Rowan leaves Nadine to help the next few customers and watches me set up the French press, intrigued despite himself. When I open a brand-new bag of coffee beans, I breathe in the forbidden scent.
“You have a problem,” Rowan says. “These are whole beans.”
“That’s why I bought a grinder.” I grab it from the cabinet as well, grinning when I show it to him.
“That thing is massive.”
“It wasn’t that expensive. If we decide we want a good one that will do espresso, we’ll have to spend a little more. This is perfect for the French press.”
“Whywould we want an espresso grinder?”
I shrug. “You never know.”
“Laverna is likely rolling in her grave.”
Nonchalantly, I say, “That’s what happens when you give your tea empire to a pixie from Washington.”
“You get a coffee pixie.” He chuckles to himself, studying the grinder. “Coffee shops offer mediocre tea. I suppose our tea shop can offer mediocre coffee.”
“You’re setting the bar low. I used to make coffee at the gift shop back in Washington, and our shifter owners had persnickety Seattle tastes. I make a lovely cup of coffee, thank you very much.”
His smile grows as he watches me. “So, you just add hot water and coffee into the carafe?”
“Yep.” After I set a timer, I show him the lid with the long handle. “When it’s done, you push the plunger down. That’s what filters the grounds. The coffee flows to the top, and the grounds stay at the bottom.”
Rowan watches the process, trying to look skeptical, but I recognize that look in his eyes—it’s the same one he gets when he talks about magic. He’s intrigued.
When it’s ready, I pour the coffee into a cup and snap a lid in place. “There’s enough here for one more cup if you’d like to try it.”
“I’ve never been particularly fond of coffee.”
“Maybe you’ve never hadgoodcoffee.”
He makes a dubious noise and then pours the last of the steaming liquid into a teacup.
Preparing to give the drink to my customer, I turn…and then gasp becauseRussellwalks into the tea shop. Startled, I stumble back, knocking right into Rowan.
But wait. No. That’s not Russell. Just another brown-haired man with similar features.
I laugh to myself, still spooked.
“Are you all right?” Rowan asks, touching my arm.
“Oh, yes. I just…” I gasp again when I turn, this time at the brown coffee stain on Rowan’s beige waistcoat. “Oh no.”
Rowan looks down, frowning. “It’s all right. I’ll go upstairs and rinse it out.”
“I’m so sorry. I hope it doesn’t stain.”
“I can take care of it if it does. Stains are easily dealt with.”
I’m about to argue that coffee stains can be difficult, but then I realize he means with magic.
Handy.
Abandoning what’s left of his coffee, he heads upstairs.
“How are you doing?” I ask Nadine when I return to the counter after delivering the customer’s drink.
