7. The Imp is an Elf
The Imp is an Elf
Ihave two goals for the day. The first is the most pressing—I need to do an internet search on every tea Laverna has in stock and print out info pages to refer to when people have questions.
Then I have to try them.
All of them.
But maybe not all of them in one day.
The second goal is a little more personal and not as urgent. Or urgent at all. I want to see if I can figure out the identity of Rowan’s cousin. I can’t ask around, obviously. People will want to know how I know about him when I just arrived in town.
And all right, it’s less of a goal and more of a burning curiosity. Did Rowan’s fiancée and cousin end up getting married? Did they leave town together?
And why did Laverna stay quiet all that time? Was she secretly in love with him? Is that why my aunt remained a spinster? Because the man she harbored feelings for disappeared right before his wedding and turned up on her doorstep?
It’s all such a mystery, and I want to get to the bottom of it. But mostly, I’d like to help Rowan return to his normal self and reunite with his family before it’s too late.
Just before noon, a knock sounds at the tea shop door, pulling my attention away from my tea search. I still have the closed sign up, so I doubt it’s a tourist.
Maybe it’s Ash.
I close my laptop and leave the office, entering the upstairs living space.
Technically, I think this area was designed as an apartment.
There are two rooms, this living area, a full bathroom, and a small kitchen.
But instead of taking on a tenant, Laverna used the apartment for inventory and her office.
It’s cozy up here, with large windows and even more wilting houseplants.
I walk down the stairs and end up in the hall that leads to the tea garden. But instead of turning right, I head left, into the shop.
I don’t recognize the man who waits at the door. He looks like he’s about to knock again, but when he sees me through the glass, he lowers his hand.
“Hello,” I say when I open the door, my eyes sweeping over my visitor.
He offers me a warm, dimpled smile. “You must be Kathleen.”
His magic immediately tells me he’s fae, but not high fae. His skin is golden, with olive undertones. He’s tall, but not as tall as Ash, and he wears his light brown hair short.
His eyes are startlingly green—soft like moss but vibrant enough to be noticeable. And he’s gorgeous—as seems to be the trend in the fae community.
No wonder Moss Hollow is so popular with the humans.
“Everyone calls me Kit,” I tell him.
His smile becomes mischievous. “I thought you were a pixie.”
I frown. “I am a pixie.”
He wriggles his eyebrows. “You have the name of a fox shifter.”
Rolling my eyes, I laugh at his audacity. “You sound like my grandmother.”
He chuckles, showing off his boyish dimples again. “I’m Ryder. I work at the bakery.”
“All right, Ryder who works at the bakery. What can I do for you?”
“I’m here on business, but I’ll stay for tea if you ask me.”
“Tell me your business, and I’ll decide if I want to invite you in.”
“Fair enough. We had a contract with your aunt. She sold a few varieties of our pastries, and we stocked some of her tea. We would like to continue that arrangement if it suits you.”
“Well, I don’t know. I’ve never had your pastries. What if they aren’t any good?”
“Negotiating for free samples—I respect that. Maybe you would enjoy a chocolate croissant? Or a raspberry scone? Would you be charmed by a slice of classic apple pie, or prefer a comforting hot chocolate chip cookie?” He shakes his head, his expression becoming mournful.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin. That settles it—I must get to know you better before I choose which samples to bring. ”
I laugh again, stepping away from the door and waving him in. “Have a cup of tea, on the house. You can be my first customer.”
I hold up my hand, stopping him just before he steps over the threshold. “You’re not an imp, are you?”
He doesn’t look like he uses dark magic. But how would I know? I’ve never met an imp before.
“I’m here for tea. I have no nefarious intentions.” He sweeps his eyes over me playfully. “Well, maybe a few.”
“So, you are an imp?” I gasp, pressing my hand on his chest to keep him out.
“No.” He looks down at my hand and grins. His eyes twinkle with magic as he looks up, reaffirming that this man is fae.
But what kind?
“What are you then?” I demand.
He makes a tsking noise. “That’s not very polite.”
“Tell me or no tea.”
“Take another guess—I’m enjoying the game.”
“You’re not high fae.”
He grimaces like the thought is abhorrent. “Certainly not.”
“You’re not a shifter.”
“Doing well so far.”
“You’re not a pixie, though if you were, you’d be a spring.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re going to have to give me a hint.”
He removes my hand from his chest, keeping it wrapped in his own, and steps inside. He leans close to my ear and whispers, “I’m an elf.”
“You are not,” I gasp, laughing as I step away and reclaim my hand.
“I am—a wood elf. I was found in the Black Forest as a baby and raised by a family of visiting brownies. They brought me to Moss Hollow, and the rest is history.”
“The Black Forest? As in Germany?”
“That’s the one.”
“How do you know you’re not a changeling?”
He gives me a slow grin. “Because I’m not wicked?”
“That might be debatable.”
“I have wood elf magic,” he says, easing any fear I might have.
Changelings are vile imposters, but they can’t mimic another race’s magic.
“Okay…” I say, though I’m still not sure I believe him. “So, who’s watching the bakery right now?”
“The owner, Arista. I’m on my lunch break.” He casually browses the wall of tea, hands clasped behind his back.
“Don’t you think you should eat something?”
He turns, smirking. “Are you asking me on a lunch date?”
“No.”
He looks back at the tea. “Shame. But I can’t be gone that long anyway. We lose business when Arista is at the counter.”
I’m not sure I should ask, but I find myself saying, “Why?”
“She’s a chronically stressed winter pixie.”
I let out a horrified laugh. “Don’t you find that exhausting? How do you cope?”
“I told you—I’m an elf.” He pulls a sample off a shelf and sniffs it. Apparently not to his liking, he puts it back.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m immune to external magic. We carry a natural resistance.”
“So, you don’t relive memories around her?”
“Nope.”
“Really?” I ask, fascinated.
“If anything, I like to think I keep her stable. I’m usually in a decent mood.”
“How did you end up working for her?”
“She needed help. I was the only option.”
“Lucky her.”
“Now don’t go thinking she got the short end of the stick. I make a mean croissant—it’s all in the lamination process—and customers love me.”
“Female customers, I imagine.”
“I’ll take that as another compliment.”
“What kind of tea do you want?” I go behind the counter and look at the tins. “I think this is all the same stuff, just easier to grab for orders.”
“Make me your favorite—we’ll say it’s part of the ‘let’s get acquainted’ process.”
“Okay, well… I should probably warn you I know next to nothing about tea.”
He looks over, greatly amused by that.
“I know. I’m sure the next three years will go swimmingly.”
“What happens after three years?”
“I’m allowed to sell the shop. Those were the terms in my aunt’s will.”
“I don’t like those terms. You should stay.”
“You haven’t even tried my tea yet. You might change your mind.”
He chuckles and takes a seat at one of the tables, watching me as I prepare the tea.
Are all wood elves this easy to talk to? Or is it just Ryder?
Strangely, even though he’s handsome and a shameless flirt, I don’t feel butterflies around him. I’m afraid that’s probably a bad sign.
I wonder if I have a type—and maybe that type is haughty high fae councilmen.
“The blogger vastly underestimated the skill and time needed to make her recipe,” I say to Rowan, freaking out because the house smells like smoke.
And it doesn’t smell like smoke because I started a fire in the cute living room hearth. No. It’s because I tried to burn down the kitchen.
I’ve heard of blackened chicken, but I know it’s not this black.
Rowan flies to the edge of the counter and stares into the charcoaled pan. “Were you trying to cook it or cremate it?”
“Not funny.”
“How high did you set the burner?”
“The recipe said it needed to be a medium heat.”
“And you got it to roughly the surface temperature of the sun.”
I groan, dropping my face in my hands. “What am I going to do? Ash is going to be here in fifteen minutes.”
“Get rid of the evidence.”
“I can’t throw away Laverna’s pan!”
“I didn’t say you should throw it away—just hide it.”
“Where?”
The doorbell rings, and I whirl around, looking for somewhere to stash the evidence.
“He’s early,” I exclaim at a horrified whisper.
Desperate, I open the top oven and shove the skillet inside.
“Open a window,” Rowan urges. “And turn on the vent over the stove.”
The doorbell rings again as I’m trying to pry open the kitchen window. With one last grunt, I give it a hard shove. It slides an inch.
Good enough.
I run to the living room, take a second to straighten myself, and then open the door like I haven’t a care in the world.
Ash waits for me on the step, frowning just like he did the first time we met. “Why does it smell like you caught something on fire?”
“There’s no fire,” I say brightly. Not anymore. “I was just making dinner.”
He’s dressed like a lawyer this evening, with his leather briefcase, brown dress shoes, and tan suit jacket. The look is extremely appealing.
Ash’s eyes narrow, and his lips curve in a subtle smile.
I must be sparkling again. Dang it.
I didn’t glitter once for Ryder, but this man frowns at me, and I light up like a star.
You have issues.
“Come on in,” I say, relieved when I hear the thwack of Rowan’s bird door. The last thing I want is for him to hang around tonight.
I lead Ash into the kitchen, cringing when I see actual smoke wafting in the light of the setting sun that’s coming in through the western windows.
“You had better check the batteries in your smoke detectors,” Ash says. “They should have gone off.”
“Oh.” I force a laugh, fanning the air with my hands. “It’ll dissipate in a few minutes.”
“Perhaps we should open a window?”
“I did.” I gesture toward the one that’s cracked.
“That’s not going to do much.” He sets his briefcase on the floor and walks over to it. And like I suspect all things do in Ash’s life, it obeys his command and slides open.
“It was stuck,” I say. “How did you do that so easily?”
“You must have loosened it.” He walks to the butcher block kitchen island and peers at the salad, perhaps suspecting I dumped it from a bag.
And he would be correct. But at least Laverna’s ceramic navy blue and white bowl is pretty.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I say, feeling awkward. “I’m just going to cook the chicken real quick.”
Thankfully, I have extra.
Determined to do it right this time, I scan the recipe on my phone as I pull ingredients out of the fridge. Distracting me, Ash removes his jacket and hangs it on the back of one of the dining room chairs. Next, he loosens his tie, and then he rolls up his shirtsleeves.
Barely paying attention to what I’m doing, I load my arms with butter, chicken broth, cream, the leftover half of the onion I just cremated, and a bulb of garlic.
“No!” I cry when the glass container of raw chicken slips out of my grip.
It freezes midair, right before it crashes on the ground…
Hovering.
I look over at Ash, wide-eyed. He stands with his hand extended, calm as the cucumber I forgot to add to the salad. With a flick of his wrist, he directs the chicken to the counter.
“That’s amazing,” I breathe.
His eyebrows shoot up, and he actually smiles. “You’re easy to impress.”
“I’ve never seen anyone use magic… I mean, I’ve never seen it used like that.”
“When they’re in their season, pixies have almost as much magic as elves,” Ash points out.
Probably having heard me scream, Rowan flies back inside, his eyes alert as he lands on his perch and takes in the scene.
“But we can’t use our magic. It just…is.” I glance at the owl. “Some would even say it’s cute and worthless.”
Ash scowls at Rowan. “That bird is still around?”
“You know him?” I ask carefully.
“Laverna’s had him for years. I don’t know how he’s still alive. If you don’t want to deal with him, I can call animal services for you.”
“No!” I say a little too forcefully, earning a startled look from Ash and an unblinking one from Rowan. “I mean, you can’t. I inherited him, remember? You drew all that up.”
“I figured he’d fly off after Laverna passed away.”
“Well…he didn’t. Just ignore him. He’ll go outside soon.”
I level Rowan with a stare, silently telling him to get lost. But he only fluffs his feathers and makes himself comfortable.
“You should remove his perch from the kitchen,” Ash says. “It’s possible for owls to carry salmonella.”
I glance at the counter, where Rowan was standing just minutes ago. “I’ll look into it.”
Deciding to ignore Rowan for now, I search for another skillet.
Easiest chicken you’ll ever make, the blogger claimed. Ready in thirty minutes.
Lies.
As I rummage, Ash washes his hands like he plans to help.
“Have you made this before?” Ash asks, coming up behind me when I set a new skillet on the stove.
“Not successfully.”
“You don’t want to put the chicken in a cold pan,” he says, catching me before I do just that. “Add your butter and heat it first.”
“I did that last time, and it caught on fire,” I admit, distracted because Ash is reaching around me. His chest brushes my back, and for the first time, he’s close enough I can smell him.
And he smells good—like the mountains before the first snowfall. What worries me is I don’t think that’s cologne.
It’s his magic.
“You just have to watch it,” he says. “As soon as it melts, sauté the onion and garlic. Once those are aromatic, you can add the chicken.”
I expect Ash to step back after he places the butter in the heating skillet, but he doesn’t.
Which would be okay—better than okay even…
If I couldn’t feel Rowan’s glare.