“Excuse m—” she began, only for the word to die a quick death in her throat.
His hair was dried now. It no longer curled on his forehead. Still, it was black and mussed with waves like he’d just raked a hand through it in vexation. Which, given her first impression, was probably so. He stood almost unnervingly tall above her,the insidious Potions and Peculiarities proprietor, and she swallowed hard in discontent at him finding her on her knees.
His eyes gleamed. Like he took amusement in discovering her beneath him. “Forgive my intrusion.”
He said it in a way that caused Alora to think he didn’t mean it at all. It made her teeth ache. She noticed he carried a clay pot in one arm, mostly dirt, but with one violet-black shoot.
She sniffed as she rose. “Why? It’s a public nursery. I hardly own this row. Am I in your way? You might ask me to step aside.”
He regarded her a moment more before reaching out beside her, caressing the petals of the flower she’d been gushing over, his arm brushing her own. Alora found herself distracted by the angular cut of his profile, his gentle stroke of the bloom between pale fingers, and bit her lip. He did not, she noted with dismay, ask her to step aside.
“Do you often react to plants this way?”
At last, his arm fell away, and she could breathe readily again.
“Flowers, yes,” she replied. “So long as they can’t hurt me. You’d never hear my excitement over a Dirededron, let’s say. Is that what you have there? Another venomous or poisonous thing?” It was an unfair statement; it looked to be a Forget-Me-Not. Or could be, if allowed to grow, which she wasn’t convinced hewould.
The shopkeeper shifted the pot in his arm. He really shouldn’t stand so close to people,she thought.Not with eyes like those. She felt hot all over and, knowing precisely why, was severely disappointed in herself. He smiled at her, slow and a little bit taunting.
“Worse.”
She found that overly nettlesome, no matter if he did have nice teeth to pair with everything else. How positivelywretched. She cleared her throat, suddenly worried her voice would come out changed. “I presume the barshet is still alive?”
“Why would you presume that?”
Alora’s eyes narrowed over his tone. “After that unfortunateincident, I went to Books and Nibbles, and do you know what I found? Barshets can only be harmed by melting beneath the sun, but I suspect you knew that didn’t you? I don’t appreciate swindlers.”
The shopkeeper huffed a laugh that wasn’t at all jolly or nice, but dark and rude. “That hardly makes me a swindler.”
“It does when you demand I pay for the creature!” Alora could feel an angry heat all throughout her. It bothered her how bothered she was by him, which only made him bother her more. She wanted to leave but couldn’t. She had at least five plants to choose still.
“I didn't want you to pay for the barshet. You could hardly afford it,” he said. All at once, his gaze had softened, his voice turning almost kind.
Alora blinked at the change. “Then what?”
“A new frying pan. I can’t hardly use it now after bashing that creature whilst saving your life.” Hewinked.“You’re welcome, by the way.”
Alora’s throat worked as she tried to formulate what she wanted to say.The audacity!Her chest heaved as she snatched the Zanigolds to her, her lips parting in fury.
The proprietor’s eyes dropped to her mouth.
“Piss off!”
He startled and huffed a breath, incredulous. “Excuse me?”
But Alora didn’t have anything else to say. Ellie Turkens hadn’t given her anything else. So she stomped around him, pot in hand, and grabbed several more without focus before hopping into her small wagon and snatching up the reins.
“Let’s go, George. There’s a rude man here today.”
She didn’t want to turn back. It would have been quite stylish not to, but Alora couldn’t help it. Shifting her head just a little,she caught the shopkeeper’s gaze. Then his hand—brushing over his smirking mouth.
She spun around in an instant, her nose in the air. Sure, it wasn’t so great as if she’d not looked at all, but it would have to do.
Chapter Six
Within the hour, Alora had become blissfully absorbed in her work. She'd finished separating the flowers—which weren’t terrible picks when considering what she'd been subjected to in acquiring them—and they’d each been re-potted in attractive clay pots. She'd planned to hang them on the outside wall in a random fashion, and once finished, and pending the arrival of his oven, Mr. Whitters’ new bakery would be open for business.
Without any bias in the matter, she was excited. His cinnamon buns were frosted, sugar-infected delights.
