Mr. Grimm emerged a moment later, raven on one shoulder, a bunch of gladiolas in his arms. The brilliant, multi-colored flowers were so wildly out of season, Luna giggled at the sight. But she hurried to help him, fetching glass vases from storage, while he carried the blossoms to the trimming sink.
“I like the new additions, Mr. Grimm,” Luna said as she lined up vases on the counter.
He shot her a halfway-glance, followed by a nod. And a whisper of a smile.
“They’re nice, sturdy-looking tables,” she continued. “Should stand against the elements rather well.”
“Yes. I thought so.”
Luna fetched a bundle of trimmed gladiolas and began arranging them in vases. “Are we licensed then?” she asked. “Approved and whatnot to serve tea in an official capacity?”
“We are indeed, Miss Talbot,” he said, and pointed to a small, framed, official-looking document hung on the wall behind the counter. “Certified and signed by the Senior Officer of the Food and Beverages Department of Ballycastle.”
Luna’s heart warmed. So, it had actually happened. After the last two years of loneliness, fear, and scampering from one town to the next, she had landed in an establishment where her gifts could be properly used. Servingherteas,herblends. Officially licensed and everything! It might not last—in fact, she knew it couldn’t. But for a little while at least, she could feel as though she trulybelongedsomewhere.
And all because Mr. Grimm was willing to give her a chance.
She paused a moment in the midst of arranging gladiolas, peering through their colorful blooms to observe her employer. Having finished at the sink, he’d turned to the perilous business of deadheading snapdragons, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the nice shape and tone of his forearms. He wore his shop apron, which emphasized the trimness of his waist whilesimultaneously contriving to make his shoulders a bit squarer. His face was set in stern lines of concentration. He looked older like that, with those deep furrows in his brow. Almost dangerous. It was easier to imagine him as a proper sorcerer, the kind of man who could conjure strange powers from perilous realms.
Luna chewed her lower lip contemplatively. Then she called out, “And did you have a good breakfast this morning, Mr. Grimm?”
“Thank you, yes, I . . .” He froze. The furrows of his brow shifted from concentration to alarm. He shot her a swift glance. In that moment of distraction, a hungry snapdragon made a nab for his finger, and he yanked his hand back only just in time. “That is,” he said, meeting her gaze once more, “no. No, I don’t eat breakfast.”
Luna narrowed her eyes but let it go.
Mr. Grimm finished his deadheading with minimal blood loss. Minutes later, he unrolled his sleeves, straightened his cuffs, and turned the shop sign to OPEN. The Arcane Bouquet was soon abustle with activity. Quite a few regulars now stopped by multiple mornings every week. Luna greeted them all by name, smiling at their exclamations of delight over the little tables and chairs. It was nice having places to seat people while they waited for their turn behind the counter curtain. The brewing process was easier now as well, for last week, Mr. Grimm had added two large teapots to their collection, along with a dozen cups and saucers. Not the pricy Royal Bastian brand, but a serviceable white Whittlewedge. He still hadn’t replaced the dilapidated kettle, but Luna was satisfied.
She watched Mr. Grimm covertly as they moved through their busy morning, taking note of all the little ways he . . . made things easier for her. When customers lined up too quickly, he shifted them around to give her breathing space. He kept thekettle hot on the stove and somehow managed to wash and dry all the cups between uses, so they were always at the ready.Since when did dishwashing become his responsibility?Luna thought, oddly perturbed.
He'd taken time to learn the various names of all her teas as well, and kept track of which ones were ready to serve, which were not. When a particular customer asked for a certain blend, he always knew where it was to be found. “I’ve got it, Miss Talbot,” he would say quietly, before darting back to the kitchen.
Luna chewed the inside of her cheek. Why had it taken her so long to notice?
She noticed now. Along with how, every time there was a lull, he’d sidle up to her and murmur, “You must sit, Miss Talbot. Get off your feet and catch your breath. The next wave will be upon us soon.” And she would realize she’d been going a mile-a-minute without pause for rather a long while, and enjoy a few moments ease.
All this, and he’d been feeding her as well?
A warm little knot ofsomethingburned in her breast. Luna hastily smothered it. Gratitude. Yes. She was grateful. Nothing more.
She definitely could not, should not, would not feel anything else.
Besides,she reminded herself during a lull, as she watched her employer clear teacups and wipe the surface of the table in the corner,he likes redheads. With gimlet eyes.
An image flashed through her brain—memory of that teacup vision she’d glimpsed of Mr. Grimm, grabbing that strange, floating woman, his mouth closing over hers in a heart-pounding, blood-thumping, desperate sort of kiss. Her heart gave a littlethump.
“Miss Talbot?”
Luna jumped. “What? I wasn’t . . . That is . . . Yes, Mr. Grimm?”
Hands full of carefully stacked teacups, he nodded to the clock behind the counter. “The time,” he said.
Luna looked. It was two o’clock. Just after the lunch-rush hour, when Mr. Grimm always turned the sign to CLOSED for fifteen minutes, and the two of them enjoyed an afternoon cup of tea. It was a little ritual which had developed over the last several weeks, without either of them saying or doing anything to make it happen. Part of the rhythm of their day.
Shaking away any residual images of floating redheads and amorous embraces, Luna ducked behind the counter and put on the kettle, glad to have such a homey task on which to focus her attention. She’d been slowly introducing Mr. Grimm to a variety of new teas, and selected one at random now from her stash. She scooped leaves and spices into the roses-and-violets pot Mr. Grimm had purchased her second day on the job. She never used that pot or the two matching teacups for customers anymore. Customers got the white Whittlewedge, but she thought of the pretty Royal Bastian set astheirs. Hers and Mr. Grimm’s.
And since when had she gotten into this way of thinking?
Her brow formed a knot as she poured the tea and slid Mr. Grimm’s cup toward him. He stood at the counter, looking over the daily log, but closed the logbook at once and lifted the cup from its saucer. Holding it under his nose, he sniffed delicately. “What have you brewed for us today?” he asked, looking at Luna through the steam.
