Page 17 of Hexed Up

We pass Kenwood House, the tourists already queuing up for their scones and ice cream, and the ponds, early morning swimmers racing laps in their caps and nose clips, and start the climb up Parliament Hill. By the time we reach the brow of the hill, I’ve finished my coffee and all of the pastries, McGruff demolishing the other croissant and the cheese twirl.

Horatio takes the rubbish from my hands and deposits it in the bin like a true gentleman. Then he turns towards the path that winds back down the hill.

“Where are you going?” I ask him.

“That way?” he suggests.

“We haven’t admired the view yet.” I point towards mine and McGruff’s favourite bench and take a seat, McGruff flopping down with relief by my feet. Horatio comes to sit beside me. There’s a respectable distance between us and yet I’m still very aware of the closeness of his very large body and the heat it seems to radiate.

For a moment, we both gaze out across the view – the green carpet of the Heath rolling down the hill and meeting the metropolis of London, tall skyscrapers lining the distant blue horizon.

“I think this might be my very favourite place in the whole of London.” I sigh. “Possibly the world.”

“I usually run right past it,” Horatio says.

“You do? Why? You know this view is protected? They’re not allowed to build anything that would block our view of St Paul’s Cathedral or the Houses of Parliament.”

“You can see those things?” he says, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees.

“Yep,” I say, sliding my sunglasses up to the crown on my head and squinting out towards the vista. “There,” I point, “that’s St Paul’s.”

It takes us a few minutes of pointing and counter-pointing but eventually he spots it.

“Shit, I never knew you could see that from here.”

“Too busy being busy. Not enough time to stop and smell the coffee.”

“Yeah,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “The job can be pretty demanding.”

“Finance?”

“Banking.”

I crinkle up my nose. Bankers have a reputation in this city and it isn’t a good one. “Do you enjoy it?”

“Most days. It’s intellectually stimulating, fast-paced, and I earn good money.”

“Did you always want to be a banker then?”

He snorts. “No, I wanted to be a train driver! I was a complete nerd as a kid.”

“Mr Shaw, you work in banking. You are still a nerd.” Just a very good-looking one with an awful lot of charisma I didn’t realise he had behind all those frowns – plus looks that could earn him a modelling career if he wanted one.

“Probably.” He leans in closer, and I get a satisfying whiff of his cologne, woody and masculine. “I do have a secret collection of model trains.”

“I don’t know if that’s nerdy or a little scary.”

“Says the witch,” he whispers.

“You think I’m scary?”

He considers me. “What are you, 5 ft 3?”

“5 ft 4,” I say in outrage, sitting up straighter on the bench.

“Have you ever hexed anyone?”

“No.”