He glanced at Portia and took in her look of discomfort, then realized he was scowling hard.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have pried,” she said. “It’s just a fantastic building. My entire place in New York is about the size of this room, has walls as thin as tissue paper, and would sell for as much as the GDP of a small nation.”

Tav kept himself from commenting on the last bit, by the skin of his teeth. She was a spoiled, rich American, but he didn’t want to see those puppy dog eyes again.

“Pry away, it’s fine. It worked out for me. Mum married when I was young, so I got a life with a great dad and property from a shite one.”

“Sounds like a pretty good deal.” She flopped down on the bed and sighed, snuggling into the duvet. “I’m sorry, all the traveling is catching up to me.”

He looked at her sprawled out on the bed with her eyes fluttering shut, with that damn nose, and that damn mouth, and those damned freckles. He liked looking at her, and he hated that he liked it. He didn’t want to.

A passing fancy was one thing, but this jittery awareness of her felt both new and devastatingly familiar.

Nope. Not dirtying my soles on that road again. The destination is always disappointment.

Her eyes flew open and she gazed up at him, one hand pressing into the bed as if testing it. “Do you have a mattress topper or something? This mattress is kinda . . .”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Tav turned and walked out of the room, closing the door soundly behind him.

He was going to kill Jamie.

Chapter 3

Now thrust like you’re trying to disembowel me. Come on! I’m the English marauder come to storm your castle, and those weak-ass jabs aren’t going to stop me!”

Sweat poured down Portia’s neck. The gray silk blouse she’d chosen to wear was soaked through beneath her breasts and down her back; she was sure she looked like a Rorschach test in which one could find the image of a woman who was going to need an Epsom bath soon. At least her jeans were proving they’d been worth the money for the stretchtech/denim blend. Her heels were lined up on the bleachers because she was good in heels, but not that good.

She hadn’t expected to do anything but observe the class; Jamie and his wife Cheryl had been out all day, so they hadn’t been able to go over the parameters of the internship earlier. She’d avoided Tavish as best she could by walking around the neighborhood and checking out coffee shops, trying not to replay her disastrous first morning in Scotland on a humiliating mental loop, then fallen asleep in her room for a few hours. She was dressed more “casual chic” than “CrossFit” when she’d walked into the gymnasium located just off of the courtyard, she’d realized that when Jamie said “come check out my class before we chat” he’d actually meant “come meet my sadistic drill sergeant alter ego.”

Jamie—tall, dark-skinned, with short, glossy curls that made her want to ask what product he used—had pulled her into a welcoming hug, then turned and lined her up with the group of students waiting for the evening’s class to start. She’d thought herself reasonably in shape, but the Defending the Castle boot camp was kicking her ass.

They’d lifted kettle bells in a “pour boiling oil on the bastards scaling the wall” maneuver, then did wall sits in an exercise called “battering ram resistance” just before entering the hand-to-hand combat training. The gray-haired older woman beside Portia was leaning forward and faux-parrying with all her might, but her shirt was dry and her face serene.

“Jab! Jab!” Jamie commanded, his curls bouncing as he cheerfully stabbed imaginary attackers while jogging in place.

Portia’s thighs burned and her arms were getting heavier and heavier, but even so . . . it was kind of fun. She’d tried barre, and yoga, and Pilates, but pretending to ward off attackers fulfilled some primal urge that had apparently been lying dormant within her.

Or maybe this one showed up after you stopped indulging your other primal urges.

Giving up sex had been surprisingly easy. She’d replaced happy hours and hookups with quiet nights with friends and courses on social engineering, marketing, and tech. Then Reggie had sent her the apprenticeship application and Portia had become infatuated with the idea—she’d even uploaded the application days ahead of the deadline instead of at the very last minute, like she usually did. When she’d received the email saying she’d been selected, she’d looked forward to it, thinking she already had her physical longings under wraps. Her vow of celibacy hadn’t been a problem until she was sitting across from Tavish McKenzie.

She’d realized several things at once in his office: (1) She’d been wrong to scoff at the silver fox phenomenon, because Tavish’s salt-and-pepper hair was like the perfect seasoning on a slab of delicious Angus steak. (2) Her diet had definitely been lacking in protein. (3) She had committed to sexual veganism, there was no way in hell she was going to mess up Project: New Portia by sleeping with her boss of all people.

“Don’t you want to protect your castle?” Jamie shouted, doubling the tempo of the imaginary dagger thrusting where he led from the front of the class. “Don’t you, mates?”

A few scattered grunts and roars were his response.

“Fuck off away from me castle!” the woman beside Portia yelled as she kept time with Jamie. Her jabs were vicious but precise, belied by her pleasant smile.