“It was an accident.”
“Of course,” Vera replied sweetly. “And if it was an accident, it must have been a very fortunate one.”
“If you need a little something for… extra attraction,” Myrtle leaned closer with a conspiratorial blink and a knowing smile, “just let me know.”
“What she means,” Arla said dryly, “is that she brews potions and then spends the rest of the week fixing the trouble they cause.”
“That’s not true!”
“Tell that to Mr. Tomsten,” Vera said calmly. “He asked for courage to confront his wife about the dishes and ended up confessing to cheating on their honeymoon twenty years ago.”
“I always put small print on my labels!” Myrtle huffed.
She then poured a suspicious, glowing pink liquid into a glass and pushed it toward Sylvie.
“Here, darling. Try this. For extra courage.”
Sylvie eyed the iridescent swirl.
“I think I’m okay, thank you.”
“Myrtle is part of the local witch coven,” Vera explained. “They’re always brewing something.”
“They meet every Thursday,” Arla added. “Don’t bother attending if you plan on wearing clothes.”
“Sylvie just moved in. She’s got other things on her mind than witch covens,” Vera said. “I heard you were getting the old bakery back on its feet.”
“Yes. I was hoping to open this weekend, but I heard there’s a festival.”
“Oh yes, it’s wonderful,” Vera said. “Everyone will be down at the pier. Myrtle and her sisters will make sure the weather is nice. You don’t want to miss it.”
“I tried to get a stall,” Sylvie admitted, the disappointment leaking through. “But everything was booked.”
“Months in advance,” Arla agreed.
Myrtle’s eyes suddenly lit up.
“Actually… one of my clients might be giving up their spot. Unfortunately, orcs don’t do great in figure skating. No tonic can fix a broken leg that quickly,” she added thoughtfully.
“That’s amazing,” Sylvie breathed. “I mean—not the accident, obviously.”
“It’s a shame Rhavor doesn’t do the markets anymore,” Arla added. “His goat cheese alone would make a killing.”
Sylvie suddenly caught a familiar, intoxicating scent of pine smoke and musk.
For a second, she thought she was hallucinating it just because someone mentioned his name.
“Oh my,” Arla murmured. “Look who’s here.”
Sylvie followed the orc’s gaze and saw Rhavor strolling through the crowd.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He wore a royal-blue button-down stretched tight across his massive chest, the fabric straining over the carved muscle of his shoulders.
He looked impossibly handsome—and far too large for the room.
Heat rushed to her cheeks.
