Marshall snorts, annoyed, earning a sharp look from the woman.
I hold my breath, suddenly highly invested in whatever is going on between them.
“Hello, Marshall,” Anna says, her tone crisp—snooty, even.
“Anna.”
Silence.
Oh, goodness, this is awkward.
Rowan clears his throat as he slides Marshall’s newly transferred drink across the counter. “Here you go.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house,” I say immediately. “As promised.”
With a grim nod of thanks, he walks away.
I try not to gape as he leaves the shop, but he went from perfectly friendly to Arctic cold so quickly.
Shaken, Anna sinks onto a stool.
“What’s going on between you and Marshall?” Rowan demands.
“Nothing,” she says immediately, her tone betraying that there’s a lot ofsomething.
Rowan responds, but I don’t catch what he says because a dapper-looking middle-aged gentleman in a fine business suit walks through the door Marshall holds for him.
He stands about five and a half feet tall and has nicely trimmed salt-and-pepper hair. He’s fae, which I would know from his magic even if he wasn’t walking with a jaunty, silver-handled cane. The accessory appears to be a fashion statement more than a necessity.
He’s not tall enough to be high fae, not stout enough to be a dwarf, and even from across the room, I can tell he’s not a pixie.
The man is a leprechaun.
He pauses in the entry, assessing the tearoom with a calculating frown, and then continues toward the counter, pausing when a trio of tourists steps in his way.
“That’s Mr. Eastwilden,” Rowan murmurs, his attention now on the man as well.
“As in Mr. Eastwilden, the man who owns Hotel Theodore?”
“That’s right.”
“Theodosia’s father?” I ask, a bit unnerved, referring to the woman who runs the novelty divination store. “They look like they’re the same age.”
“Leprechauns live longer than the rest of us,” Rowan reminds me. “Mr. Eastwilden is a little over a hundred years old.”
“In leprechaun years, what would that make him?”
“Leprechaun years?” Rowan asks, highly amused, careful to keep his voice down. “Is that like dog years?”
“Something like that, but in reverse.”
“He’s around fifty.”
The man offers the tourists a benevolent smile, as warm and friendly a soul as you might ever see. But the moment they’re past, the facade drops, and his stern scowl returns.
My heart nearly stops when the hotelier makes his way to my tea counter.
