Page 24 of My Faire Lady

“Yes, why?”

“No reason.” She leans against the rail and watches a slow stream of people dressed as fairies and toadstools walk by.

Two of them branch off from their friends and approach the bar, but Frankie gestures them to her spot at the counter.

“Do you like lavender?” I say.

A shrug. “Only recently.”

Another group steps up to the bar, and I push away from the rail, adjusting my corset as I step around Scarlet toward the counter.

She holds out her arm, stopping me. “I told you I’d work the bar today. The first joust isn’t until noon, and you’d be at the retail booth then anyway, so you can have the entire day working on your portfolio. Between selling clothes, of course.”

“This bet is starting to sound a lot like doing me a favor,” I say, heat creeping up my neck.

The hem of her skirt brushes mine, and she lowers her arm, grumbling beneath her breath. “Take advantage of it, because it won’t happen again.”

I lift a brow. “Well then, best of luck if someone orders a dirty wench.”

She doesn’t smile. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more than a smirk pass her lips. She turns her back to me, wafting a slight breeze my way. When she’s dressed as a knight, there’s always been a faint smell of iron and oil that lubricates the hinges of her armor. But now, without a shield of metal, I pull in a deep breath.

The air is sweet, but there’s a rich, honeyed heaviness to it.

Jasmine. That’s what it is. But there’s something else, too. Something wild and untamed—like she’s spent her life traipsing through the trees, the wind braiding her hair.

It must be nice, to have such freedom. Unbound by responsibilities.

Scarlet pulls two tankards from the shelf beneath the counter and heads for the rusty keg in the corner. She flips the tap and gives me a sideways smirk. “You’d better go before I change my mind.”

From the register, Frankie smiles to herself, lifting a brow my way as if she called my bluff about not being into Scarlet. But I’m not. It’s just that I struggle to breathe when she’s around.

“Right.” I swallow and hitch a thumb over my shoulder as foam drips over the rim of Scarlet’s cups. “Well, if you need me, I’ll be at ye olde clothiers, or whatever the shoppe is called.”

She straightens, shoulders rigid. But there’s a glimmer in her eyes, and her lips press into a thin line, fighting back a laugh. “Ye olde clothiers?”

Warmth blooms in my cheeks, and I cross my arms over my chest. “Forgive me for trying to stay in character at a Renaissance Faire with Bigfoot walking around.”

“Isn’t Glen the best?” Frankie says, a slight breathlessness to her voice.

This morning I caught him trimming his fur, but now doesn’t seem like the best time to mention it. Not with Frankie’s tail flicking back and forth like a whip.

The mechanics behind it are impressive.

“No,” Scarlet says, swinging the tankards of mead onto the counter. “We can come up with a better name for the shoppe. Something a bit more meaningful, or personal, considering how much work you put into the clothes.”

My lips part at the compliment. “What do you have in mind?”

She hums and collects a wad of cash from the customers before they walk off with their drinks.

Leaning her back against the counter, she rests her elbows on the top. “What about ‘Lottie’s’?”

“Oh, I like that,” Frankie says, nodding. “It has a nice ring to it.”

I worry my bottom lip. “You don’t think that’s a bit…pretentious? To name it after myself?”

“It’s far better than ye olde clothiers.” The barest hint of a smile pulls at Scarlet’s lips. “And you should be proud of the things you make, they’re beautiful.”

My breath catches, and I turn my cheek to her before she catches the blush creeping up my neck. “Lottie’s,” I say, testing my name as if I haven’t heard it every day of my life.