Page 9 of Love Potion No. 69
I’m about to protest—I am definitely more than a pretty face—and then ask if maybe she’s the one to talk to about the Elysian Blossom seeds, but the taste of the tea hits me. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. “This is delicious.”
Willow grins and throws her shoulders back. “Itis, isn’t it?”
I sip again, searching for the ingredients she’s used. Perfume and tea can often use the same building blocks. Chrysanthemum, willow bark (no surprise there), apple…and more I can’t quite pinpoint. I take another sip, rolling the liquid around on my tongue. “Tell me, what’s in here?”
“What are you serving him?” Clementine’s voice is sharp and no-nonsense as she enters the kitchen.
I swallow another huge gulp and stand, turning and hoping I can keep it together this time.Come on, Q. You can do this, man.
And, shit.
She’s luminous in the morning light, dressed in black jeans and a black t-shirt that has Flower Child spelled on it in a graphic flower font. Her dark hair, glossy and thick, hangs down her back and front like a Disney princess’s, and her gorgeous green eyes are soft as they look at me from behind her wire-rimmed glasses. She bites back a smile. “Good morning, Quinton,” the love of my life says.
Am I making moon eyes at her? Probably. “Good morning, Clementine,” I manage to respond. “You look wondrous.”
Clementine flushes, her olive skin deepening prettily as she blinks. “Thank you.”
The wooden chair I’m holding onto for dear life creaks in protest, and behind me, Willow snickers and murmurs, “Never seen it do this before.”
Clementine seems to gather herself, and her eyes flash in accusation at her sister. “Youdidn’t.”
I can’t look away from Clementine, but it sounds like Willow shrugs as she says, “Of course I did. Couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”
Wait. My fingers are prickling, like they’ve been asleep and the blood is just now flowing back into them. “Did you put something into that tea?” I ask, finally able to look at Willow now that Clementine has moved to stand next to her at the sink.
It’s nice to see that Clementine isn’t mad at me this morning, but Ialmostfeel sorry for Willow, because Clementine is seething as she says, “You had no right to do that! He’s messed up enough as it is?—”
“Hey!” I protest. “I’m right here. And there’s nothing wrong with me. My fingers are tingling, but that’s it.” I peer at the remnants of the tea in my cup. “What’d you use to make it do that?”
“Not. A. Word,” Clementine says to her sister.
Willow snaps her mouth shut and makes awhat are you gonna do?gesture.
“Out. Get out!” Clementine says, and Willow laughs.
“Fine, I’m leaving,” she says. “Aspen and Mom need my help at the store anyway.” She breezes out of the room, brushing by me as she does. “I like you,” she whispers. “Good luck.”
Both charmed and slightly unnerved by those words, I turn my attention wholly to Clementine. “We need to talk, but can I kiss you first?”
She blinks. “You honestly still feel this?”
I draw near, not able to be in the same room as her and remain so far away. “Nothing has changed since last night, Clementine. From the moment I saw you…” I shake my head, still unsure how to describe it. “I need you,” I finally say, pulling her hands into mine. My body hums with a sense of rightness the second I touch her.
Her irises dilate and her lips part as she heaves a breath. “What you’re feeling…it’s not real, Quinton,” she croaks. “Between last night and just now…none of it’s real.”
I pull her to me, wrapping my arms around her waist and marveling at how perfectly we fit together. “Of course it is,” I murmur, leaning down to her upturned lips.
She stills, and as I take her mouth with mine, a sense of deep contentment settles inside my chest.I’m home. I’m precisely where I’ve always been meant to be. I feel Clementine’s arms wrap around my neck, and I know, Iknow, she feels it, too. She opens, letting me in, and the kiss is nothing like last night’s urgency. This is soft, tender. Proof of love. Inside the kiss I see the Clementine I’m meant to know, the one where she’s my love until we’re old and wrinkled. I see our children playing under a willow tree and hear their giggles in Clementine’s tiny sigh as I cup her face with my hands.
“Quinton,” she breathes, and as I stare at those moss-colored eyes, all I can know is I love her. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t have to. We barely know each other, but we know enough.
“Can we talk?” It’s all I can think to say. Distantly, in the recesses of my mind, I know that I still need to sort out the deal for my family. That my mom and dad and grand-mère are counting on me. But right now, none of that matters. All that matters is the woman in front of me.
Then her eyes shutter. “There’s nothing to talk about.” She takes a firm step back, out of my reach, and I follow. “Quinton. Stop.”
I stop moving. “But you—just now—you feel it, too,” I plead. “Right? I know you do. I saw…” I let the words fall away. Because how do I tell her I saw our children—plural—under a tree when we kissed?
Her eyes widen, then narrow. “You saw what?”