To emphasize the point, he scooted the plate several inches closer to himself and subtly shielded it with his arm.
“I merely noticed you aren’t eating it,” I said stiffly. Is it not to your taste?”
It seemed the only logical explanation. Why else would he continue taking such tiny bites as though he couldn’t bear more than a mouthful at a time?
“It’s not that.” His gaze lowered. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’tupsetme.” The very notion was absurd.
Why would I possibly care whether some quiet stranger enjoyed one of my best recipes? True, I had spent weeks painstakingly perfecting the balance of citrus and butter while standing ankle-deep in flour. And perhaps I had gone somewhat out of my way to invite him in from the storm and prepare tea and scones. But that hardly justified this strange turmoil knotting inside my chest merely because he wasn’t eating quickly enough.
I paused.WasI…upset?Could I even still experience such an emotion? Nutmeg peeked around the teacup at me with a look of unbearable smugness that I did my best to ignore.
“I like it very much,” Gabe assured me hastily, evidently noticing my continued scrutiny. “The lemon is bright without overpowering the butter, and the glaze softens the tartness perfectly. Most bakers make citrus desserts too sweet, but this…”He glanced down at the scone again almost reverently. “It tastes warm, like sunlight.”
The strange tightness around my chest loosened instantly. How fascinating that such simple words could so thoroughly soothe whatever uncomfortable sensation had been troubling me moments earlier.
“There’s no need to ration it,” I informed him, striving for professionalism despite the warmth still lingering in my chest. “You may have as many as you want.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly?—”
But I had already nudged the plate even closer to him. He hesitated only briefly before surrendering and taking a much larger bite this time. His eyes fluttered closed with a small, contented sigh that somehow felt dangerously intimate within the cozy quiet of the kitchen.
A few crumbs dribbled down his chin, clinging briefly to the corner of his mouth, and I momentarily experienced the sudden impulse to reach across the table and brush them away.
Gabe lifted a large crumb that had fallen onto his plate and extended it towards me. I blinked uncertainly before realizing he was looking just beyond me. An almost blinding shower of pink sparks swirled around me as Nutmeg darted forward to accept the treat.
“Wait!” I exclaimed, reaching out to intercept it and forcing myself not to be distracted as I brushed against his fingers with mine. “She’s allergic to sugar.”
Gabe shot me a horrified look and snatched his hand back, draping a napkin over his plate to keep Nutmeg from any danger. “Allergic? I thought she loved sweets.”
I sighed. “She does, but she shouldn’t have them.”
“I’m sorry,” Gabe said to the tiny sprite that was currently directing her most disdainful gaze towards me. She gave him a grumpy glance.
Reaching into a pocket of his cloak, he pulled out a cluster of tiny red berries that glowed like jewels. Nutmeg fixed her eyes on the fruit.
“Bunchberries,” Gabe explained to me. “They grow in the shade of the forest and they’re safe to eat…at least for humans.”
Nutmeg reached out and plucked a berry, sniffing curiously before popping it into her mouth. Her glow intensified in approval and I found myself smiling involuntarily at this man who cared about my pet’s disappointment.
I gave my head a rigid shake. What had begun as a simple offer of tea was rapidly veering into deeply concerning territory; I needed to redirect its precarious course before I drowned entirely in these unfamiliar, tumultuous waters.
I cleared my throat and lowered my teacup onto the saucer. “Was there something you needed help with?” Surely he hadn’t ventured through such dreadful weather merely for tea and pastries…unless he’d come to visit me? The ridiculous thought slipped treacherously into my mind before I could stop it.
I frowned accusingly down at my tea, as though the amber liquid itself might explain the increasingly irrational direction of my thoughts. Perhaps I had accidentally mixed moon-drift blossoms into the brew instead of sugar. The herb was notorious for causing lightheadedness, poor judgment, and regrettable romantic decisions.
Gabe thankfully appeared oblivious to my internal crisis. “I feel bad accepting tea to thank me when I’m already indebted to you for the tracking tart that helped me get home.”
I waved aside the concern. “Think nothing of it. I’m indebted toyoufor advertising the bakery, and especially for marking the path. Without your help, I might have gone an entire month without customers.”
“Which would have been a tragedy,” he said gravely. “These scones are genuinely delicious.”
As though determined to prove his sincerity, he promptly finished the remainder in one enthusiastic and rather messy bite before immediately reaching for another from the plate. Whether he was doing so for my benefit or simply because he truly enjoyed them, another warm stirring spread unexpectedly through my chest, this one softer than before. Before I could properly examine it, it vanished again.
“I have something in exchange.” His offer gently tugged my attention away from my puzzling spiral of my thoughts and back towards his dark eyes. “As a hunter, I often trade goods rather than coin. I hoped this might be repayment for your help.”
He rummaged through his rucksack and withdrew a rolled-up parchment tied with faded green ribbon. Recognition struck instantly. I lurched forward so abruptly the teacups rattled against their saucers. “Is that a map?”
