“What changed her mind?”
A year of begging. A couple of all-expense-paid guilt trips. “The math got too complicated.”
He laughs, though I wasn’t kidding. I fumble around my messenger bag for my plastic jar and collection tools, hoping he gets the hint. As good as he smells, I can’t be late.
His face grows serious. “Can you really make people fall in love?”
“We open their eyes to the possibility of love. But the decision is theirs.” Every few years, some journalist writes about us, giving logical explanations for our singular sniffers, like the journalist in Scientific American, who said our genes hail from the Paleozoic era when humans still walked on all fours. Others call us frauds. Grandmother Narcissa, an anomaly even among aromateurs, put most fraud claims to rest when she scented out a rare prickly pear growing in Arizona, used to treat diabetes. She smelled it all the way from our home on Parrot Hill.
But still, we have our skeptics.
Court rubs the back of his neck. “So I’ve been wanting to ask, do you make potions to help people get over each other?”
I cough to cover my embarrassment. Him, needing our services? “We don’t work with minors.”
He flashes a smile, and my adrenaline spikes. “It’s not for me.”
“Oh.”
He doesn’t explain. Perhaps he’s talking about his mother. Last year, pictures of Court’s tech-millionaire father cavorting with scantily clad “models” surfaced on the internet. Even Mother knew about it, and she hates gossip.
I finally say, “It’s unethical.” It’s mostly true. We do make Potions to Undo Feelings, or PUFs, in extreme cases like aromateur error. Mother has never made a mistake, but she did make a PUF once before I was born.
“Making people fall in love isn’t unethical? I mean, opening their eyes to the possibility.”
I square my hat. “We have rules. The client and the target—I mean, the love interest—must be of sound mind, impeccable personal history, an adult over eighteen; the list is long.” Some of my hair gets in my mouth and I blow it out. “Anyway, Mother says falling in love is the easy part. Things get complicated after that.”
“I see.” He touches the peeling bark of a eucalyptus and looks up at the leaves.
The bluesy scent of friar plums drifts toward me, the subtle note of despair, and my annoyance fades. “My mother tells people who are heartbroken to plant roses. They require a lot of attention, and when they finally bloom, you’ll be ready to give them to someone else.”
“Roses, huh?” He’s looking at me.
“Yes. Only heirlooms. Hybrids don’t smell as sweet. April Love. Distant Thunder’s nice. They have a peppery finish over a dusky center.” I’m babbling.
“You’d be an intimidating person to buy flowers for.”
“Me? Oh, I don’t really need flowers.”
He grins. Pinching his shirt, he wafts it a few times then stops. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s nothing I haven’t smelled before.” That didn’t come out right. Hastily, I add, “I mean, everyone sweats.”
He scratches the back of his head. “So what do I smell like?”
My turtleneck feels like it’s choking me. “You smell like a campfire, with heart notes of fir needle, and nutmeg, plus a ton of cinnamon—” I stop. He might know cinnamon is an aphrodisiac. “And other stuff.”
He blows out an amused breath. “You want to know what I smell in you?”
Me?
He takes a step closer and sniffs, stopping my heart in its tracks. “Butterscotch pudding.” He keeps a straight face.
A flush migrates all the way to my scalp. “You’re making fun of me!”
“I’m sorry, all I meant was you’re not chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry. You dare to be yourself.” His eyes sweep up my five-foot-eight-inch frame, from my prairie skirt to my bucket hat, which hides most of my messy bob. “You’ve got style.”
Actually, what I have is a concerned mother, who makes me cover up as much skin as possible. I try to hold on to my anger, but it slips away. “I just wear whatever fits me from Twice Loved.”
“You hold your head up, even when people say you eat silkworms.”
“They taste heavenly with a bit of butter.” I press a hand to my heart and affect an expression of bliss, a look that must be too convincing, as his forehead crinkles in uncertainty. Cheeks burning, I add, “Also, I make humans fall in love with their shoes.” That’s the latest rumor. I freak a lot of people out. One girl at school even screamed when she looked up from her sandwich and saw me standing beside her. Kali said people are afraid I’ll put a spell on them, I just need to give them time—though I doubt time will make a difference.
He chuckles, and dimples once again light up his face.
I force myself to think about lichen. Black and scratchy like pirate whiskers. “I should finish up here.” Mother will start to worry.