Page 19 of The Magical Tea Shop

Oh lord, she probably radiated tousled and inviting. She hated how out of control her hair became when loose. Before she could slick her hair back down, Roman, so much taller, braced a hand to the hood of her Mazda. He angled down, just far enough for their lips to meet. Clearly, she’d been correct. The sharing of garlic fries led to expectations. Ivy hated to disappoint. Roman was a decent guy—if a bit dull—and really, it was one kiss, what was the big deal? That’s how dates went, right? A meal shared, conversation, and a kiss good night.

But as Roman swooped in to make first base, Ivy froze. In the last instant, she turned her head. Soft, puffy lips brushed over her cheek in a wet smear.

Ivy cringed at the awkwardness, hoping she hadn’t offended.

Roman straightened and gave her a gentle smile—rather sweet, really. She resisted the urge to wipe the wetness from his kiss off her cheek. She wouldn’t be rude.

“Would you like to go out again?” He gave her a patient look as if recognizing she wasn’t a girl to kiss on the first date. The yearning in his dark brown eyes almost had her saying she’d need to let him know. But a request for a second date clearly indicated he thought they were making progress. Ivy knew from her own dating experience that letting someone down “easy” and ghosting them was the worst.

She shook her head. “I enjoy your company, Roman, but…” He nodded in acceptance, truly a gentleman.

“Friends,” he said.

“Friends,” she agreed.

He gave her a wistful smile, and even while balancing on his crutches managed to open her car door and wait while she got in. Once she started the motor, he stepped back and gave her a wave. Ivy pulled away and paused to make sure Roman was able to maneuver to his truck and get in before she turned onto the country road back to town.

Chapter Seven

On Sunday, businesswas hopping. Once again, Ivy’s little tea shop was packed, and even on a day she was normally closed!

Holly was pissed.

She had come by, but not to be encouraging. That had been clear as cellophane wrap. Although to be fair, Holly had dropped off her panini maker—begrudgingly.

Today’s specials were ham and cheddar panini, lavender-sage quiche, and peanut soup. The peanut soup, one of Ivy’s heirloom recipes, was a hit. Who knew?

It was super tasty and different enough that everyone was on board to sample it. Ivy had apple tarts too, which she made herself instead of using the ones from the bakery. This was likely the big reason Holly was miffed. But these tarts, made from Rhode Island greening apples, were based on a recipe her mom had gifted her.

That was another reason Holly was in a tiff. She hated Ivy encroaching onherterritory. Oh, sure, it was okay for Ivy to use pastries from Hollister’s, but when it came to baking her own, she was supposed to stick to scones and cookies. Holly had lots of rules for Ivy to follow. If Ivy didn’t object when Holly laid down the law, Ivy was expected to comply.

To Holly, silence was agreement. For Ivy, it had been easier to just go along.

But now? Ivy was determined to stand up for herself. She had ideas—good, sound business ideas. She could be successful. She was every bit as good as her sister.

Besides that, she had more dates than her sister.

Ivy bit back a laugh, and mentally rebuked herself for the thought, even if it was funny. And fun. She would have to share her news with the Hazard Historical Society. The community pillars were certain to be supportive.

Kyle, scarce today in the tea shop, had eagerly invited her to go to the diner and try out Pedro’s new Mexican specials on Tuesday night. Rob had asked her out for an Italian dinner at the fanciest restaurant in town on Monday night.

“Miss Ivy?”

Ivy stopped at a table with young Alden Whittaker, his gaze on her both hopeful and shy, his light brown hair flopping over his forehead in youthful disarray. His dad gave the boy an encouraging nod.

“Would you come to my paintball party on Sunday, next weekend?” Big blue eyes pleaded with her to accept.

Ivy blinked at the invitation. Omigosh, how could she resist such an entreaty?

“It’s my birthday.”

Before she could overthink it, she said, “Sure.” She couldn’t disappoint a twelve-year-old. She sent a questioning glance at his dad.

“It’s his mom’s idea.”

Ivy racked her brain to remember who Alden’s mom was. Oh, that’s right. Priscilla Cane, now Priscilla Whittaker. Priscilla, two years ahead of Ivy in school, had hated Ivy after Holly had beaten her out for student body president. She’d gotten back at Holly by picking on Ivy, which didn’t actually bother Holly a bit. No doubt Priscilla loved the idea of Ivy getting smacked with paintballs.

But, paintball might be fun.

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