Thomas Sharpe (
very_sharpe) wrote2017-12-05 07:48 pm
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Where there's tea, there's hope.
Thomas tried not to be nervous. It was silly to indulge in that, wasn't it? It was just a nice afternoon tea, with a lovely woman. He should be practiced at this; it should feel like old hat.
But that was the thing: it wasn't, really. Edith had been the first choice he ever made, the first woman he ever pursued because he liked her. And now here he was again, about to spend time with someone he genuinely liked, that he was interested in by virtue of the fact that-- well, he was interested. And that meant sincerity, and sincerity meant vulnerability, and--
No, he would not get wound up about this. He wouldn't be an anxious mess - Greta deserved a lovely afternoon, and he would endeavor to give her one. His favorite teahouse was decorated for the season, and he'd gotten them a table in a cozy corner between the fireplace and a window. Since it was afternoon tea, they had a lovely assortment of sandwiches and desserts available for them to have at their leisure.
He'd dressed... nicely, but not overly fancy. It wasn't high tea, after all, and even if it was, modern tea service was quite different than what he remembered. No gloves required. A waistcoat and no proper jacket seemed appropriate.
As soon as he saw Greta walk in, Thomas rose from his seat and remained standing as she was guided to the table by the hostess.
But that was the thing: it wasn't, really. Edith had been the first choice he ever made, the first woman he ever pursued because he liked her. And now here he was again, about to spend time with someone he genuinely liked, that he was interested in by virtue of the fact that-- well, he was interested. And that meant sincerity, and sincerity meant vulnerability, and--
No, he would not get wound up about this. He wouldn't be an anxious mess - Greta deserved a lovely afternoon, and he would endeavor to give her one. His favorite teahouse was decorated for the season, and he'd gotten them a table in a cozy corner between the fireplace and a window. Since it was afternoon tea, they had a lovely assortment of sandwiches and desserts available for them to have at their leisure.
He'd dressed... nicely, but not overly fancy. It wasn't high tea, after all, and even if it was, modern tea service was quite different than what he remembered. No gloves required. A waistcoat and no proper jacket seemed appropriate.
As soon as he saw Greta walk in, Thomas rose from his seat and remained standing as she was guided to the table by the hostess.
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That made her nervous. 'Wary' might be a better word. Charm could be donned like a cloak, and goodness only knew what could be hiding underneath. She might count herself lucky that the worst thing she'd discovered so far was indifference. (Thomas doesn't strike her as indifferent, though. He's already spent more time and effort on getting to know her than she'd expect from someone who only wanted a hasty, meaningless dalliance.)
But more than anything else, what propels her into the tea shop is a burning curiosity to know just what he does intend with all this. That he might be making a sincere attempt to woo her strikes her as either hilarious, terrifying, or thrilling, depending on the moment; that this might be an oddly formal overture of friendship is intriguingly bizarre; even the thought of it all being some mean-spirited hoax is compelling, insofar as she'd rather shed daylight on the scheme than fall prey to it.
Regardless, she's here, in the nicest dress she owns. She wasn't about to make (let alone buy) a new one just for this occasion, and none of her dresses are purely for show... but this one is of a finer, light blue material she never would have been able to get her hands on back home. Not the sort of thing she'd risk by wearing it to work. She also has the shawl Biffy gifted her around this time last year (which probably is the nicest thing she owns, and makes whatever else she's wearing seem nicer by association). And she can't help but light up at the setting. She had no idea this tea house even existed, but it's bright and cheerful, and the exposed rafters and brickwork remind her a little of home.
She doesn't spot Thomas until he stands, looking... ugh, perfect, because of course he does. She is suddenly, profoundly grateful for the shawl, and she clutches it a bit tighter, as if to ward off the sudden conviction that, intentional or not, this has to be a joke. She must have stumbled into the wrong story again.
But she's too stubborn to turn back, so she follows the hostess over to their table and offers Thomas an uncertain smile. "Hello again."
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Thomas had thought to offer meeting for dinner if afternoon tea wouldn't be possible, but then he wondered if that would be too much for a first outing. If there was to be more than one. He snapped out of his wondering and moved so that he could pull her seat out for her. He wondered if it was too soon to tell her that she looked lovely, or that her dress brought out the color of her eyes.
"I haven't ordered any tea yet," he confessed as he gently pushed Greta's chair back in. "I wasn't sure if you had a particular preference."
He sank back into his own seat across the small table. In the middle, slightly off to one side, they already had a tiered display of sandwiches and sweets.
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"'Greta' is fine," she says, softening the gentle insistence with a smile. As flattering as it is to be presumed worthy of such pretty manners, she's still just a baker. She'll probably only be able to take so much before it starts to feel more mocking than sincere, no matter how kindly it's meant. "And I'm glad you invited me. I didn't even know this place was here."
She ducks her head to hide a grin as he pulls out her chair for her (knowing the consideration might start to grate on her later doesn't preclude enjoying it now), then huffs out a quiet, amused breath over the thought of what to order. This won't be anything like a coffeeshop, with their token handful of options. "Dare I ask how many varieties there are? Is there a menu?" She's half-joking, but there is genuine curiosity beneath the dry humor.
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Thomas smiled and passed a small, laminated menu to her. It detailed just a few varieties of black and green teas, then a small list of herbals.
Tell her that she looks nice, you dolt.
"It isn't an overly intimidating list, but I haven't tried all of them yet."
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"Do you have any preferences?" she asks as she flips the menu over, making sure she hasn't missed anything. Part of her wants to nudge him towards an herbal, considering what even a mild dose of caffeine might do to her already jangling nerves. Then again, there's a soothing quality to any hot beverage.
Never mind that maybe she ought to be on her toes.
"I tend to lean towards green, personally, but I'd take any of these," she says, leaning forward a little and angling the menu so he can read it as well.
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It was green tea with all the chai spices, and Thomas had become quite enamored with it after he tried it. He only ever added just a bit of sugar or honey to it, but otherwise tended not to fuss with it, he enjoyed the flavor so much.
"Would that be agreeable? If you don't like it we can always ask for a pot of something else."
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But, well... you never know. And after the gracious discount he gave her on Saoirse's present, it might not hurt to get him a little something in return.
"That sounds perfect," she says, setting the menu down and sitting back. She's enjoyed chai before, and while she hasn't had it blended with a green, she's curious to see how it will turn out.
With the tea decided, the myriad ways this conversation might go sprawl before her in a paralyzing maze. She ought to say something, justify her presence here even if it wasn't exactly her idea. If she were a Lady, she'd probably have no less than five inoffensive starters in her back pocket. She looks at him, floundering, wishing he'd just get to the punchline. Out of desperation, she abruptly says, "You're certainly looking sharp."
The unintentional pun registers half a second later, and she buries her face in her hands with a quiet, exasperated, "Oh, god."
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His surname lent itself to that sort of thing, though.
"To be perfectly honest, I was rather fretting over what to wear. Not wanting to seem too casual, it is afternoon tea after all, but not wanting to-- Well. This occasion doesn't exactly warrant gloves and a dinner jacket."
He would look ridiculously out of place, to begin with.
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The news that he was fretting over what to wear is more reassuring than it ought to be, and Greta sits up a bit straighter. "Were you?" He says 'afternoon tea' as if it means something far more specific than 'tea you happen to have in the afternoon,' and the talk of gloves is downright horrifying. Just how do they do such things where he comes from? "I should hope not," she says, aghast. If he'd been that decked out, she really would have just turned around and left.
"Well, this is..." she tugs at her sleeve, giving the fabric an assessing look, "I don't wear it terribly often, because it's a bit much for work. I think I made it last spring." She lifts her shoulders in a rueful shrug, then adds, "If I'd needed something dressier than this, we would've had to postpone things a bit."
It's a somewhat embarrassing admission, but it also feels slightly challenging, like throwing down a gauntlet. If he thinks she's the sort to dress glamorously for some specific subset of tea that apparently requires such a thing, he ought to know he's mistaken.
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Thomas never wanted to see someone flounder in a social setting due to his failure to inform. He had seen what could happen, the maneuvering that could be done to hurt other people, and he wanted no part in it. He thought, briefly, of he way the MacMichaels women had treated to Edith.
"No, I-- well, I like this little tea house, and I might even be a bit over-dressed, but I wanted to make a good first impression. Or second one, rather."
He gave her a smile and sat back a bit when someone came by to deliver a pot of tea to their table, along with milk, honey, sugar, saucers, and cups.
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"I think we're technically on third impressions, at this point," she says, "if you count the shop and the tree lighting ceremony." Goodness knows what sort of showing she's made for herself on either occasion. 'Guffawing incredulously when asked on an outing' and 'losing her child and a 70-pound dog' aren't exactly impressive feats.
But she likes to think they at least managed to salvage the ceremony, even if it was Thomas's good humor and Saoirse's charm that did most of the heavy lifting. "You made an excellent impression with Saoirse," she says after thanking the server. "I was beginning to think we'd have to peel her off of you." She might feel a twinge of parental inadequacy on that front, but if someone like Thomas Sharpe had picked her up at that age, she probably wouldn't have been in any great hurry to be put down, either.
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So instead he said, "I like children, even if for the longest time I was never sure what to do with myself around them." That much was true. He remembered being a lonely, out of place child. "Being here has helped."
He still felt a bit uncertain, but selling toys made it a necessity and he was good at learning what was necessary.
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He doesn't really have the air of a shopkeeper, though. If Greta had met him under any other circumstances, the thought of him owning a little toy-making business would have struck her as rather outlandish. Not when he has the manners and bearing of someone with enough money to devote a lot of focus to things like 'manners' and 'bearing.' And 'dress codes,' for that matter.
"I take it there was no toy shop back home," she guesses. "What did you do before coming here?" She doesn't specify, 'what did you do for work,' because part of her suspects he didn't, but she doesn't want to presume things either way.
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He poured them each a cup of tea and made sure the cream, sugar, and honey were between them so they could fix their tea as they liked. It gave him a moment to consider how to answer.
"I was a baronet," he answered, like it was a confession. "Which is the lowest hereditary titled British order. Beneath a baron, just above hereditary knighthood. Not particularly impressive."
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It's an innocent enough question, though, isn't it? Honestly, it's the sort of thing that's bound to come up when you're getting to know another non-native.
When he does answer, she can't help an incredulous (and not particularly elegant) snort of amusement. He does have a title!
"'Not particularly impressive'?" she repeats. "You have a title!" She shakes her head in disbelief -- not that he has a title, which she believes easily, but that someone with a title is bothering with her at all. "I've been called a peasant, and you're telling me 'Baronet' is unimpressive."
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He prepared his tea the way he liked it and held the cup as he sat back, appreciating the warmth of it. "It wasn't going well."
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And she does have some experience with fathers leaving an unfortunate sort of inheritance to their sons. A shabby house might not be as bad as a literal Curse -- but then again, the sort of house Thomas probably lived in would have been a sight harder to keep up than a bakery. Especially with no money for staff.
"I'm sorry," she says, and she does look sympathetic. "That can't have been an easy thing to get off the ground, especially working from scratch." She's tempted to ask how on earth he funded it all, but she doesn't have to be one of the gentry to know that it's rude to discuss finances in such detail, especially with a new acquaintance.
There's another direction in which she could take things, and while she doesn't especially look forward to it, she knows she'll have to out with it sooner or later. She might as well take the opening while it's presented itself. "My husband inherited a Curse, so I know a little of what that's like."
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Thomas had met all kinds of people since coming here, including ones that sounded like their worlds were ones he'd only read about in fairy tales. And asking about a curse was much easier than asking about a husband, so he would try to address that first.
It would give him time to sort out what he wanted to do with the rest of that sentence.
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And she already feels a bit silly, just by virtue of the fact that she's here at all. Having tea with a baronet, for goodness sake.
"His father angered the Witch who lived next door," she delicately explains, cheeks already prickling with a self-conscious blush. "And she put a Curse on his entire family -- which eventually included me, of course. We didn't even know about it; my husband was... very young, when it happened." She adds some honey to her tea, then adds, "We couldn't have children," as if it was a silly inconvenience and not absolutely gutting.
She can’t quite bring herself to look at him. She’s not sure she wants to see whatever expression he might be wearing.
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"I'm so sorry, Greta. I can't imagine painful that must have been to realize."
Without realizing, Thomas had reached across the table and gently covered Greta's hand with his own, offering what comfort he could.
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When she does gather the courage to look up at him, she finds far more sympathy than she was anticipating -- and less disbelief. There's no doubt at all, in fact, which is no small relief.
"We did manage to break it," she says, attempting a reassuring smile. "We had a son, just a month or so before I came here." She doesn't bother adding that she wasn't exactly given much time to revel in their victory; that much is obvious. Nor does she especially want to delve into the circumstances of her departure. That's not the part of the story that matters right now, and she doesn't want things to turn bleak. She's in a charming tea shop with a charming man; surely they can manage to enjoy themselves a little.
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Thomas didn't want to seem overly forward, though. So after a moment more of tender, reassuring contact, he released her hand and sat back, holding his tea once more.
"You're married?" he asked, wondering if it was rude to move in that direction after the revelation that she was also a mother.
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Her marriage is a less painful topic of conversation, though she's not sure why that should be. She's had no more time to get over that loss than the loss of her son. But then again, her child had been a more recent development, long-awaited and hardly won.
And she hadn't dallied in the Woods with someone else's infant. Perhaps that's why her son's loss had always felt less... fair.
"I was," she says, with the barest hint of dryness. She can imagine why that would be a concern for Thomas, and guilt plucks at her belly. She could have explained this sooner, though she still can't imagine how else she could have brought it up. "Not anymore, I shouldn't think. I don't expect to see him again."
It's not impossible -- few things are, in Darrow -- but the thought of honoring her vows on the off chance that Darrow will drop him in her lap one day seems rather pointless. Knowing her luck, if she did, the city would just bring her some older version of him that had accepted her loss and moved on with his life, and then she'd look like a fool for waiting.
She's had enough of waiting, anyway.
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Besides, Greta spoke in the past tense - even if her answer was vague, she certainly made it clear that she thought of her marriage as over.
"I was, as well," he admitted. "She was here, though, when I arrived. It made for a strange reunion."
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... Not that she even needs to be thinking along such lines. They're just having tea; he's not asking for her bloody hand.
"I suppose it would," she says, easily able to imagine how strange it would be if she were suddenly faced with her husband again -- or if he'd been here already, before she arrived. Treading a bit more carefully, she continues, "Was she sent home?" She doesn't want to inadvertently twist any knives, but she also wants to know if she'll be bumping into his ex-wife anytime soon.
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He shook his head, a bit worried that he might look hysterical. Edith's loss was still fresh in his mind. "We weren't living as husband and wife, and had not been since I arrived here, but..."
Thomas trailed off and looked across the table at Greta, half apologetic and half bewildered.
"I'm sorry," he said at last. "Do you like reading?"
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This really couldn't be going much worse, short of her upending the teapot into his lap.
And then he attempts to change the subject, and she can't help herself. She does try: she hastily lifts a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound she makes, which is more akin to a cough than a laugh, as if the horrible awkwardness is something she can physically dislodge.
"I'm so sorry," she hastens to add. "I'm not--it's not funny, it's dreadful, I just--" She just doesn't know how to make this right, and she unthinkingly reaches across the table to take his hand, a physical apology that she can manage more easily than a verbal one. "I'm so terribly sorry."
And now she is giggling, not out of amusement, but because she doesn't know what else to do in the face of all this awfulness except burst into tears, which she thinks might actually be worse. She has to bury her face in her free hand, and she can tell she's gone bright red. "God. Maybe we should just start with the weather and work our way up to books. I'm not sure we can be trusted."
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He supposed it was, after a fashion.
Thomas gave them a moment to just attempt to recover, holding onto each other across the table.
"At least it's finally starting to feel like winter again," he said, when he was sure his voice would be a bit more composed.
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She isn't entirely expecting him to play along, so when he does speak, there's a perilous moment where she almost starts giggling afresh. But she swallows, gives his hand a gentle squeeze, and withdraws so she can take a fortifying sip of her tea.
"It is nice," she agrees, managing to sound almost normal. "I didn't think I'd miss snow very much, but they're so much better about clearing it away, here. You can just appreciate how pretty it looks without having to slog through it all the time."
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They went through nearly two pots of tea and, between the two of them, managed to clear the tiered tray between them.
Thomas smiled and looked down at his cup; at some point, he'd leaned forward on the table, a way of being closer.
"Ah, I hope you don't think this is terribly forward. But Magnus Bane is throwing a party for the holiday season, and I was wondering if you would care to accompany me."
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That particular hang-up returns full force when he invites her to Magnus Bane's holiday party. She received the invitation as she had all the others -- and, like all the others, she'd assumed the proverbial 'everyone' didn't include her. 'Everyone' was invited to the King's Festival, too; that didn't mean everyone presumed to go.
"I--" she huffs out a laugh and sits back, shaking her head in bewilderment. "I've never been to one. They're not..."
How does she even explain this? He's probably been on the guest list of every party within a hundred miles, back in his world. Baronets go places that Bakers never would. For a moment, she almost resents the invitation, no matter how well-intentioned it might be, because now she has to do this. She has to bloody well spell it out for him, when it's something that, frankly, he should already know.
"They're not for the likes of me," she explains, cheeks prickling. "'Everyone' never really means everyone."
Even as she says it, a small part of her objects that she's not being fair to Magnus; they get on well enough, and she can't imagine he'd turn her away at the door. But still.
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"Given the sheer attendance size, I doubt he even manages to socialize with everyone at these events. And they really are great fun, I've not been disappointed yet. And it would be... rather nice to have someone to share that with."
He did alright for himself even when he attended alone, but. He was asking none the less.
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And it's not the magic that puts her off, either. It's just that grand parties have always been things she imagined attending. In her imagination, she can't wear the wrong thing or fumble the dance steps or otherwise make a fool of herself, revealing to all and sundry that she's a--a peasant with no actual business in such a setting. In her imagination, it can't all go wrong.
She really, desperately doesn't want things to go wrong with Thomas.
And his comment about wanting to 'have someone to share that with' is so charming it's almost infuriating. How is anyone supposed to say no to that?
"I have nothing to wear," she objects, but it's clear from both her tone and her expression that she's faltering.
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And he would seek to match her effort, of course, whichever direction Greta wanted to go in.
"You don't have to answer right away if you'd rather think about it," he added, not wanting her to feel cornered into giving him an answer right then.
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Things are different here, aren't they? She's still working class, but so are most people. Coming to Darrow tends to be something of an economic equalizer. And if she can't quite shake her own class-related insecurities, she's not oblivious; she knows most other people don't share them. Look at Biffy: he's every bit as well-mannered (and well-dressed) as Thomas, but he's never been anything but kind to her, and she's never really considered herself unworthy of his friendship.
He could probably help find her something to wear, now that she thinks about it.
"No," she says in resigned response to Thomas's insistence that she could think about it. She could pretend to think about it, but all she'd really be doing is fretting over the decision she's already made. Belatedly realizing he might take that 'no' as a general rejection, she bolts upright in her chair. "I mean--not 'no,' that I don't want to go at all, I... I would. Very much."
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"Wonderful," he breathed. "I-- the invitation said it was open to adults and children, so if you wanted Saoirse to join us, I would be delighted to escort both of you."
He didn't want her to think that Saoirse had to be left out on his account. He thought the silent little girl was rather charming.
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On the other hand, she knows what a convenient buffer children can be. It feels like the nearest thing they could get to being chaperoned, and she can't help but wonder if this is an exceedingly gracious willingness to include her young charge -- further reassurance that Saoirse isn't a problem -- or an attempt to keep things from getting too... improper.
And it's not as if she can really fault him for wanting to, what, progress at some sort of rational pace? She's the one getting ahead of herself. She should be thanking her lucky stars (or perhaps just Mad Sweeney) for every moment she gets with him, not chomping at the bit, in pursuit of more than he's willing to offer.
"I'm sure she'd love to come along," she says, hoping her smile isn't coming across as rueful. "And I'm sure Magnus would be thoroughly unimpressed if I left her at home. He's rather fond of her, as well."
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Thomas checked the time a bit ruefully. "Speaking of, though, I suppose I really ought not keep you longer." They had already been at the tea house for a few hours by that point, and the time had flown.
Unfortunately, it had been an afternoon date, and that meant Greta likely had obligations back home to attend to - particularly, a little girl waiting for her.
"I'll call you to coordinate everything, and I-- I hope you'd be open to meeting like this again."
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"Oh." She checks her phone, startled to realize just how much time has passed. It's not late enough that she has to leg it back home -- Saoirse won't be shivering on the front step or anything -- but she shouldn't linger much longer if she wants to beat the lass home without rushing. "Yes. She'll be getting home from school soon."
It's a pity. She hadn't known what to expect, going in, and she hadn't been certain of his intentions. But it's getting easier to believe that this is all sincerely meant. Whether he's slightly mental for being interested in her may be up for debate, but... god, he really does seem interested. It's unbelievable, and ridiculously flattering, and she'd really like to stay longer and just sort of bask in it, as if he's the walking embodiment of an unseasonably warm day.
She settles for a wide smile that she just barely keeps from turning into an outright silly grin. "I think I could manage that. We only tried one tea, after all." There, that's a much more measured response than what she's actually thinking, which would be something more like, God, yes, of course, you're dreamy and I can't believe you actually want to see more of me, I'd be completely bonkers to turn you down. At least she has some restraint.