“For the hug?”
“I’m afraid I’m giving you mixed signals by telling you we should hold off on a physical relationship and then pulling you close.”
“Friends can hug, Rowan,” I say as we walk back into the tearoom. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Pixies are so different from the high fae.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “My family doesn’t even hug.”
“No offense, but your family might be slightly dysfunctional.”
“Because we don’t hug?” He looks amused.
I think the lack of hugs is the least of the Neilfellow family’s issues, but what do I know of high fae family dynamics? And who am I to point them out?
“Perhaps,” I say lightly. “But lucky for you, I’m now in your life, and I need a steady diet of hugs to stay stable.”
I wish that were a joke.
Rowan doesn’t respond because our next customer is already on her way to the tea counter, but I catch his subtle smile, and it warms my heart.
A few hours later, during a lull between patrons, my phone buzzes with a text.
Dad: We’re about to go through the fairy ring. We’ll meet you at the tea shop soon.
I respond with several excited emojis, and magic swells with my happiness. The Moss Hollow fairy ring is in the festival grounds, a short walk from here.
“Good news?” Rowan asks, adding change to the cash register.
“The best. My mom and dad will be here soon.”
A strange look crosses his face, making me wonder if he’s afraid my parents won’t like him. But that won’t be an issue. My parents like everyone.
“How long are they staying?” he asks. “Have they said?”
“A few weeks.” I organize the decorative tins of tea I filled earlier, putting them on display to encourage impulse purchases. “But I’m secretly hoping they’ll love it here and want to stay.” I turn to look at him. “Is it selfish that I want to lure them away from Washington?”
“I don’t think there’s a selfish bone in your entire body.”
“That’s not true. I ate the last chocolate chip scone earlier, and I didn’t even ask if you wanted it first.”
“Never mind.” He smiles as he breaks a new roll of quarters for the register. “You’re wicked.”
The last time Rowan said something similar, we ended up cozy on my couch. The memory makes my cheeks warm, but I hold back my glowing, effervescent magic that betrays the butterflies in my stomach.
I’m getting better at controlling it. Practice makes perfect, I guess—and I’ve had a lot of practice since moving to Moss Hollow.
The tea shop gets busier as tourists leave the hotel and their vacation rentals in search of sustenance. Every time the dooropens, I look up, expecting my parents. It’s taking longer than I thought it would, and though I know everything is fine, I worry when we hit the hour mark. As far as I know, fairy rings are safe. But what’s taking them so long?
The door opens once more, and I look over, yet again hoping to see two familiar faces.
This time, two pixies walk into the tea shop.
Chapter 3
Like a Greedy Toddler
Imake a peep of pure happiness, causing Rowan to look over.
Mom is a petite woman in her late forties. Her brunette hair is pulled back into a thick, loose braid that hangs past her shoulders. Several strands escape the plait, curling around her face. She wears a pink knit shirt, olive-green shorts, and strappy leather sandals, looking like she was made for the summer. My mother isn’t a summer pixie though—she’s an autumn.
