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The voice was Scottish. Like, really fucking Scottish—deep, with a strong burr that would have had Old Portia frantically clicking on the “Yes, I would like to subscribe to your sexy accented newsletter” button. New Portia pulled the hand brake on that cart before she started barreling toward the Bad Ydeas Towne section of the renaissance fair.
He didn’t need her giving him calf eyes when he was in the mood for veal.
Every morning, Portia took five minutes to “empty the trash” rattling around in her head and “sort” it into “bins” in varying levels of priority: SMELLY BROCCOLI—DISPOSE OF NOW; PRETTY GROSS—CHUCK IT ASAP; STARTING TO SMELL WEIRD; and *SNIFF* EH.
Well, someone was living her dream of a manners-free life.
People focused so much on the prince slipping on Cinderella’s lost shoe that they didn’t realize the real happily ever after was the moment she realized she was brave enough to go to the damned ball alone in the first place.
“I’m not waiting around for some fuckboy to bring me a shoe. I’m here, working for you. I’m finding my own shoe,”
That was the thing with creating something; you put some bit of yourself into it, if you did it well, but fuck if you could control what bit of yourself that was.
wasn’t that Portia wasn’t proud of her accomplishments—she certainly knew her strengths—it was that she had a way of blowing her failures up like a shield to block anyone from getting at the successes.
The librarian’s eyes went wide and she rubbed her hands together with glee. “We have a fantastic romance section,” she said. “Do you need recommendations? How do you like your dukes? Grumpy? Tortured? Alpha, beta, or alpha in the streets, beta in the sheets?” “Actually, I meant nonfiction,” Portia said glumly. The librarian sighed. “Aye. Just a warning, love—the non-fic dukes are not nearly as fun.” Portia sighed. The librarian had no idea.
“Eh, I’m always down to stab horrible men,” she said. “No need to thank me.”
“But when you talk about fake personas and silly rituals, remember that some of us can’t opt out of that stuff. Before
I even open my mouth, I’m judged based on whether I’m perceived to be pretty enough or wearing the right thing—not too revealing, not too frumpy, not too cheap looking, not too fancy. When I do talk, it’s whether I’m articulate enough. So while you’re rightfully annoyed by this, just remember that at least half of the population has to adopt these fake personas and silly rituals just to get through the day.”
