Page 29 of How To Please A Princely Fae

There are endless questions on plant care, and in one case, a request for a potion designed to help hair to grow back. I warn that particular customer that I can offer no guarantees.

However, I do have an idea for how to help, and assure him it may take several days for the potion to be ready. He seems to take heart in that, and leaves satisfied that I’ll provide a solution for him.

It doesn’t matter how busy we are though, not really, because Kieran looms so large in my mind.

Before long, my stomach is growling with hunger, demanding to be fed. It’s well after one or two o'clock in the afternoon. I lost track of time what with the rush until my stomach was ready to remind me of my oversight.

As for Kieran, I'm grateful that the business has kept us from each other. While I handled the more complicated requests, he was careful to assist in packaging and payment and all the other bits and bobs of stocking shelves and readying customer purchases.

If the customers notice something's changed about him, they don't say it. More than one though, seem surprised by his decidedly helpful attitude. I’ve tried my best not to look at him, but now that it is just the two of us alone in the shop. Well, alone save for my plants and Chirp, who snoozes quietly in the corner on his favorite perch… still, it's too easy to become overly aware of Kieran.

"You're hungry,” he announces, breaking the silence. There's an undercurrent to his statement that I don't quite know how to answer.

"I am hungry," I finally squeak out. He doesn't need to know that I'm hungry for more than lunch. He doesn't need to know that I’ve been doing my best all day to ignore just how good it felt to be called his. My cheeks heat at the mere thought and I know I'm blushing as red as the hair that coils unruly and frizzing around my temples.

He stands in the doorway between the greenhouse and the main shop, the humidity behind him causing mist to swirl around his ankles and the pointed tips of his ears. The sight makes my breath catch.

“I prepared something for you,” he says breezily, as if he's been making lunch for me our entire lives. I blink, certain I misunderstood him.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

He arches an insouciant eyebrow, clearly amused by my lack of understanding.

"I've made lunch for us," he enunciates carefully.

"Right," I manage, nervous in spite of myself. "What I should have asked was, why?"

To my surprise, the cocky smile on his face grows. “I must have been an utter asshole to have you wonder why I've made us both something to eat when it's the least I can do for you." He leans heavily against the doorframe, and it's then I realize that despite his lean, well-muscled figure, he's quite large. The tips of his ears extend past the silver fall of his hair, practically brushing the top of the open archway.

My breath catches, it hitting me all over again just how handsome and compelling a figure he cuts. You’d think that I would be over it after all this time, but his beauty cuts me fresh and new, except this time there's a care behind it that doesn't leave me cold and that I fear is far more dangerous than his casual cruelty. Because when he remembers who he is, which he will, and he remembers how he feels about me, which is not how he feels about me right now, it will hurt all the more to remember how he's looking at me in this moment. A great sadness wells in my heart and I swallow hard, resisting the urge to break down in tears before him, to mourn the loss that hasn't even happened.

“Don't look like that,” he cautions, closing the door behind him, the noise jolting me back to the present. “I don't like to see you sad. Is there something about lunch that upsets you?”

I sniffle, then laugh at his outrageous question.

"Of course not,” I say, feeling watery still, like I might burst into tears at any moment.

“I can't stand to see a beautiful woman cry,” he tells me, brushing a knuckle over my cheek. Sure enough, one traitorous tear sits on his hand and shame fills me at the sight of it twinkling in the dim afternoon light. To my surprise, he raises the knuckle to his hand, his lips brushing against where my tear rests.

"Why did you do that?” I ask, shocked out of my ridiculous, morose mess. Stupid to mourn something that will never happen.

The smirk on his lips fades and his eyes darken as he stares at me intently. A shiver goes down my back at his focus.

"Because I think I'll die," he says.

It's so unexpectedly dramatic and over the top that I can't help but burst into a peal of laughter. Laughter that turns into awkward silence when he doesn't join in. I clear my throat, unsure of how to proceed. “Maybe it would be better if I paired up with someone else?—"

"I forbid it."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no," he continues. “I meant what I said at the festival this morning. You’re mine. Mine to taste, mine to touch, and mine to care for, and I will not allow anyone else the pleasure and privilege of your company.”

Hoo boy, I fan my face.

If he remembers, I’ll almost feel sorry for him. And then I remember how he treated me and decide I might as well enjoy it.

"I feel like I need to tell you something,” I say, abandoning all caution.

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