Page 34 of Kissing Potions and Elves
Tressa arches a skeptical brow. “Fine. But at least try to smile, will you, Lyrion? I don’t want that Elfy scowl of yours to chase away my customers.”
Elfy scowl?Instantly offended, I move to correct her. “I’ll have you know that—”
“He will,” Isobel interrupts. She smiles. “He just needs a bit more tea. He’s not a morning person, you know.”
Tressa gives me a sympathetic look. “I know the feeling.” She hands me a cup of tea. “Here. You can have this one. I haven’t had any of it yet, but I made it pretty strong.”
As she walks back to the café, I look down at the steaming mug. I glance at Isobel. “You think I scowl?”
Her lips twitch with barely restrained amusement. “I feel like that’s a trick question.”
I purse my lips in mock irritation.
She gestures to the cup and grins. “Now, drink up so you can flash that handsome smile of yours at the customers.”
Isobel finds my smile attractive?My mood brightens instantly. I take a tentative sip and my eyes widen as soon as it hits my tongue. ‘Strong’ is an understatement.
Isobel tries but fails to hold back a laugh. It’s a bright sound that softens my grumpiness even more. “The first time I tried Tressa’s morning tea,” she says, “I practically zipped around the café all morning because I had so much energy. You should probably have one of the scones or else it might upset your stomach, Lyrion.”
Taking another drink, I nod, making a mental note to eat something before I finish my cup.
Isobel quickly becomes entirely absorbed in her work, stringing colorful ribbons and smiling at passing villagers. I find myself momentarily distracted, watching her effortless charm, her genuine warmth and kindness drawing others to her like moths to flame.
My chest tightens oddly. I’m certain that if sunshine were a person, it would be her.
A shadow suddenly blocks the light. “Need any help, Isobel?” Brakkus asks cheerfully. “Wouldn’t want you straining yourself.”
I bristle inwardly, annoyed by the Orc’s overly broad smile and how close he stands beside Isobel. He reaches to move a crate for her, but I step in front of him and grab it instead, hoisting it up and placing it where she directs.
If anyone is going to lend her a hand, it’s going to be me. Not some oaf of an Orc.
Moon above, what am I doing? I clench my jaw, wondering again if this jealousy is the result of the potion’s magic or… something else.
It’s strange—this sharp, possessive feeling—but not entirely unfamiliar. I’d felt something like it before, back when I first noticed Isobel. I can still picture her clearly: the blush on her cheeks when she brought my tea, the shy, hesitant glances she sent my way when she thought I wasn’t looking.
My lips twitch as I recall the time she tripped over her own feet as she walked past me. Lightning fast, I caught her by the elbow to steady her, tea splashing across the front of my tunic.
Frantically, she began dabbing at the liquid with a towel, apologizing profusely. But as her hands drifted lower, toward my lap, I’d quickly snatched her wrists to stop her. Her cheeks turned an adorable shade of bright red as she gazed up at me, completely mortified.
I’d been intrigued by her warmth, even then. Even before any magical potion turned my world upside down. But now, with every heartbeat, I’m forced to question if this longing is truly mine or merely enhanced by the spell.
“Nice of you to pitch in, Lyrion.” Brakkus grins, seemingly oblivious to my inner turmoil. “I have to admit, I didn’t expect to see you here today.”
“And why is that?” I ask, my tone a bit sharper than I intended.
He shrugs. “Most High Elves I’ve met prefer to keep to themselves. But clearly, I underestimated the effect a charminghuman can have.” His gaze slides to Isobel, who is still setting out pastries.
“Isobel’s a good lass. See that you never give her any reason not to smile, eh?” He gives me a wide-fanged grin that somehow manages to appear both friendly and intimidating.
I’m still debating whether that was a simple reminder or a veiled threat when Isobel calls to me. “Lyrion, could you help me with the signs?”
When I turn back, Brakkus is already gone.
As I carry the signs toward her, voices drift from the village square.
“Do you think they’re a couple?” a woman whispers, her tone conspiratorial.
“I certainly hope not,” a man mutters—one I’ve seen attempting to charm Isobel at the café. “What does she even see in that stuffy Elf? He’s terribly dull and always scowling.”
