Chapter 8
Lorian
This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous.
I stand on Maeve's doorstep, clutching a bouquet of deep-red roses.
I purchased the flowers earlier this afternoon from Primrose Pristine Home Decor.
It seemed like a good idea back then and an even better idea when Mrs. Beckham cooed and awed when I brought the bouquet back to my office.
Well, when she discovered it, to be exact.
Discovered despite my best effort to keep it hidden from her prying eyes.
I’m beginning to think there is no hiding anything from my head nurse.
But now that I stand on Maeve's porch and hold the bouquet of roses in my hands, it doesn't feel like a good idea. Not at all. My fingers adjust their grip on the stems for the fifth time as I stand there under the rising moonlight. The cellophane wrapper crinkles loudly in the quiet evening.
I shouldn’t be this nervous. I'm a respected physician, formerly of the High Elven Court. I've performed complex surgeries on patients while their families waited anxiously for news. I've delivered life-altering diagnoses without flinching.
Yet here I stand, palms damp, heart racing like I'm a green intern again, all because of a nurse with wild red hair and a smile that makes my vision blur at the edges.
What would Fenrys say if he could see me now?
My older brother always teased me about how I would react if I found my True Mate.
He never could picture me looking the fool and falling over my own feet for a woman.
Of the two of us, my brother is the warm one.
The charming one. The one women and men flock to with eager smiles on their faces.
No wonder he now lives happily with his own True Mate and children, a duly elected senator of the Elven Council.
And I live alone in voluntary exile.
Fenrys used to joke that I would try to court my mate with surgical precision.
Guess he was wrong on one point. Unlike in surgery, I have no idea how to court my True Mate.
There is no textbook for me to study on the subject, no protocol to follow.
I’m on my own here, and for the first time in a long, long time, I’m going in without a plan.
But as much as I wish I had more to go on than the queasy feeling in my stomach, I know I can’t turn back. Not since tasting Maeve’s lips yesterday.
No. I can’t think about that right now. I need to focus on charming her, making her see me as the ideal mate. This is how I will court my True Mate.
"You'll never find a mate if you can't loosen up," Fenrys told me during my last visit to the High Court. "Not all of life can be organized into neat little boxes, Lori."
I wish he were here now. Despite his irritating habit of always smiling and making jokes out of the most serious situations, he understood these matters better than I ever have.
I adjust my tie, a deep ocean green that Mrs. Beckham once commented brought out the blue in my eyes, and straighten my already impeccable jacket. The rational part of my brain continues to protest this entire endeavor.
What if she rejects me? What if she wants nothing to do with me after what I did yesterday?
I withdrew like a coward after kissing her. I wasn’t sure I would be able to stop if I kept going. But I’m in control now. It won’t happen again. At least, not unless Maeve asks me to kiss her.
My finger hovers over the doorbell. Perhaps this is a mistake. I could leave the flowers on the doorstep and retreat to my cabin. We could continue our professional relationship without this complication.
I could…
The door swings open before I can press the bell, revealing Maeve in a short, flowing skirt that displays her shapely legs and a simple tank top that hugs her generous curves.
Her red curls cascade freely around her shoulders, catching the golden light coming from inside her house.
The sight of her hits me like a physical blow.
My vision narrows until all I can see is her.
The edges of the world blur, and heat floods my veins.
This reaction is becoming familiar, though no less overwhelming.
My brain catalogs symptoms clinically: elevated heart rate, clammy hands, respiratory rate increase.
All classic signs of heightened emotional response and sexual arousal, but the intensity of it still takes my breath away.
She still takes my breath away.
"Lorian," she says with a wide smile. Her green eyes widen as they drop to the roses in my hand.
I clear my throat, suddenly unable to remember the carefully prepared speech I'd rehearsed in my car.
"I thought these might be appropriate," I say, bending stiffly to offer her the bouquet. "Given our collaborative efforts on the Pixie-Pox situation."
Smooth, Lori, I can almost hear my brother say. Very smooth.
A smile tugs at her lips as she accepts the flowers, her fingers brushing against mine. Even that slight touch sends electricity racing up my arm.
"They're beautiful. Thank you," she says, burying her nose in the blooms. When she looks up, her expression has softened. "Everything is ready for us to prepare the tonic."
"That’s very efficient of you," I reply, then wince internally at my formality.
She steps aside, and I follow her into the cottage, taking in the decor.
Where I surround myself with white walls and minimalist lines, Maeve's space explodes with color and texture.
The entryway opens directly into a living area with exposed wooden beams overhead and mismatched furniture arranged in a way that somehow looks intentional rather than haphazard.
Bookshelves line one wall, overflowing not just with books but with jars of dried herbs, small potted plants, and various trinkets.
The sensory overload is immediate. My eyes struggle to find a place to rest amid the riot of colors, throw pillows in jewel tones, a patchwork quilt draped over the back of a worn leather sofa, framed photographs covering nearly every vertical surface.
The air is thick with scents: lavender, rosemary, something citrusy, and beneath it all, the distinctive scent that I've come to associate with Maeve herself.
There is no word for Maeve’s smell, only colors. She smells like violets and pinks, beautiful and wild, like the feeling in my gut that refuses to quiet down.
"Let me put these in water," Maeve says, moving toward the kitchen area that flows seamlessly from the living space. "Make yourself comfortable."
I remain standing, too fascinated by what I see to sit down. The kitchen is no less chaotic than the rest of the space—copper pots hanging from a ceiling rack, mason jars of dried herbs lined up on open shelving, a collection of ceramic mugs in various shapes and sizes.
"I visited the Merryweather twins today," Maeve chatters as she fills a vase with water. "Their freckles are glowing so brightly that their mother says she doesn't need to turn on the night-light anymore."
Despite myself, I smile. "How are they tolerating the symptoms?"
"Better now that they can eat. The ice pops are working wonders." She arranges the roses in the vase with practiced ease. "What about you? Any new cases?"
"Three. All siblings of the initial cases. I’m expecting at least twice that amount in the coming days. With the number of children exposed in the school, this outbreak is far from over."
"That’s why we need to get this tonic ready as soon as possible."
She places the vase on her kitchen counter, steps back to admire the arrangement, then turns to me with bright eyes. "Ready to brew some magic?"
"Medicine," I correct automatically. "Not magic."
"A bit of both, I think," she says with a wink that does strange things to my interior organs. "Come on, I've got everything laid out."
I follow her to the kitchen counter, where various ingredients are arranged in neat rows.
I recognize elderberry, thyme, and several other herbs mentioned in the ancient text, along with a few I can't immediately identify.
The book is there, open at the page where the tonic recipe is laid out, held up on a simple stand.
We get to work side by side, Maeve and I. It's strange, working alongside someone in such a domestic setting. In the High Court, I'm accustomed to a team following my lead, responding to my commands. Here, we move around each other, finding a natural rhythm that soothes my soul.
The recipe is surprisingly simple, and it doesn’t take long for the dark-purple brew to be assembled.
"Now we let it simmer for twenty minutes," she says, setting a timer. "Want some tea while we wait?"
I nod, watching as she moves around her kitchen, prepares two cups of sweet-smelling herbal tea, then hands one to me. This feels oddly intimate, standing in her space, preparing a meal of sorts together. I've never shared a kitchen with anyone before, not like this.
We fill the silence with idle chat. I point to one of the many pictures of happy, smiling people that line her walls. She tells me about her family, her mother and father, her dream of becoming a nurse. Her desire to help people, to make a difference in their lives.
I drink in her words, basking in the sound of her voice, savoring this moment where she opens up and tells me about herself and her life.
When the timer dings, Maeve returns to the stove and gives the mixture a final stir. She lifts the spoon, gently blows on the liquid, then takes a small sip. Immediately, her face contorts in disgust, and she gags dramatically.
"Sweet heaven, that's revolting," she sputters, reaching for her tea to wash away the taste. "No child is going to drink that willingly."
I frown. "The medicinal efficacy is what matters, not the taste."
"Try it," she challenges, holding out the spoon.
Against my better judgment, I take it from her and taste a small amount. The bitterness is indeed profound, followed by an aftertaste that can only be described as fishy and moldy.
"It's potent," I admit.