Page 47 of Kissing Potions and Elves
“Oh, excellent,”the cat mutters sarcastically, flicking his tail irritably.“Perhaps the next batch will finish the job and burn down the entire house. I’ll start alerting the neighbors now.”
Ignoring Errol’s continued dramatics, I brush a strand of hair from Isobel’s face and press a tender kiss to her temple, inhaling her sweet scent beneath the lingering smoke. “You’ll get this, Isobel. I believe in you.”
She blushes, eyes brightening beautifully as she beams at me.
My heart tightens in my chest, warmth and longing spreading through my veins. Yet, even as I gaze at her, my mind whispers caution. I don’t know what compelled me to kiss her so casually. I shouldn’t let myself feel so deeply for her.
But as I study her, my heart recognizes the truth: It’s too late for caution. I'm already captivated by this adorably clumsy, fiercely stubborn, beautifully determined, and wonderfully chaotic human… far more than I should be.
CHAPTER 24
ISOBEL
Iglance around the café kitchen, the air filled with the familiar, comforting scent of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries. Normally, this place fills me with calm, but today, nerves twist my stomach into knots.
This is it. The village baking contest is today, and I’m excited but also nervous.
Carefully, I measure out the herbs and various ingredients. Lyrion has been teaching me to read and I’m proud to say I’ve come a long way with my reading lessons.
It’s helped me tremendously in my baking, and I’ve been practicing in Lyrion’s kitchen and also working with Tressa, making minor adjustments to this recipe for the past week to make sure I get this right.
Fingers crossed, my joy cupcakes are going to win the prize for tastiest and best magical baked goods today.
“Are you alright?” Lyrion asks softly behind me.
“I’m fine. Just a bit anxious about the contest.”
Lyrion studies me, his expression unreadable. I wish I had his confidence. He always appears so composed. “If these are anything like that last batch you made, I have no doubt you’ll do wonderfully, Isobel.”
Warmth floods my cheeks, and I hastily glance away so he won’t see the blush heating my face. “But that was the normal recipe,” I explain. “This contest is based not only on taste but on magical effects.”
He studies the ingredients before me, arching a brow. “What sort of magic are they supposed to create?”
I smile. “A hint of joy for anyone who eats them.” I glance at the empty jar on the counter. “I just need a little more of thejoyflowerpowder—also known asbrightroot—and wheat flour.” I gesture vaguely toward the cellar door. “I ran out.”
“That bag of flour is heavy. I’ll help you bring it up,” Lyrion offers, moving smoothly to my side. “You shouldn’t have to carry everything yourself.”
That’s very thoughtful of him. Together we descend into the dim cellar beneath the café. The air is cooler here, heavy with the earthy scent of dried herbs, dust, and faint spices. Wooden shelves line the walls, stacked high with labeled jars and sacks of flour and sugar.
I search for the joyflower, desperate to distract myself from the way Lyrion’s presence fills the small space with his tall, masculine form and delicious scent of pine and parchment.
On the table, I notice the passionflower jar. It’s a slightly darker shade of pink than the brightroot. Tressa used it in a cake she made a few days ago.
Scanning the shelves, I find the joyflower container, recognizing the familiar squiggly letters of Tressa’s handwriting. It’s perched on a high shelf. Stretching up on my toes, I struggle to reach it, but it’s just beyond my fingertips.
“Allow me,” Lyrion murmurs, stepping close behind me. Awareness hums through my veins at his nearness. He’s much taller than me and effortlessly plucks the jar from the shelf.
When he turns toward me, he’s so close, the warmth of his body radiates to mine. Our eyes lock, and the air becomes charged between us as I gaze into his violet eyes. My heart pounds so loudly I’m almost certain he must hear it.
“Isobel,” he says, voice rich and deep, sending shivers cascading down my spine. “Forgive me,” he breathes.
“For what?”
I discover the answer a moment later when he sets the jar on the table and captures my mouth in a claiming kiss. All rational thought dissolves into molten warmth as he kisses me like a man possessed.
He wraps his arms around me, pulling me tight against his chest. My heart races wildly as he kisses along my jaw and down my neck, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
I feel shameless, reckless even, but gods help me, this feels so good I can’t bring myself to push him away. My fingers tangle in the silken fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer as his mouth moves over mine, devouring, tasting, exploring.
