Page 8 of Kissing Potions and Elves

His strong hands wrap possessively around my waist as he draws me close. I clutch at his tunic, melting into him as every sensible thought scatters.

Deep down, I know it’s the potion, but I cannot make myself push him away. It feels too real. Too perfect. Too much like the thing I’ve always dreamed of but never dared hope I might have.

Reality snaps back into focus, and I break away abruptly, gasping for air.

Lyrion’s jaw tightens as he stands. “Apologies,” he says, voice clipped and distant.

He clearly doesn’t like what just happened. Not the kiss. Not the loss of control. And most certainly not me.

Embarrassment heats my cheeks as I turn away and sweep the last of the scattered herbs into a neat pile, grateful to have something to distract me from the awkward moment between us.

When I’m finished, I clear my throat. “So… what’s the plan exactly?”

“We’re going to my cottage,” he says crisply.

“But what about Tressa?” I ask, already imagining her horror when she discovers what I’ve done to her beautifully organized shelves full of herbs.

“We’ll return before the café opens, and I’ll pay her for the damages.”

I frown. “The café’s closed tomorrow.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“She’s out of town. She went to Taversham to buy some supplies for the café, in anticipation of the upcoming festival.”

He looks at me blankly. “What festival?”

I gape at him. “TheSpring Festival.It lasts for a week. Music? Flowers? Spun sugar? Dancing? It’s one of the biggest celebrations of the season. There are even festivities held each weekend before the main event.”

He looks deeply unimpressed.

“Never mind,” I mutter. “Of course you wouldn’t know. You probably avoid celebrations.”

“I avoid them because they areloud.” He sniffs. “We’ll speak to her when she returns then.” He strides toward the front. “Get your cloak.”

We step outside into soft, steady rain.

Of course.

Lyrion pulls his hood over his head, and I do the same. My shoes are old and worn, the paper-thin soles not meant for this sort of weather. Carefully, I hop between relatively dry spots, dodging puddles.

Lyrion stops. He watches me for a moment with a look somewhere between disbelief and mild irritation. “What in the world are you doing?”

“Trying to keep my feet dry. I don’t want the water to seep into my shoes.”

He sighs heavily. “Come here.”

I’m not sure why I feel compelled to listen, but I do.

He looks down at me. “May I?”

“May youwhat?”

Instead of answering, he steps forward and gathers me in his arms, lifting me off the ground as if I weigh nothing.

A startled squeak escapes me, my hands flailing awkwardly for a moment before I fold them in my lap, as my cheeks burn like they’re on fire.

He arches a brow. “Are you alright?”