Page 13 of Hexed Up

“In the meantime, I could arrange a chastity belt.”

“Fuck off,” I tell him, “I’m not some nymphomaniac and he is notthatgood looking!”

Which I truly believe until I’m lying in bed later that night, a storm thundering overhead, rain pounding the window, and the image of Mr Hottie bare-chested and wrapped in just that teeny tiny towel refusing to leave my mind, no matter how hard I try.

In particular, my uncooperative mind seems fixated on what lay beneath that towel. Was it as big as the rest of him? As beautiful? I have a feeling it is a tool that must be pretty effective, at least given the noises that float from his flat whenever he has female company.

I shouldn’t be thinking about that. I should be professional. I should be focussed on rectifying this mistake.

But my mind just won’t behave. I truly do think I’ve been impacted by that love potion as well.

Or maybe it’s just the way he growled.

Blimey, that growl. And the way he asked, without any beating around the bush, whether I wanted to sleep with him or not. That must be the American in him. No British man would be that outrageously confident and straightforward. And why do I find that so darn attractive?

It’s because you can’t touch,I decide.

Forbidden fruit is always more tempting.

Which is just fine. I’ve resisted tempting fruit in the form of unsuitable man-boys and knobhead ex-boyfriends over the last year. I can do it again now.

With a huff of frustration, I open my bedside drawer and pull out my trusty vibrator. I have a feeling she and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other over the next twenty-one days.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe Mr Hottie didn’t inhale so much of that potion. Maybe I won’t hear from him again until those ten days are up and he’s demanding the antidote.

Chapter Six

I hear from him the very next morning.

Bright and early. 8am on a Sunday morning.

I wake to him leaning on my buzzer and McGruff yapping in response.

At first, I ignore the door and my dog, but when it becomes apparent that neither are going to stop the incessant racket, I stumble from my bed, blowing hair from my face and wiping sleepy dust from my eyes, and open the door.

“You’re not dressed?” he says in that American lilt – one that shouldn’t be so damn sexy at this god-awful hour.

I glance down at my body. I’m wearing an oversizedOasisT-shirt.

“It’s early and it’s a Sunday. No one in their right mind would be up and out of bed,” I point out. “Please go away until it’s a more civilised hour.”

He laughs like I’m joking and steps inside my flat, shutting the door behind him. “I thought we could spend the day together.”

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” I mutter, attempting to drag my fingers through the crows’ nest that has become my hair overnight. I’m not sure I bothered to remove my makeup in theshower last night. I probably have a combination of eyeliner and mascara all over my cheeks.

“I don’t think I can be apart from you,” he says. “Last night was very difficult. The potion. The feelings …” He waves his hand through the air.

I narrow my eyes and consider him. His face tells me he’s serious, but the man works in banking. I bet he has an incredibly steely poker face.

“Are you messing with me?” I ask him.

“Me?” he says pointing at his chest innocently. “It was your potion.”

“True,” I say, yawning as I stretch my arms over my head, realising a bit too late that that raises the hem of my T-shirt dangerously close to my knicker line.

Luckily, Mr Hottie doesn’t seem to notice.

“It’s a beautiful day outside.”