Page 100 of Hexed Up

“I’m totally in charge of these feelings.”

“Hmm,” he says.

“Completely in charge.”

“Hmm,” he says again. And then, as there’s a knock on the door. “Just be careful,” he warns me.

“I will be,” I say, blowing him a kiss, and walking out the door.

* * *

I have to admit I’m not exactly hating being back in Horatio’s snazzy car. I could get used to ditching the unreliable, smelly, sweaty public transport I usually rely on in favour of cruising around town beside an exceedingly attractive man instead.

As this could be my last trip in this car, I insist on forgoing the air conditioning, opening the windows and blasting the radio.

Horatio does seem to have one fault. He’s not a big fan of pop, wincing whenever Taylor Swift and Sabrina Carpenter come on. Although the wincing could, in fact, be in response to my singing, because I’m singing my heart out. I sing all through the streets of London, not caring about all the people who turn to stare at us or the fact I am definitely out of tune.

Once we’re on the motorway and heading out towards Oxford, having the windows open becomes too impractical, my hair blowing all around my face and into my eyes. I submit to having the windows up and the air conditioning on, turning down the radio too.

“Tell me about your parents,” I say as I settle into my seat and comb my fingers through my unruly hair.

“There’s not much to tell,” he says, and if I weren’t about to meet them both, I’d be willing to drop it. It’s obviously a topic of conversation he doesn’t enjoy. But I need a little help, especially if I’m passing as the fake girlfriend.IfI’m passing as the fake girlfriend. Am I passing as a fake girlfriend?

“What have you told them about me?”

“Alex already told my mom about you,” he tells me.

“He did?” Horatio nods. “So, your mom and Alex talk?”

“Yeah,” he scratches his cheek, “probably more than my mom and I do.”

“Why is that then?” He shrugs. “Come on,” I beg. “Please give me a little bit. Just some tidbits would help. My acting skills are appalling, especially myimprovisationalacting skills.”

He snorts at that and adjusts his hands on the steering wheel.

“My mom’s a lawyer,” he explains.

“What kind of lawyer?”

“Divorce, mostly. She helps women in cases where the man has a lot of power and a lot of money. Usually, they’re trying to screw over their ex-wives in one way or another. Mom’s very good at not letting that happen.”

“She sounds amazing.”

“She is, yes.”

“What about your dad?” I say gently. “Your real dad.”

“He was a surgeon,” he explains. “Orthopaedics. They met in college. We lived in the suburbs of Chicago. Pretty ordinary, boring family stuff.”

“But then?” I say, suddenly feeling uneasy, like someone’s poured icy cold water down the back of my neck.

“Turned out my dad was having an affair with his secretary.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Mom divorced him. It wasn’t pretty. Turned out my dad was a nasty piece of work. There wasn’t just the secretary. I wasn’t his only kid.”

“Oh, shit wombles,” I mutter. “Are you still in touch?”