Page 16 of Hexed Up

“You’ve just always seemed more of a Harry or a Henry to me.”

“Molly,” he says, holding his hand to his chest as McGruff comes trotting back over, “first you insult my coffee, now my name. Way to gut a man completely.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, pacifying him by taking a large gulp of the very good coffee. “I’ll get used to it. What do your friends call you?”

“We’re friends now?”

“Not yet. I’m just curious.”

“My friends call me Horatio. It’s not exactly a name you can shorten.”

“Hore?” I suggest, giggling. “Ho?”

“You see what I mean?”

“Was your mom a Shakespeare fan or something?”

“No, aCSIfan,” he says and I can’t help giggling again. He grins at me, all big blue eyes, those white teeth, and dragon’s eyelashes, dimples – actual dimples. This man is too much. And my stomach actually flutters. Which has to do with the unruly time of day, right? Because as beautiful as this man is, he isn’t my type – far too serious, far too grumpy. He’d suit Prim much better than me.

We take the path up the hill, passing even more joggers, and a man pushing twins, another baby strapped to his chest.

McGruff trots along beside me, occasionally deviating to sniff at something in the bushes, and overhead a jumbo jet thunders on its way to the airport.

“I love the Heath at this time of year,” he says, hands deep in his pockets, tipping his chin backwards to let the sun’s rays fall across his face.

“Seriously?” I say, pushing my sunglasses securely up my nose, thankful for the factor 50 I smothered over my face. “That’s so predictable.”

“I suppose, being a witch, you prefer fall.”

I smile at the little slip of American vocabulary. “Actually I like winter best – there’s something beautiful about the starkness of it and I get to snuggle up inside and not feel guilty about not being outside. Also,” I add, side-eyeing the people around us, “please do not broadcast to everyone about my hidden identity.”

“Why – is it a secret?”

“Of course it’s a secret!” Something I probably should have told him yesterday. “Telling you about the paranormal underworld broke about a billion different rules.”

“You really like breaking rules.”

“You sort of left me no choice,” I remind him.

“If they hit you with a fine, I’ll pay it.”

“You’d probably have to sell the Ferrari.”

“It’s fine. I have another in my mom’s garage.”

I choke on my coffee, and Horatio has to resort to bashing me on the back. When I’ve regained my ability to speak, I say, “You havetwoFerraris?”

I knew the man was wealthy. House prices in this area have skyrocketed over the last few decades, and while my aunt bought my flat for a reasonable sum back in the ’70s when Hampstead was full of hippies and intellectuals, Mr Hottie bought his for an eye-watering sum.

But still –two?

“I couldn’t choose between the colours.” He shrugs.

“That is ridiculous.” I shake my head. “You should sell one. Donate the money to charity.”

“If I don’t need it to pay off your fine, I will.”

“Hmmm,” I respond, not knowing if he’s winding me up.