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The confidence didn't crack, but something behind it shifted. But she wasn’t about to wait around and see, she was already gathering her jacket from the back of the stool.

"Twyla, the scones were perfect. I'll come back tomorrow."

"You'd better." Twyla was watching the whole thing with barely concealed delight. "And bring your sketches. I want to see what the storm uncovered."

Steph pulled her jacket on, shouldered her bag, and walked past Criss Holt without looking at him again. She could feel his gaze follow her to the door, warm and steady and entirely too aware, but she pushed through into the cool evening air and let the bell chime shut behind her.

The cobblestone was still wet and the air smelled like rain. She walked back toward the inn with her journal pressed against her ribs and her hands shoved into her pockets.

Attractive didn't mean interesting. Confident didn't mean worth her time. And she had not driven four states and crossed a magical barrier to get distracted by some tiger shifter with a pretty face and a pickup line older than the ruins she was excavating.

She had work to do.

6

CRISS

The bell was still swinging when Criss realized he was standing at the counter with his mouth half open and no one to talk to.

That was new.

He closed his mouth. Adjusted his stance. Picked up his coffee from the table behind him and took a sip like he'd planned the whole thing, like getting dismissed mid-sentence by a woman in a muddy tool belt was exactly how he'd wanted his evening to go.

Twyla was watching him with both elbows on the counter with a gleeful expression.

"Don't," he said.

"I didn't say a word."

"You're saying it with your face."

"My face is a vessel of warmth and hospitality, Criss Holt. I can't help what you project onto it." Twyla picked up a rag and started wiping the counter in slow, deliberate circles. "So. That went well."

"It went fine."

"She walked away from you mid-conversation."

"She had somewhere to be."

"She had a tea she hadn't finished." Twyla nodded toward the half-full cup still sitting on the counter where the woman had left it. Steam curled off the surface. "You know what it means when a woman leaves a cup of my tea unfinished? It means she wanted out of that conversation more than she wanted the best chamomile blend this side of the Blue Ridge."

Criss leaned against the counter and summoned his most unbothered expression. It was a good one. He'd practiced it in bathroom mirrors across the Southeast, and it had never failed to convince anyone that nothing in the world could touch him. "She'll come around. They always do."

"Mmhm." Twyla collected the abandoned cup and poured it out. "Or, and I'm just offering this as an alternative theory, she's not interested and you just experienced something called rejection. I'm told it's character-building."

"I wouldn't know. I'm unfamiliar with the concept."

"Clearly."

He finished his coffee and set the mug down, keeping his posture loose and easy even though his body felt tight with tension. His tiger was doing something strange, a restless attention in a way that he hadn’t ever experienced. The animal was oriented toward the door where she'd gone. Locked on a scent that was still caught in the air even though she'd been gone for a solid two minutes.

"Who is she?" he asked, and he kept the question casual enough that it could have been about the weather.

Twyla smirked at him, making him hating that he had even asked.

"Stephanie Ward. Archaeologist. She's been coming to Hollow Oak on and off for years, lectures at the learning center, works with the council on excavation projects. She's here for a dig out past the eastern ridge." Twyla cocked her head. "She's also brilliant, respected, and not remotely the kind of woman who falls for a smile and a lean against the counter."

"I did not lean against the counter."