful. I’ve created Hobbs’s monster.”

“Except instead of running after me with pitchforks, they’ll be after my sexy bo—”

“Oh em gee, we can turn around and return that suit right now, Sir Tavish,” she said, whirling to point at the shop’s entrance. “Can your ego already have grown this much? Just from a suit? I’m sure you’ll be a real treat when you have your title.”

“I guess my new cool and confident persona is working,” Tav said. “I have done some research, you know. My mother used to have these novels that I’d read in the bathroom.”

“TMI, Tavish. Rule number one of duking. Don’t discuss what you do in the bathroom. No one needs to know teenage Tav’s preferred wanking material.”

“Right. But I learned some things while skimming. Dukes and rich guys in suits are supposed to be all commanding and give smoldering looks to the women in their vicinity.”

He narrowed his gaze on her and pursed his lips.

“You look constipated,” she said, and walked off.

“Lead me to the tea service, Freckles,” he said, then jogged to fall into step beside her. She muttered something under her breath.

They walked on in silence until they approached a storefront that looked like someone had taken a dollhouse and shot it with a growth ray. Through the window he could see pink walls and purple tables and gaudy silver trays and teapots.

“Here we are. Two for Tea, Edinburgh’s premiere tea establishment.”

“Are there seedy tea establishments? Places where they sell black market Earl Grey and chamomile that fell off the back of a lorry?” Tavish asked, and Portia sighed.

“This suit has definitely got to go.”

They walked in and were greeted by an older woman who seemed like she was dressed for one of those cons Jamie and Cheryl liked, and her costume was the Queen. Her white hair was meticulously styled and her pink dress had obviously been cribbed from the royalty section of the Looking Glass Daily. She hustled them to a table near the window and Portia plastered on a smile.

“Do you have anything a bit more . . . private?” Portia asked, doing that lash flutter thing. “My dining partner is a bit shy.”

“Oh!” the woman said, conspiratorial delight stealing through her wrinkles as she grinned and glanced back and forth between them. “I see. Yes, over here.”

She led them to a table behind a veil of strung-up ceramic beads painted with little tiny teacup patterns. “We have a reservation for this table, but as long as you don’t intend on staying longer than two hours, it’s yours.”

“Thank you so much. And we’ll have traditional tea service for two,” Portia said.

The woman bustled off and Tav settled onto the ornate chair. He unbuttoned his jacket as he sat. “Private? Are you planning to have your way with me?”

“Of course.” She was sitting ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, but Tav didn’t miss the way her gaze tracked his fingers, or the insinuation in her tone. “I’m going to put you through your paces. I figured you wouldn’t want to be in front of a window for that.”

Her voice was low, and Tav imagined her bare foot sliding up the inseam of his pants leg. Or her hand reaching across the table to grab him by the tie. She was right—he did need to get more up-to-date sexist clichés.