Page 44 of Kissing Potions and Elves
Thankfully, no one has asked for any potions to be mixed into their drinks. If they do, it will slow me down tremendously. Although my reading lessons with Lyrion are progressing well, I’m still worried I’ll mess something up by misreading the ingredients listed in Tressa’s new potion book.
“More cinnamon buns!” a customer calls from the far corner.
Another shouts from the opposite side of the café, “Can we have more scones, please?”
My pulse races as I hurry back into the kitchen. Panic knots my stomach when I glance at the pastry trays. Only a few scones remain, and the cinnamon rolls have vanished entirely.
My hands tremble as I grab ingredients, measuring flour and sugar with frantic movements. In my rush, the bag of flour slips from my fingers, crashing to the floor and exploding upward in a thick, choking white cloud.
I cough, waving desperately at the swirling powder. Flour covers my face, apron, and dress, sticking stubbornly to my skin. My heart sinks when I hear the door chime at the front entrance and see another customer approaching the counter.
Drawing in a deep breath, I dust the flour from my clothes and face as best I can and push through the kitchen doors to greet the elderly woman with a smile. “Hi! How can I help you?”
“I need the healing tea for my back pain,” she says. “The usual one I get.”
Worry tightens my chest. “Um… Tressa’s out at the moment, could you please remind me which potion that is?”
“How am I supposed to know?” She scowls. “I’m not a potions master; I don’t work here.”
“Um...” I glance at the clock. Tressa should be back within an hour, so perhaps I can stall the woman until then. “I’ll see what I can do. Would you like a free pastry while you wait?”
“Why, thank you.” She brightens immediately. Relief fills my chest, but it’s gone just as fast when she adds, “I’d like one of those delicious cinnamon rolls.”
Heavens above. Of course she’d ask for something we don’t have. I’m about to offer her a scone instead, but when I think about the dwindling number remaining, I realize there’s only enough for six out of the ten people who have already asked for one. “Just take a seat right over there.” I gesture to a nearby table. “And I’ll be back with you shortly.”
I rush back into the kitchen and frantically grab another mixing bowl. My heart hammers as I draw in several shallow breaths, trying not to hyperventilate.
I nearly jump out of my skin as the kitchen door swings open. “Isobel?”
Flour drifts from my hair as I spin back and find Lyrion standing in the doorway.
“Is everything alright?” His gaze sweeps over the flour-dusted counters then back to me in concern.
“Tressa left to run an errand.” Frantically, I stir the batter. “And we’re out of cinnamon rolls and I don’t have enough scones.” I struggle to keep my voice even despite my growing anxiety. “And I’m trying to make a new batch of both, and—”
“Would you like some help?”
Relief curls in my chest. “Are you sure?”
He takes the mixing bowl and spatula from my hands, his fingers brushing against mine. “Yes.”
“Do you mind making the scones?” I ask hopefully. “And I’ll work on the cinnamon rolls?”
He gives me a confident nod. “I’ve seen Hilda bake many times. I’m sure I can manage.”
“Oh, thank you,” I breathe.
As we each get to work, I become completely absorbed in making sure I’m following the recipe, checking multiple times to make sure I’ve read it correctly as I go.
A puff of flour explodes in the air, followed quickly by what sounds like some sort of Elvish curse. My head snaps toward Lyrion, and I bite my bottom lip to hold in a laugh. He looks completely disheveled.
Dough sticks stubbornly to his elegant fingers, flour dusts his face and dark hair, and batter streaks across his sharp cheekbones.
“How in the seven hells does Hilda make this look so easy?” he mutters to himself, scowling as he tries to scrape the dough off his skin. He shakes his hand vigorously, sending tiny flecks of it flying onto the walls and countertops.
I step forward to help him, but my foot catches on a dough roller that’s somehow found its way to the floor. I cry out as my feet slip, but strong arms catch me before I hit the ground.
“Are you alright, Isobel?”
