“I’ll gladly join you. I wasn’t looking forward to riding the bike in this. Do you want tea before we leave, or do you need to get going?”
“I have time.”
Technically, it’s late enough that we both should be thinking about dinner. But it’s cozy in the teashop, and now that Ash is here, I’m in no hurry to leave.
I turn to my wall of tea. “What would you like? Irish breakfast?”
“Something decaffeinated, if you have it.” He sounds tired. “I’ve had too much coffee.”
“Rough day?”
“Rough week.”
“More loose dragons?”
“Thankfully, no.”
Since it doesn’t seem like Ash is in the mood to make a decision, I pick a decaf English breakfast from the collection. Rowan would probably scoff at my simple tastes, but to me, it’s the little black dress of tea—simple, right for multiple occasions, and you don’t always know what’s in the blend.
Rather delighted by that thought, I carefully measure tea into the infuser, pour water over it, and then set the timer.
When I return to the table, Ash asks, “May I ask what you were thinking about that sent a wave of happiness throughout the shop?”
“You felt that?” I ask self-consciously.
It would be nice to learn how to control my magic instead of merely being a vessel in which it exists. Maybe Rowan’s experiment will benefit me as much as him.
“I did.” Ash’s face is solemn, but it’s at ease, and his eyes are soft.
And that makes me happy. Whether I can control it or not, my magic is like a blanket hot out of the dryer. And what could be nicer than that?
“I was just thinking about tea,” I say as I sit across from him, waiting for the timer to go off. “I’m enjoying it. Who knew therewas more to it than dunking a tea bag into a mug of microwaved water?”
He smiles, looking down at the table, trying to hide his amusement. His hair is up again, like it always is for work. But I want to reach over and free it.
It looked soft last night. What would it feel like between my fingers, or tangled in my hand as we kissed?
Whoa. Slow down there, Kit.
“And now you’re sparkling again,” he says quietly, contemplating me. “What has you glowing?”
My cheeks flush hot.
“Humor me,” he says quietly. There’s a playful note in his velvet tone that twines around me and coaxes me to divulge secrets.
“You’re using magic on me,” I accuse, laughing.
“Just a little.”
“I was thinking about your hair,” I admit, watching the surprise play over his face.
“What about my hair?” He looks truly flummoxed.
I bite my bottom lip before I answer, trying not to grin. I’m not just twitterpated—I’m alsohappy, and my summer magic is responding. “I like it.”
Ash closes his eyes, a smile tipping his sharp, perfect lips. “You’re intoxicating.”
I remember what Rowan said about Ash living in a state of perpetual melancholy, and it tempers my joy. And just like that, the warmth ebbs. It dissipates like smoke, leaving us with nothing but the damp chill of the rain.
