He looks back at the tea. “Shame. But I can’t be gone that long anyway. We lose business when Arista is at the counter.”
I’m not sure I should ask, but I find myself saying, “Why?”
“She’s a chronically stressed winter pixie.”
I let out a horrified laugh. “Don’t you find that exhausting? How do you cope?”
“I told you—I’m an elf.” He pulls a sample off a shelf and sniffs it. Apparently not to his liking, he puts it back.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m immune to external magic. We carry a natural resistance.”
“So, you don’t relive memories around her?”
“Nope.”
“Really?” I ask, fascinated.
“If anything, I like to think I keep her stable. I’m usually in a decent mood.”
“How did you end up working for her?”
“She needed help. I was the only option.”
“Lucky her.”
“Now don’t go thinking she got the short end of the stick. I make a mean croissant—it’s all in the lamination process—and customers love me.”
“Female customers, I imagine.”
“I’ll take that as another compliment.”
“What kind of tea do you want?” I go behind the counter and look at the tins. “I think this is all the same stuff, just easier to grab for orders.”
“Make me your favorite—we’ll say it’s part of the ‘let’s get acquainted’ process.”
“Okay, well… I should probably warn you I know next to nothing about tea.”
He looks over, greatly amused by that.
“I know. I’m sure the next three years will go swimmingly.”
“What happens after three years?”
“I’m allowed to sell the shop. Those were the terms in my aunt’s will.”
“I don’t like those terms. You should stay.”
“You haven’t even tried my tea yet. You might change your mind.”
He chuckles and takes a seat at one of the tables, watching me as I prepare the tea.
Are all wood elves this easy to talk to? Or is it just Ryder?
Strangely, even though he’s handsome and a shameless flirt, I don’t feel butterflies around him. I’m afraid that’s probably a bad sign.
I wonder if I have a type—and maybe that type is haughty high fae councilmen.
