Assam of Death, page 13
Stone nodded, accepting the answer with more grace than I expected. “Fair.”
He shifted to leave, then paused, looking back at me like he hadn’t quite said what he came to say.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, voice quieter now, “your father may not be a good man. Or a good father. But he’s a damn good mayor. He’s done more for Wallshire than most people will ever know.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how to.
I studied Captain Stone, trying to read between the lines of his easy posture and the thoughtful look in his eyes. There was something more beneath the polished charm—a quiet loyalty that didn’t demand recognition but was impossible to miss once you knew to look for it.
“He really did help Wallshire,” he said, arms crossing over his chest like he was bracing himself for something heavier. “When the economy collapsed a few years ago, towns like this one? They vanished. Wallshire could’ve gone with them. But Hemmingway?” He paused, voice tightening. “He pulled us through it. Scrambled for funding, leveraged every contact, spent more nights in that town hall than he did at home.”
I nodded slowly, picturing the cobblestone streets, the preserved storefronts, the carefully tended public gardens. Hallowthorne House. It all made sense now—how the town had managed to hold onto its magic in a world that was more interested in paving over the past.
“I’ve seen how much people here care about the history,” I said quietly. “It’s more than nostalgia. It feels alive.”
Stone smiled at that. “Because he made it matter again. He turned this town into something people wanted to see. He made it worth preserving.”
There was no mistaking the pride in his voice—this wasn’t just admiration. It was loyalty. The kind that came from watching someone claw something back from the edge and refusing to let it die.
But the warm feeling didn’t last long. I glanced down at my cup, watching the steam curl and fade. “He’s not perfect,” I said softly. “I know that better than anyone.”
Stone nodded, a flicker of understanding in his expression. “No, he’s not. He can be hard. Ruthless, even. He’s made enemies on the council, stepped on toes. But everything he’s done? It’s always been about Wallshire. About keeping it alive.”
It was a strange thing—to feel pride and pain in the same breath. He’d fought for a town he loved. But he hadn’t fought for me.
“Sometimes it feels like his legacy mattered more to him than I ever did.”
Stone’s voice gentled. “He’s a complicated man. But I think… so are you.”
I looked up, eyebrows raised. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”
He chuckled, then sobered. “Maybe both.”
We fell into silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward but full—weighted with things we both knew couldn’t be fixed with a single conversation. But something in me shifted. Maybe I’d never get the father I wanted. But I could still decide who I wanted to be in the story of this town.
And maybe that started now.
The door chimed softly as Stone turned to leave, the wind catching his coat and tugging it gently as he paused in the threshold. I thought he was going to say goodbye, maybe toss me one last reassuring smile, but instead he looked back—serious now, no hint of charm in his expression.
“You know,” he said quietly, “you’re more like your father than you think.”
I stiffened. “That’s not exactly a compliment.”
His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. “It wasn’t meant as an insult. Hemmingway isn’t a good man, Peyton. I won’t pretend he is. But when it comes to this town, when it comes to Wallshire… he built something. Something people believe in.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t trust myself to.
Stone glanced around the tea shop, at the jars neatly lined on the shelves, the soft golden light spilling over the wooden floors. Then he looked back at me. “People believe in you too.”
I blinked, unsure what to do with the weight of that. “I make tea,” I said, trying to deflect, to breathe around the sudden pressure building in my chest.
His gaze didn’t waver. “You’re changing things here. Quietly. People feel different when they walk out of this place—lighter, steadier. You’ve got something that can’t be faked.”
I swallowed, still unsure what to say.
He stepped halfway out the door, but then turned one last time. “And Levi? Whether he says it or not… you’re changing him too.”
That landed harder than I expected.
“I see it,” Stone said quietly, his gaze steady. “He’s not as tense. He… softens when you’re around.”
I blinked, unsure how to respond, but he wasn’t finished.
“And I don’t think he’s ever given me grief about anything before,” he continued, his tone just this side of surprised. “Even when we’ve disagreed, he lets it go. But not with you. When it comes to you…” He shook his head with a small, rueful smile. “He doesn’t let anything slide.”
My breath caught, and before I could form a single thought in response, he gave a faint nod and disappeared into the breeze; the door clicking shut behind him.
I stood frozen, one hand resting on the counter, heart pounding like I’d just run a mile. The shop felt too quiet now, too full of everything he’d left hanging in the air.
You’re changing him too.
I didn’t know if I believed it. But I wanted to. Maybe more than I should.
I threw myself into cleaning with the kind of focus reserved for people trying very hard not to think. The tea shop sparkled under my relentless efforts—windows wiped to a gleam, counters scrubbed to perfection, and even the tea canisters reorganized twice.
I moved with purpose, letting the rhythm of motion drown out the thoughts spinning through my mind like leaves in a windstorm. If I could just stay busy, stay moving, I wouldn’t spiral into wondering what Levi was thinking or whether Stone was right about me getting under his skin.
But every sweep of the broom, every clang of a teacup in the sink, led me back to him. His voice echoed in my thoughts—sharp one moment, soft the next. That guarded look in his eyes when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. The way his hand had lingered on my back for just a second too long.
No matter how many surfaces I wiped down or how hard I tried to silence the memory, Levi Kessler kept slipping in between the cracks of my resolve. And I hated that I wasn’t strong enough to sweep him out with the dust.
Chapter
Nineteen
The late afternoon sun poured through the windows of Steeped in Mysteary, casting honeyed light across the hardwood floors. Everything was steeped—pun intended—in that quiet, golden hour calm that made the whole world feel like it was exhaling. I leaned against the counter for a breath, taking it all in. The shop was spotless, jars gleaming, the scent of cinnamon and bergamot lingering like a gentle hush over everything.
I’d cleaned like my sanity depended on it, and maybe it had. The morning bustle had faded into memory, and now I stood in the stillness, apron dusted with flour and tea leaves, feeling like I could finally breathe. For a moment, it was just me and the kettle, the kind of silence that wraps around you like a familiar sweater.
I reached for the Earl Grey canister first—Mrs. Caldwell’s usual, but she liked it with a twist. I added a pinch of lavender, the floral note lifting the citrus edge of the bergamot. The scent hit me in a way that made my chest ache. It reminded me of mornings with my mother, her laughter, her rituals, the warmth she left behind in every room. I blinked hard and focused on the measurements.
With every blend I crafted, I felt a little steadier. Chai for Mr. Thompson, rich and spiced. Chamomile and lemon zest for little Lily. I moved through each task like I was dancing—measuring, pouring, steeping. My hands knew what to do, even if my mind was still spinning.
My journal lay open beside me, half-filled with notes on blends, overheard town gossip, and half-formed thoughts about Levi. Thoughts I was trying very hard not to think. I stared down at the familiar scrawl of my own handwriting and told myself this—this quiet rhythm—was enough.
And then the bell above the door chimed.
My body tensed before I could help it, muscles coiling with instinct. Maybe it was just a customer. Maybe it was someone looking for tea, for comfort. But deep down, something in me already knew—this was something else. Someone else.
I smoothed my apron with a steadying breath and looked up, heart tapping out an uneven rhythm beneath my ribs.
The door creaked wider, and in walked Bob Langley, his cologne trailing behind him like smoke from a slow-burning fire. His presence filled the room before his voice even caught up, and instantly, my spine stiffened. That smug grin of his flashed like a knife under the golden light of the shop—too bright, too smooth.
“Peyton,” he drawled, arms spread like I’d just invited him in. “This place is really something.” His gaze dragged along the walls, the shelves, the counter. Not in admiration—in calculation. “I could get used to stopping by more often.”
I didn’t return the smile. Not really. Just enough curve at the corners of my mouth to be polite. “Glad you think so,” I said evenly. “Can I help you with something, or did you just come to browse?”
He sauntered to the counter, fingers brushing across the polished wood with deliberate ease. “Just checking in on my favorite tea witch. Making sure you’re not hiding any cauldrons back there.” He laughed at his own joke, the sound as forced as his charm.
I turned to the shelves, hands finding busy work among the canisters, pretending to straighten them even though they were already in perfect rows. “No broomsticks either,” I muttered.
Behind me, I could feel his eyes. Too focused. Too familiar.
“You know,” Bob said, his voice dipping low as he rested his elbows on the counter, “this place suits you. Warm, full of secrets… inviting, if someone knows how to look.”
I paused mid-reach for the cinnamon bark, my fingers brushing the tin but not lifting it. “I like it the way it is.”
“Sure,” he said, eyes glinting. “But it could be more. You could be more.” He gave a slow smile, like he was letting me in on a joke only he understood. “You’re not exactly the girl-next-door, Peyton.”
I arched a brow. “No?”
“Nah.” He shook his head, gaze tracking me a little too long. “You’ve got this whole… mysterious enchantress thing going. Intimidating and charming all at once. Dangerous combo, you know.”
I turned to face him fully, planting my palms on the counter. “Sounds like you’ve been thinking about this more than is healthy.”
Bob grinned. “Guilty. Hard not to when you’ve got a face like yours slinging tea and sass.” He leaned in slightly, close enough for his cologne to mix with the spices in the air. “Bet you’re even more interesting outside this shop.”
“I’m not,” I said flatly.
He laughed, like he didn’t believe me for a second. “I could help you unwind. Take that edge off.”
I straightened. “You’re mistaking stubbornness for flirting. I’m not interested.”
“Yet,” he added, still smiling, still sure of himself.
“No,” I repeated, firmer now. “And I’m not a project, Bob.”
His smile lingered, but his eyes narrowed just enough to give me pause. “You’ll come around.”
“Doubt it.” I gestured toward the tea jars. “Now, unless you’re here for a cup or a blend, I’ve got work to do.”
He pushed off the counter slowly, like he was reluctant to leave but too proud to press. “You’re feisty. I like that.”
I watched Bob lean against the counter like he owned it, arms folded, that ever-present grin stretched a little too wide. His energy filled the shop like the buzz before a thunderstorm—unsettling and hard to ignore. I pretended to organize the tea tins behind me, counting out calming breaths with every label I read.
“Seriously, Peyton,” he said, voice dipped in velvet. “What do you say we grab a drink later? I know spots in Wallshire that’d blow this place out of the water.”
“No.” My tone was cool, clipped, and utterly without room for interpretation.
He laughed, not taking the hint. “You’re cute when you’re playing hard to get.”
My jaw tensed. This wasn’t banter—it was dismissal wrapped in flirtation. He wasn’t hearing me, just waiting for me to give in.
“I’m not playing anything,” I said, my voice a shade colder now. “I meant what I said.”
That grin faltered, just for a breath. But then he stepped forward, shrinking the space between us. “Really?” he murmured. “A girl like you—sharp, restless—you’ve got more in you than tea and scones. I can see it.”
He swept a hand around the shop like it was some quaint little project I’d grow out of. My pulse thudded at my throat. How dare he?
“This shop is mine,” I said, each word precise. “And I’m not looking to be rescued or rerouted. Especially not by someone who doesn’t understand what this place means.”
His smirk slipped into something flatter. “You’re fiery, I’ll give you that. Just don’t burn yourself out saying no to the wrong things.”
I met his gaze, steady and sure. “I’d rather burn out being honest than give in just to keep someone like you entertained.”
Bob's expression hardened, the easy charm slipping just enough for me to catch a glimpse of something else lurking beneath. He stepped closer, invading my space like he had some right to it. The pressure of his presence hung thick in the air, a weight that made my heart race.
I swallowed hard, but held my ground. “It’s time for you to leave,” I said, my voice steady, defiant.
He paused, studying me with an intensity that felt like a challenge. My breath caught for a moment; I couldn’t let him see how he rattled me. I squared my shoulders and met his gaze head-on.
“I’m not going to say it again.” The words left my lips sharper than I intended, cutting through the tension hanging between us.
The pressure of Bob’s hand at the base of my neck wasn’t painful, but it was deliberate—just enough to make my breath catch. It was a claim, not a touch, and it set every nerve in my body on edge. I should’ve stepped back. I should’ve said more. But his closeness made the air feel thick, like I was being slowly pulled under.
“Another time then,” he murmured, voice low and slick with insinuation. I could feel the smile in it—coiled and smug. My skin crawled.
The bell over the door rang like a lifeline. I blinked, and there was Zoey, stormlight in human form, striding in with her curls bouncing and her expression quickly shifting from easy mischief to sharp alertness.
“Is there a problem?” she asked, her tone clipped, eyes flicking between us.
I latched onto the opening like it was oxygen. “Mr. Langley was just leaving,” I said, and to my credit, my voice didn’t shake. Not much.
Bob’s hand lingered half a second longer—just enough to make a point—before he let go. The space he left behind felt like it had to be scrubbed clean. He looked at me with something dark simmering beneath his smile, then said under his breath, “You’re lucky your friend walked in.”
Zoey took a step closer to me. “Peyton?”
“I’m fine,” I lied, my voice too breezy, too quick. I rubbed my hand over the back of my neck, trying to erase the imprint of his fingers.
Zoey didn’t buy it. Her eyes narrowed as she stared after Bob, who had turned toward the door like he hadn’t just invaded my space and chilled my blood.
“Just a friendly chat about tea,” he called over his shoulder, all fake charm and flashing teeth. “I’ll be seeing you around.”
The bell chimed again as the door shut behind him, and I finally let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Zoey spun toward me. “That didn’t look friendly.”
“I’m okay,” I said, quieter this time. But even I could hear the edge of doubt in my voice.
She didn’t push—not yet. She just gently guided me toward the counter with a look that said she wasn’t letting this go. “We’re making tea. You’re not lifting a finger.”
And for once, I didn’t argue.
I sank into the corner armchair, letting the cushions swallow me whole. The fabric was soft and worn—comforting in a way I desperately needed—but my hands still trembled in my lap, fingers twisting together as if I could braid away the memory of Bob’s touch. This was supposed to be my safe place. My shop. My rules. And yet I felt like a stranger inside it, rattled by the echo of someone else’s entitlement.
Zoey didn’t sit right away. She hovered at the edge of the counter like a sentry, watching me with that sharp, perceptive gaze of hers. When she finally crossed the room and slid into the chair across from mine, the worry in her eyes had hardened into something more decisive.
“I know you don't want to talk, but still,” she said, folding her arms. Her tone wasn’t scolding—it was steady, like a hand on my back guiding me forward. “What the hell was that?”
I blew out a breath, leaned forward, and rested my elbows on my knees. “That,” I muttered, “was Bob Langley thinking no just means try harder. Like one polite smile is some kind of green light.”
Zoey’s jaw tensed. “You shouldn’t have to feel unsafe. Especially not in your own damn shop.”
“I know,” I said, my voice breaking a little. “But he came in so casual. So sure of himself. And the moment I pushed back, it was like he flipped a switch. I hated how quickly he made me feel… small.”
Zoey didn’t look away. “Then it’s time we make sure that never happens again.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You planning to camp out here with a baseball bat?”
She gave a tight smile. “Tempting. But I was actually thinking more along the lines of Hoover’s Gym. Self-defense classes. Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
I hesitated, chewing the inside of my cheek. The idea of going felt… dramatic. But then I remembered the pressure of Bob’s hand. The way he looked at me like I was something owed to him.
