Page 38 of Kissing Potions and Elves

“Would you like to go back inside?” Lyrion asks softly.

“Not yet,” I murmur. This night is perfect, gazing at the stars with Lyrion, and I don’t want it to end.

A cool breeze blows through the garden, and I shiver slightly. Lyrion curls his arm around me, tugging me against him. Too tired to think better of it, I nestle into his side, enjoying his warmth, breathing deep of his masculine scent.

He pulls the comforter over us both, carefully tucking it around us like a cocoon. “Is that better?”

“Yes.” I sigh in contentment. If only we could stay like this forever.

Even as I think this, sadness begins to creep in. This closeness between us… it’s just the potion’s influence. This isn’t real.

But when Lyrion presses a tender kiss to my temple and tightens his arms around me as we snuggle under the blanket, I allow myself to pretend that it is. Closing my eyes, I fall away into sleep, dreaming of a life where this is real and he is mine.

CHAPTER 19

LYRION

The potion glows in the crystal vial, shimmering like moonlight caught in liquid form. A part of me knows this could be reckless. Tinkering with ancient magic, especially Elven potions of this nature, is rarely wise.

But the memory of Isobel’s lovely face this morning, when I woke up in the garden with her in my arms, is enough to make me abandon all caution.

For a moment, I forgot myself. I awakened her with a kiss. And when she returned it passionately, I nearly came undone. I’ve become addicted to her bright laughter, the warmth of her smile, and the chaotic joy she’s introduced into my meticulously structured world.

But I don’t know if it’s the potion or if these feelings I have for her are real. And the not knowing is driving me mad.

“Are you certain this will work?” Her fingers twist nervously in the fabric of her dress.

Doubt creeps in, but I force it back down. “It should, in theory, remove the proximity effect, or at least lessen it enoughfor you to safely return to your job atThe Enchanted Teacupwithout collapsing if I’m not nearby.”

“Good.” She smiles. “I hate that you have to sit in the café because of me, keeping you from your own work.”

“Indeed.”Errol’s voice enters my mind.“I’m sure you have plenty of extremely critical scribbling and scowling to attend to.”

I scoff in offense and level an irritated glare at the cat.“I do not scowl.”

“Really?”Errol gives me a pointed look.“And just what exactly do you call that expression on your face right now?”

I clench my jaw. “I’ll have you know—”

“Are you talking to Errol again?” Isobel’s voice interrupts.

“Yes.”

“What’s he saying?” she asks, eyes wide with fascination. “I so wish I could hear him as you do. I’d love to know what he’s thinking.”

“He says I scowl when I work, but I told him I most certainlydo not.”

“But you do,” she replies matter-of-factly.

“I—what?”

“But it’s okay.” She shrugs. “That’s just the look you have when you’re concentrating.”

As she picks up the scruffy cat, cradling him in her arms like he’s a precious treasure, Errol gives me a smug look that saysI told you sowhile he purrs and rubs against her.

“Cheeky little tyrant,” I murmur to the cat.

Isobel laughs, and it warms something deep within me, my traitorous heart squeezing in response. Moon above, why does her laughter affect me this much?