Page 4 of Kissing Potions and Elves

Which, to be fair, I did.

I drag a hand down my face.What in the world did she put in that tea?

“Tell me,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Exactly what you brewed.”

“I—I don’t know. I mean, I—I followed the recipe… I think.”

“Youthink?” I ask incredulously.

She bites her bottom lip, and I stare at her mouth, completely transfixed.

Stars, I want to kiss her again.

“I might have, um… misread one or two of the labels.” She winces. “The swirly one with the double dots and the fancy loop. Or maybe it was the one with the triple curl. But I thought it smelled right.”

My lips part as I stare at her in shock.

“I’m still learning.” She wrings her hands in her skirt. “That’s why I tried to turn you away. I’m not actually trained. Not properly anyway.”

“You’re not—” I cut myself off with a curse in Elvish.

She flinches, and I immediately hate myself for it.

This isn’t her fault. Not entirely. I should’ve waited until morning. I should’ve walked away when she said the café was closed.

I exhale slowly, trying to gather my thoughts and not stare at her lips again like some lovesick fool. But even now, evenknowingsomething’s not right, I still feel it. This intense need to pull her close and taste her again.

As my gaze travels over her form, a low purr builds in my chest and my magic hums beneath my heated skin.

This is a spell of some sort. A rather strong one. Something woven with ingredients that shouldn’t be mixed without intention. Perhaps it’s lust magic, or maybe an old bonding potion—something rarely used anymore.

Whatever it is, itfeelsgood. Too good.

We must break this enchantment before I do something else I’ll regret. “We need to undo this. Immediately. Now, show me the recipe you used.”

She nods, eyes wide. “Yes. I—I’ll get the book.”

She’s already turning, scampering toward the kitchen. I follow, scrubbing a hand down my face, trying to fight off the residual heat in my blood.

What in the seven hells did she mix into that potion? Whatever it is, I’m having difficulty concentrating because all I want to do is seal my mouth over hers and kiss her again.

When we step into the kitchen, Isobel rushes toward the dozens of shelves along the back wall. “I think I may have accidentally grabbed—”

Her words cut off as she stumbles over her own feet in a tangle of skirts with a startled squeak, her arms pinwheeling wildly in an attempt to regain balance.

I move, but not fast enough as her hand grasps the edge of the closest shelf. Time slows, and horror fills me as the rows of shelves come crashing down.

Glass jars tumble like tiny, glittering stars, shattering with a symphony of sharp, crystalline sounds. Lids pop free, spinning away like discarded coins, clattering across the wooden floor. An explosion of herbs fills the air—crushed lavender mixing with powdered rosehips, chamomile spilling into a heap of crushed peppermint leaves.

The pungent cloud billows upward, filling the room with the overwhelming scents of a hundred botanical ingredients suddenly freed from their containers.

Smoke rises in the corner of the room as the potion book burns, lit by a candle that toppled over in the chaos. Grabbing a nearby pitcher, I douse it with water, but it’s too late. The pages are little more than ash at this point.

We both freeze, staring in stunned silence at the destruction spread across the floor.

Isobel sinks to her knees, her small form visibly shaking beneath the pale blue fabric of her dress. A soft, broken whimper slips from her lips as she presses her palms against her eyes and begins to sob.

These are not gentle, delicate tears, like an Elf might shed. These are loud, hiccupping, messy sobs—the kind only a human could manage.