She left, and Kit leaned back in his seat, picking at a knot in the wooden slab of the table.
“How do you know her?” he asked after a pause.
I pitched forward, propping my elbows on the tableand catching my chin in my palms. “She’s another initiate. And Rosie’s friend.”
“Ah.” Kit nodded. He looked ready to say more when Tessa returned carrying a tin mug and a larger stein that she set between us.
Her cheeks were flushed, and she seemed a bit harried, likely from the rush she must have been in to get to the kitchen and back with our drinks.
“Apologies.” She flashed a smile. “I forgot what you wanted to eat.”
I doubted that. “Two roasts,” I said before Kit could. “Thank you.”
I hoped that would dismiss her, but she stayed, shifting back and bumping her hip into the bench seat beside Kit.
“So, Kitingor,” she began, confirming my suspicions that she’d onlyforgottenour order as an excuse to try to talk to Kit.
“It’s Kit,” I corrected her. “Just Kit.”
Her smile flagged, then returned in force. “Just Kit, then. I hear you’re an exceptional blacksmith. That sounds like hard work. Must require a strong body and firm hand.” She reached toward him, and her fingers almost brushed his arm before I interrupted again.
“He has a good appetite, too,” I said. “Would like his dinner sooner rather than later, I’d think.”
Kit glanced at me with one brow raised. Curious and a bit amused if the tilt of his lips was any indication. He took his cup of whiskey and raised it for a long, slow sip.
Tessa glowered. “Of course,” she muttered, then flounced away.
I watched her leave, unaware I was scowling until Kit spoke again.
“What’s gotten into you tonight?”
“Me?” I blanched.
“Mmhmm.” He nodded. “You seem a little… on edge.”
I looked across the room, watching the dancers with their arms looped around each other, swaying and stepping as one. It would surely be too bold to ask Kit to dance, but I imagined how it might feel to be held against him, laughing and spinning till we were both dizzy.
That wasn’t the reason I’d asked him here. My intentions had been far simpler.
“Wanted some privacy, that’s all,” I said.
“If you wanted that, we should have stayed home.” Kit smirked, then lifted his cup for another drink.
But we had it now. A moment alone. It shouldn’t have felt so novel; I had Kit to myself every morning and evening, but this was meant to be special.
Finally, I cleared my throat and asked, “Any new work in the forge?”
Kit eyed me over his whiskey. “Nothing of note. Why don’t you tell me about your lessons with Rosie? Didn’t you meet her mother the other day?”
I did. She was a kindly woman with round, pink cheeks and a comforting presence that reminded me so much of home. She took to me readily, insisting I stay for dinner and including me in the meal preparations. I enjoyed that almost more than rolling out tart crusts with Rosie.
No sooner had I drawn breath to answer than did another familiar face arrive tableside. Rosie stood as though summoned by my thoughts, heavy laden with a wicker basket tented with a gingham napkin.
She exclaimed my name and stepped in to throw her free arm around my neck. Turning toward Kit, she offered a more subdued greeting, then pulled back the corner of the cloth to show off the cherry tarts stacked inside her basket.
“Remember these?” she asked. “The tavern is going to start selling them. Now that I have help, I can make enough to keep them stocked here and in my stand as well!”
I smiled. “That’s wonderful!”
