Page 18 of The Spinster & the Sock

I not-quite-expertly click my heels together, muttering, “There’s no place like home.”

Nothing happens…at first, but then, true to Jo’s speculations, I roll my ankle and crash back to the floor with a thud-oof-snap! Well, shit. I lift my thigh enough to retrieve the delicate ruby slipper from underneath it and present it to Jo.

“You’d be a lot less mad right now if that had worked, wouldn’t you?” I smile nervously as she takes in the detached heel now swinging by a mere thread.

“Alright. Get up, go make yourself decent. We’re going out,” Jo says, letting out a tired breath. I don’t make her tell me twice. If I can do something to get out of the doghouse, I will.

I’ll admit that when Jo said we were going out, I didn’t think she meant we were going-out, going out. Alas, here we are, sitting across from one another at a small table inside a dreadfully crowded tea shop.

“Is this my punishment for the shoes?” I lean towards her and whisper-whine, grumbling further when my cufflinks catch the table’s edge.

“No, not entirely. Though I must admit that watching you squirm is making me feel better about your wrongdoing.” Jo smiles a little too genuinely regarding my pain.

Vicious woman.

She eyes the people around us for anyone who may be listening, and whispers, “We’re here at my mother’s suggestion. Since we’re betrothed, it would make sense for us to be seen about the ton together. This spot is both popular and close to the modiste.”

“Ah, a date then.” I clear my throat and fidget with my cufflinks after once again snagging them. “Should I make it more convincing then?” I waggle my eyebrows, and her face pales.

“You should absolutely not do anything you think would make this meeting more convincing!” Jo hisses, then mutters something under her breath that I would bet money is an insult of some variety.

“Well then, what should I do while we sit here? Just…drink tea?” I pluck my teacup off the table and, after a hesitant sip to ensure I don’t scald myself, I down the offending liquid in one gulp. When I glance back at Jo, I can’t tell if she’s impressed or wants to beat me. I set the cup down on the table, and the bird-like sound that comes out of Jo clarifies she is not even a little impressed.

“Saucer, Lynyrd, saucer!” she scolds, reaching over to right my wrong. “The future is sure to be teeming with imbeciles!”

“My bad, my bad! We don’t really drink a lot of tea in America, give me a break, I’m learning! Now, if it was coffee…” I raise my hands in surrender, the damned metal on my cuffs clashing against wood for the sixth time since we sat down, and zip my lips when I see the impassive expression Jo now wears. Mom always told me, ‘When a woman gets quiet, shut the fuck up’.

“Well, in the interest of protecting the rest of my footwear, perhaps we can come up with a few ways we may pursue to get you back home—ones that make a little more sense, maybe?”

I nod, maybe too enthusiastically, not breaking eye contact while I slip the cufflinks from my wrists and deftly roll my sleeves up my forearms.

Jo looks at my arms and slaps a palm to her forehead. “It’s like having tea with a toddler,” she mumbles.

An Idiot, Not A Gentleman

Josephine

While I’ve had tea with many drab gentlemen in my life—and while my bumbling fiancé could never be described as drab—I can safely say this is the first time I have ever had tea with a downright idiot. He’s pushed his sleeves above his elbows, which are resting on the table in a most ungentleman-like manner! He won’t stop fidgeting with his clothes, and he is clanking every piece of dishware together loudly like a bored child in his first etiquette class. And everything coming out of his mouth is some reference to the future, and I am utterly lost.

As if this isn’t bad enough, he keeps leaning too far back in his chair, and I’m trying to decide if I will be mortified or delighted when the two rear legs snap and he falls flat on his latter end.

I have a headache.

I’m behind on work.

And for whatever reason, I am still enjoying the idiot’s company.

“Blaze,” I begin.

I wince as he tinks a spoon thrice on the corner of his cup, visibly delighting in its sound.

“Sorry.” He cringes bashfully. “It just seems like you have something important to say, so I thought that was called for.”

I take a steadying breath, trying not to glare too harshly at the fool, then I offer a concessive nod. “Well, I do. Yes. As a matter of fact, I think it is important.”

Blaze gulps his second serving of tea, pours another cup full, then focuses his attention on me.

“I was sorting your clothes—”