“What new line?” Althea.
“Ooh! I’ll make cupcakes!” Emmie, who’s definitely going on my shit list now. “Great idea!”
“I thought so too,” Devlin says, “but Violet looks as though she might dismiss it on principle.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, the principle being that we don’t have a new product line.”
“Because you pooh-poohed that idea too, even though my Devil’s brew had merit.” He clucks his tongue. “Which is kind of a theme with you, Violet. A reluctance to take risks.”
There’s nothing malicious coming through his energy. Just a genuine playfulness. But I can’t for the life of me figure out what he’s up to.
So what the hell games are you playing, Devlin Pierce?
“Can I see you for a moment?” I ask through my plastered-on smile, jerking my head toward the front of the house. “Inprivate?”
Chapter Twenty
VIOLET
“Look. I appreciate that you’re magically obligated to help me, and yes, that’sentirelymy fault, and something I hope to make up to you once we straighten out this whole heart’s desire thing. Ialsoappreciate that you’re going the extra mile to get to know me and help figure out how I can better connect with my customers. But seriously? Why are you pushing me so hard in there? What’s your end game?”
Devlin leans back against the check-in desk, arms crossed, totally relaxed. “It’s no game, mushroom. I’m pushing you because behind all that passion for tea, behind all your words about saving the shop, you’re stuck. Something is blocking you from truly tapping into your magic. Your potential. That elusive heart’s desire we’re supposed to unlock. And I’m trying to get you unstuck. So, you tell me.” He steps closer, backing me against the wall until I’ve got no choice but to look up and meet his eyes. “Why are you pushing so hard to resist me?”
There’s nothing but honesty in his gaze, in his energy.
I sigh, the secrets inside me swirling, searching for a crack in the facade. A way out, just this once.
“It’s not you I’m resisting, Devlin. I just don’t want to talk about the shop’s troubles with my aunts.”
“But… they’re your family, are they not?”
“Not by blood.”
“I didn’t ask if they were your relatives. I asked if they were yourfamily. There’s a difference.”
Compassion floods his energy, the tenderness in his voice slipping behind my walls, edging closer to my heart.
Something about this conversation is getting to him. I can feel it. Hear it. See it in his eyes, full of concern and understanding both.
It makes me wonder what he’s gone through in his long, long life. Does the Devil have a family? Siblings? Does he get along with them? What was he doing in Los Angeles? Why was he asked to leave Hell?
I know the religious stories about the so-called Devil are just that—stories. An invention of flawed men too stubborn and proud to admit their own faults, fabricating a clever bit of fiction so they can blame some scary supernatural force for everything that goes wrong in their lives.
But what Idon’tknow about the so-called Devil… Goddess.Thosestories could fill entire volumes. Libraries. And all this time… The bickering, the grilled cheeses, the romance novel reinterpretations, the days in the shop… All the time he’s been putting in, trying to figure out what makes my heart tick…
I never even asked him what’s going on insidehis.
“Devlin, is your family—”
“Don’t deflect,” he says, his energy spiking with sadness. “Tell me why you don’t trust your family.”
I search his eyes, search for a way back into his heart, but I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it.
Maybe he never will.
I sigh and lean back against the wall. “It’s not that I don’t trust them. I just… I have a hard time asking for help.”
“You don’t say.” He smirks at me, but it’s not snarky or annoyed. Just patient. Probing, but not prying.
