He cleared his throat. “Something that makes a person… less intense.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, leaning her elbows on the counter with an unblinking stare, her curiosity piqued.
He hesitated. He could not exactly say,I am one conversation away from dragging the new baker onto every flat surface she owns and claiming her until neither of us can remember our names.
He cleared his throat again.
“Let’s say someone reacts strongly to another person.”
“Strongly how?”
He stared at the empty space behind her, his pulse thudding in his neck.
“Distracting. Disruptive. It’s interfering with routine.”
“And is this reaction unpleasant?”
“No.” The memory of Sylvie’s mouth flashed through him, nearly buckling his knees. “Quite the opposite.”
“Ah.”
Myrtle’s smile turned knowing.
He didn’t like that. Not one bit.
“You have something?” he asked quickly, desperate for a way out of the conversation.
“I think I know what you need,” she said, disappearing into the back room behind a curtain of clinking crystals.
Thank the gods.
He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.
This could be fixed. He would get her out of his system before this turned into something he couldn’t undo.
The crystals swished again.
Myrtle returned.
With a knife.
He blinked, his hand twitching toward the door.
“Are you planning to draw my blood? Because if this is some blood-oath ritual, I’m out.”
She snorted.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
She set the knife down and calmly sliced a piece of fruitcake from a plate resting on the counter. She popped the slice into her mouth with unhurried delight while he stood there simmering like a tea kettle on a high flame.
Then she handed him a small jar filled with something sleek and faintly oily.
He stared at it.
It’s not what he thought this was. Or was it?
“What is that?” he asked warily.
