Chapter Fifteen
DEVLIN
I open my eyes to see a dim bulb of a man jiggling his keys free from the front door. The one Violet most definitely locked.
“Babe is most certainly not open.” I tamp down a surge of irritation. “The sign on the door should’ve been a dead giveaway. See also, the locked door. And yet—”
“Can I help you with something, Brandt?” Violet asks, her annoyance as sharp and pungent as her Devil Be Gone brew.
Clearly, she knows the man.
Clearly, not as well as he’d like, judging from the hungry way he’s staring at her… canisters.
It shouldn’t bother me. But suddenly I’m picturing this dead-eyed Neanderthal stark-raving naked with a pole up his arse, churning like a rotisserie chicken over one of Hell's many fires.
“I was just in the neighborhood.” His beady brown eyes flick to me, then back to her. “Everything okay?”
“Just in the neighborhood of your own office less than two blocks away?” Violet laughs. Not her real one. “Yes, what a mighty coincidence. I see you’ve brought my keys back—you can leave those right on the counter for me, then show yourself out.”
“I don’t mind hanging on to them. Checking in every once in a—”
“Keys. Counter. Now.”
He sighs and pouts in a way highly unbecoming for a nearly middle-aged male, but does as she asks, removing two keys from the ring and sliding them across the counter, his finger still holding them in place.
“You, uh, going to the Halloween Ball?” He flashes her what I suspect is his A-game grin, but I’d bet a small fortune it’s the exact face he’d make for the whole rotisserie-pole-up-the-arse scenario, so… hard to tell.
“Always do,” she says.
“Dressing up?”
“Halloween Ball, Brandt. Kind of a thing.”
“Got a date this year?”
That smarmy grin again. The dull brown eyes. The unchecked desire as he runs them up and down her lithe frame.
Unable to remain a passive witness, I lean across the counter. Grab his wrist. Forcibly remove his hand from the keys and sweep them into my apron pocket. “Thanks ever so much for stopping by, Brandt. As you can see, Violet and I are quite thoroughly engaged in another matter. So, if you’re not here to make a purchase, it’s time to make like a tea and leaf.”
Dim bulb just gapes—really, we’re talking twenty watts between the ears, at max—but Violet’s snickering behind me, the precious snort filling me with unchecked glee.
Rubbing his wrist, Brandt nods at the dregs of her failed banishing brew, still sitting on the counter between us. “What’s that?”
“Posterior essence of Camelus bactrianus,” I declare with a smile, taking great pleasure in unleashing another of Violet’s snorts, try as she might to hide it.
“Is that… some sort of spice?” Twenty Watt wants to know.
“Experiment gone bad,” Violet says.
“And this one?” He turns his attention to my abandoned creation, a pile of tea and herbs no one in his right mind would even look at, let alone ask about.
But again, dimness reigns supreme.
“Also bad.” Violet tightens her apron strings and sighs. “So, if there’s nothing else I can do for you, Brandt—”
“Actually, that one is quite good.” Offering a mile-wide customer-service grin, I dump the mixture into a fresh teapot. “Crafted it myself. It’s got a bit of a kick, granted, but if you’re not sensitive to spice, you might enjoy it.”
“He hates spice,” Violet informs me. “All kinds of spice.”
This shouldn’t please me as much as it does, but I’m a petty, petty man and hey, I take my kicks where I can get them.
“I love spice,” he snaps. “You don’t know everything about me, Violet. Not anymore.”
Ohhh.. Now this is getting interesting…
“Of course you like spice, Brandt.” I offer a conspiratorial wink, like, just one of the guys, we’re all friends here, you know how the womenfolk get these crazy ideas in their heads. “But as I mentioned, this particular blend is fairly intense. Brand new, hot off the presses. Only for the most discerning of customers.”
“Yeah? What’s in it?”
“Trade secret, but it’s called The Devil Made Me Brew It.”
“Is that… like… a pun?”
“Oh, it’s quite literal. I assure you.” I head to the kitchen to fetch the kettle, Violet right on my heels.
“Seriously?” she hisses. “What are you doing? I’m trying to get him out of here!”
“Just having a bit of fun, mushroom,” I whisper. “Experimentation is good for the soul.”
“Do you even have a soul?”
“No, but we do have a most discerning customer, one who’s clearly seen you naked at some point in the not-so-distant past which FYI I will very much be inquiring about later, and I’m in the mood to be a complete and utter prick. So! Off we go.”
I leave her gaping behind me and head out to brew his tea. The steam curls eagerly from the pot, the scent nearly as pungent as Violet’s earlier brew but ever-so-slightly less offensive.
“So, you new in town?” Twenty Watt asks, conversational mastermind that he is. “I wasn’t aware Violet had the budget for an employee.”
“I’m a consultant, actually.” I snap the takeaway lid onto his cup. “Best of the best, very exclusive, years-long waiting list. Anyway, here you are, all fired up and ready to go.”
I slide the cup his way. He gives it an indelicate whiff, then recoils, barely smothering a cough.
“Too spicy for you, then?” I laugh. “No worries. Not every man is man enough to handle the Devil’s Brew.”
“Just getting used to it, is all.” He takes a full sip. Coughs and sputters emerge. Eyes water. Face turns the color of a ripe tomato. Very entertaining, the whole hot mess of him.
“It’s… it’s good,” he wheezes, fumbling for his phone and swiping it over the payment screen. He does not, I notice, leave a tip. “Real good. Anyway, I have an important meeting with important people, so…”
“Yes, of course. Oh, and Brandt? Good luck when that brew hits the other end.”
He’s gone before he can even draw his next breath.
“I don’t want to talk about Brandt Remington the Third,” Violet announces, locking the door behind him. “So don’t even ask.”
“Brandt Remington the Third?” I laugh. “Poor bloke was bound to be a cunt. No getting ‘round it with a name like that.” I retrieve the keys from my apron and hand them over. “Anyway, I’m pleased to report that my tea-brewing days are officially over, but yours most certainly are not.”
“Jury’s still out on that.” She blows a breath into her curls and collects the kettles and cups from the counter, carrying them into the kitchen. When she returns, she double-checks her bottles and jars, turning them this way and that, carefully putting everything back in its exact right place.
I watch her straightening and polishing, spraying down the counter, cleaning everything to a high shine. She’s meticulous and focused, leaving everything she touches better than how she found it.
Yet the pride of a job well done isn’t enough to bring the smile back to her face.
“I’ve got some thoughts for your consideration,” I say softly, “if you’re ready for them.”
“Ah, yes. The official assessment from my best-of-the-best consultant.” She tosses a towel over her shoulder and takes a seat at one of the counter stools across from me, drumming her fingers nervously. “Let’s have it, then.”
“The good news is… It’s not the product. Your teas are fabulous, even without my added contributions. And who doesn’t love a scratch-made scone with genuine clotted cream?”
“My sister Emmilou makes them for me. She traveled to London and took classes from some famous pastry chef.”
“It shows. And the location? Prime real estate. Plenty of pedestrian traffic, easy to get to on foot or by car, ample parking to boot. And you’ve definitely got the witchy, kitschy, cat-loving, pumpkin-spice vibe on tap that makes everyone want to believe in magic, so put that in the win column.”
“I’m… not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult, but—”
“It’s just the facts, mushroom. You have all the ingredients you need for a successful tea business right here. The thing that’s holding you back isn’t the product or the place or even the competition, as much as Mean Beans is a thorn in our side.”
“Then what is the problem?
“Simple.” I spread my hands and grin, like, ta-da! “It’s… you.”
“Okay, now that sounds suspiciously like an insult.”
“Tell me something. Why do you craft your teas?”
At long last, the smile returns, and behind her glasses, the spark in those blue eyes re-ignites. It changes her whole face, top to bottom. Even the way she holds herself is different now—sitting up straight, shoulders squared, tall and proud. Happy. “I do it because I—”
“Stop. See, I don’t even need the words.” I circle her face with my finger. “That look says it all. Tea is your absolute passion. Your purpose. The most natural expression of your magic. Even the act of thinking about it lights you up from the inside out.”
Emotion glazes her eyes. “Yes! That’s exactly it. Goddess, you get it.”
“I do. And that’s precisely where we need to start. Not with a marketing plan or a budget review or a social media strategy. But with you. Your why.”
“My what?”
“No, your why. Why you’re doing this. What inspires you to wake up at dawn nearly every morning, work yourself to the point of exhaustion, drain your bank accounts, and keep going day after day when the going gets tougher and tougher, all for a chance to share your gifts with Wayward Bay. Basically, all the stuff that’s in your heart, waiting to be unlocked.”
“You’re losing me here, Dev.” She shakes her head, thumb tracing a groove in the countertop. “People come for the tea and the food, first and foremost. The vibes, yes, that’s a close second. But no one cares that it’s my passion. My purpose. My thing.”
“Then it’s your job to make them care.” I reach across the counter and grab her hands. “Having a business that serves the public—whether it’s tea or a restaurant or sketching caricatures on the street… it always requires a bit of a performance.”
“I can’t be fake, Devlin. That’s not who I am.”
“You don’t have to be fake. Some of us excel at it, not to name names, ahem, but more often than not, the most successful businesses are those whose proprietors find a genuine way to channel their passions and present some aspect of that to their customers. Whether it’s an author writing a story they personally relate to, or an actor borrowing from a devastating real-life experience to better portray a grieving character, or a tea witch infusing a bit of her unique magic into every cup… People connect with authenticity, Violet. But you’re almost preventing them from doing it.”
“I am?”
“You’re literally hiding out behind the counter. Yes, you talk with some of your neighbors, but when the tourists pop in, you keep your head down and do it like it’s a job.”
“It is a job. I’m making their orders. That’s what they pay for.”
“I understand that, but you need to let them in a bit. When you’re brewing the tea, your back is always turned. They can’t see what I see—the way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating on selecting the perfect ingredients, the way your eyes shine when you know you’ve just crafted the ideal brew. The smile that lights up your face when you pop the lid on the takeaway cup or set the spoon on a saucer—the final step before you’re about to make someone’s day better.”
Her cheeks darken, and she turns her hands over, lacing her fingers through mine. The movement sends a jolt through my arms, my skin heating at her soft touch.
“I… can’t believe you noticed all that,” she whispers.
“How could I not?” I lean closer. Release a hand just so I can tuck an errant curl behind her ear, silky soft, coiling around my finger like a vine. “We’ve already proven this endeavor is much more than tossing a few leaves into a pot. What you offer here goes far beyond that. Your magic, you, all of it. You need to believe that for yourself, and let your customers connect with it, too.”
“My why.”
I nod, still fingering that perfect curl, still holding her hand, not wanting to let go of either. “I’m bound by the spell to help you unlock your heart’s true desire. You said it was to save the shop, but no. That’s just the ultimate goal. Your true desire is what lies deeper than that—the magic, the passion.”
“I get what you’re saying, but… I have no idea how to do that.”
“I’ll help you.”
“You will?”
“I promise you, mushroom. I’m in it to win it. But the spell requires me to unlock your heart’s desire. So, as much as I hate to say it—and you might hate to hear it—I really need to understand what makes that heart tick. Because that’s it, love. That’s your why. And if we can bring it out of hiding, we might just figure out how to save Kettle and Cauldron from the chopping block.”
Another smile, and she tightens her grip on my hand, renewed hope singing through her touch. “You really think so?”
“I do.” I finally release her, mostly because if I don’t, I’m going to kiss her, and that can only end in disaster. So, turning on another smile of my own, I lean back against the shelving, cross my arms over my chest, and give her a once-over. “Now please put a pre-dinosaurian Devil out of his misery and tell me what you ever saw in Mr. Twenty-Watt Dildo the Third.”