Page 15 of Hexed Up

When I step back out into my lounge, I find Mr Hottie has already let himself back in and is settled in my armchair, a travel mug in his hand, and another waiting on the table along with a paper bag. McGruff is ready in his collar and lead.

“It’s been thirty minutes,” he informs me, tapping his watch, as his gaze travels over my form in a way that has my cheeks heating. Maybe I overdid it with the outfit; maybe, likemy mother, he won’t approve of this style. His usual female companions dress in Gucci and Chanel.

“You’re lucky I didn’t head straight back to bed,” I point out.

“Coffee,” he says, pointing to my cup, “and pastries. I wasn’t sure what you’d like so I got a selection.”

“Pastries?” I say, my stomach growling at the prospect. I pick up the bag, still warm, and peer inside. There’re croissants, cinnamon rolls, and chocolate swirls. “Where did you magic these up from? Do you also own a pastry chef?”

“The Steam Beam – at the other end of the street.” The over-priced coffee shop I can only afford to indulge in when I actually have money in my bank account. Perhaps the next three weeks aren’t going to be so awful after all.

“I’m kind of shocked you eat anything with, you know, sugar,” I say, considering which pastry to choose first.

He looks at me with that amusement again. “What makes you say that?”

“All the …” I waggle my finger in his direction. He’s wearing a pair of dark chinos today, matched with a white T-shirt that sets off that tan and his dazzling white teeth. If I didn’t already know he hails from over the pond, I’d know it by those teeth. They are totally straight, totally symmetrical, and gleamingly white.

“All the …”

“Muscles.” I swallow. “Don’t you exist on a diet of whole chickens, rice cakes, and boiled cabbage?”

“Nah,” he says, “I have a soft-spot for sweet things. They’re my weakness.” He licks his lips as he says that and I’m not sure he’s talking candy.

“Let’s go,” he tells me, rising to his feet, as I slide a pair of love heart-shaped sunglasses onto my nose, pick out a pain au chocolat, hook McGruff’s lead over my arm, and grab my flask.

I have to admit, the aroma wafting from the flask is rather dreamy – almost as good as the aroma wafting from the manhimself – and certainly better than the aroma lingering in my flat: a combination of the love potion and old dog.

Mr Hottie waits for me as I lock my front door.

“Why so many locks?” he asks me with another of his frowns.

“Trolls.”

“Ahhh,” he says, taking that piece of information in his stride, “I thought it was an ex-boyfriend or something.”

“Oh no, most of my exes don’t hang around,” I blurt out, wishing I hadn’t said that. Although, if he’s at all observant, he must have noticed the lack of male companions coming and going from my flat.

When we step out of our building and onto the street, I realise he’s right about the temperature – it’s easily seven or eight degrees lower than it was yesterday, although the sun remains startlingly bright, even at this early hour.

We walk along our street, past the old Victorian houses, The Steam Beam, and the Crooked Antler pub on the corner, round the bend and onto the Heath. There’s an alarming number of people out and about at this hour. Most of them are running, dressed in lycra and on a mission. There are a few dog walkers, several dads pushing prams, and one or two church goers.

I unhook McGruff from his lead and he dashes off to pee against a bush.

“You haven’t tried your coffee yet,” he says, taking a long gulp of his own, followed by a bite of a croissant. The most plain of all the pastries. Not such a sweet tooth after all.

“I’m telling you, I can’t stand the stuff.”

“Just try it.”

I shrug and bring the flask up to my mouth. The first taste against my lips is bitter and I’m resigned to hate his over-priced, pretentious coffee, but as the liquid tips into my mouth, the flavour mellows and I have to admit, it’s pretty good. Not that I’m going to admit that to him.

I swallow my mouthful. “Not bad,” I tell him.

“Come on. It’s delicious. You have to admit it.”

“I don’t have to admit anything, Mr Shaw.”

“Seeing as you’ve poisoned me with your potion and I’ve brought you breakfast, I think we can bypass the Mr Shaw and you can call me Horatio.” I crinkle up my nose. He stops. “What?”