“There will also be no touching or rearranging of my ingredients. They need to stay in their appointed receptacles on their designated shelves at all times, to be removed and distributed only by me as needed.”
“No touching your jugs—I mean, yourappointed receptacles. Got it.”
“And no critiquing my tea blends or playlists.”
I raise my hands in surrender.
“And above all else,” she states firmly, eyes blazing, “no fraternizing with the customers.”
“Not even a friendly hello?”
“No.Especiallynot a friendly hello. I’ve seen your version of a friendly hello, and I have no interest in starting a catch-and-release program for renegade fangirl bras.”
“You really are quite the stickler.” I steal the last chicken wing from her plate—a well-deserved bit of thievery, in my opinion. “Well, I can’t promise I won’t greet the customers, Violet. They’ll be expecting me after my balcony announcement today. But I can promise I’ll keep it all above board.”
“Fine.”
“Is that all, then?”
“For now. But I reserve the right to amend the list at any time without notice.”
I blow out a breath, cheeks puffing. “Is there a handbook? I feel like there should be a handbook.”
“Devlin, I’m not in the mood—”
“You’ve got a lot of rules, is what I’m saying. I prefer not to get written up on my first day on the job. Sets a bad tone for the whole relationship, don’t you think?”
“If you can’t take this seriously, the deal is off.”
“Oh, I’m quite serious. As you recall, I’m as desperate to get back to Los Angeles as you are to make me gopoof, neither of which can happen until we save your café. Any shenanigans at this stage would be akin to mutually assured destruction.” I gnaw the wing down to the bone and toss the spent carcass on my plate. Then, spreading my hands like the little mushroom just scored the deal of the century, I say, “You won’t even know I’m there.”
Chapter Thirteen
DEVLIN
Sheabsolutelyknows I’m here.
Can’t be helped. In a town where the news is so non-existent they cover elementary school sports, a newcomer will always draw attention.
This, despite my attempts to blend in.
Granted, I’ve yet to see anyoneelsereading a print newspaper before the fire, wearing a bespoke Italian suit with a rose-colored silk pocket square, so maybe I’m abitrusty in the blending in department. But VioletinsistedI wear clothing today—health code violations, public indecency, blah blah blah—and I refuse to lower my standards. When in Rome, yes, but we’re not in Rome, are we. We’re in Pumpkinville, where flannel is the new black and the Devil is forced to set a higher bar.
Besides, how else am I to evaluate the tourist clientele for a soul or two teetering on the edge of self-destruction? If I’m to attract the wealthy, the beautiful, and the immoral to my den of iniquity, I must also look the part. Like Finn said, corrupting the townsfolk is probably too much of a stretch goal, but I can certainly send a few malfeasant tourists into a downward spiral. Just a nudge, that’s all. Pave the way for them to continue walking the path they’ve already chosen, one foot in front of the other, straight on to Hell.
By the by… That whole ‘good intentions’ thing? Yet another lie perpetuated by dear old Dad to keep his flock in line. The path to Hell is actually paved the same as any other—with greasy fast-food containers, used condoms, and broken dreams.
Thankfully, the lovely ladies of Wayward Bay have already spread the word on the socials about Violet’s new houseguest, and ever since I established a no-selfies-without-purchase policy, we’ve been seeing a steady stream of paying customers, including at least two tourists from Manhattan who willdefinitelyget a visit from Azazel with an invite to our next Hollywood Hills soiree.
Still, me as K&C’s celebrity mascot is not a long-term solution. Once I’m gone, the attention on the shop will wane, unless we figure out how to capitalize on it.
“Pretty good day so far, huh?” Taking advantage of a momentary break, Violet joins me by the fire, cheeks flushed from the morning rush, curls tamed into a low ponytail. Today’s shirt features three birds perched atop teacups dangling from a tree branch, stenciled with the message,Make Like a Tea and Leaf!
I fold up my newspaper and return her easy smile. “You should’ve hired me ages ago.”
“Right? From now on, I’ll keep you on drunk-summon speed dial.” She laughs, light and unburdened, that adorable snort popping up at the end. “I think my two new blends are going over well too. And Emmie brought in some new pastries to try—also strong sellers. Things are definitely looking up.”
“That they are.”
