“Kit.” Like he’s trying for patience, Rowan turns his neck from side to side, stretching it as only an owl can.
“All I’ve heard since we started this is that we need an elf.” I lower my voice and look around, hoping no one is close enough to hear me. “And Ryder is an elf.”
Rowan doesn’t respond. I’m not sure hecanrespond. It’s possible I’ve vexed him so greatly that words are beyond him, the poor owl.
Man, I remind myself.
Or…boy.
All I see when I think of him is the eighteen-year-old version of Rowan. I mean, I know he’s older now. But still.
My impression of him has shifted. I feel like I’ve slipped into the role of older sister.
He’s older than you.
That doesn’t matter.
What does matter is I’m in woman form, and he’s in bird form, and we need an elf. And the only elf in town is Ryder.
And by golly, I’m going to get us an elf.
“We need to hurry so I can get back to the shop before Ryder finishes for the day.” I walk down the sidewalk, telling myself I’m not nervous about meeting a bunch of the shopkeepers.
“You missed several stores on your way to the bakery,” he says, unable to hold it in any longer. “Were you in that much of a hurry to see Ryder?”
“I’ll get them on the way back.” I cross the street, heading toward the library. “Wait here.”
The smell of books greets me as soon as I step inside. It’s quiet, with only a few people browsing the shelves.
I pass the displays, on a mission. I find Mrs. Thimbleberry at her desk, halfway through a paperback, the end of a pen pressed to her lips. The grandmotherly woman looks up when she senses me nearby, allowing her book to close. The cover is face-up, revealing a shirtless man in firefighter pants and suspenders.
“Can I help you?” she asks pleasantly.
I pull my eyes away from the book, smiling as I offer her one of my flyers. “I’m doing a soft reopening for my aunt’s tea shop. I’d like to invite you to drop in and enjoy a cup of tea on the house.”
“How lovely. And you’re starting this tomorrow?”
My stomach squirms with nerves. “That’s the plan.”
“Well then, I’ll see you in the morning.” She sets the flyer to the side of her desk. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Kit.”
“Like a fox shifter?”
I suppress a sigh. “Yes.”
“But you’re a pixie, dear.”
Honestly.
I shrug, smiling. “Have a good day.”
She’s already returning to her book. “You as well. Thank you for dropping by.”
The next stop is Hat and Heel, a store that appears to sell handmade hats and shoes.
“Welcome,” a young woman says from the front counter. “How may I assist you?”
