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Tolly looked on with amusement at the exchange between Rowan and the tall Hobbit. None of my business really he thought to himself. Rowan did seem to be handling it all quite civilly. The fellow must not have gotten her back up. Personally, he wouldn’t want to tangle with her if she’d set her mind to something.
The savory smells drifting out from the kitchen each time the door was opened had set his stomach to rumbling; grumbling in protest of a breakfast long gone and nothing to munch on since then. Only this tasty ale was keeping his innards from collapsing altogether, or so his body was telling him. And here it was only his second mug…..or was it the third…..and his head was getting a bit muzzy.
Tolly set his mug carefully on the countertop and peeked into the kitchen. Prim was stirring a large kettle of something that smelled awfully good. And Miz Puddifoot was a vision in a cloud of flour as she mixed another batch of biscuit dough. He found a certain warmth creeping up from his collar. Get hold of yourself! You’re acting like some calf-eyed lad!!
He cleared his throat, hoping to attract Prim’s attention. ‘Could a hungry fellow get a bowl of that?’ he asked, nodding toward the kettle.
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