Page 18 of Hexed Up

“Injured them?”

“Once, by accident.”

“Punished an ex?”

“I’ve been very tempted!”

“No, Molly,” he says, gazing at me in a way that is far too penetrating, “I don’t find you scary.”

His eyes are way too blue and I feel like I’m being analysed like a spreadsheet of numbers. I glance back out to the safety of the view.

“So why did you become a banker and not a train driver?”

“My stepdad. He was a banker. I guess I wanted him to like me.”

I turn back to look at him, but he’s staring out across London now, his gaze glassy and I don’t feel like I can press him further.

“It really is breathtaking,” he murmurs.

“Maybe if you spent more time soaking in the view and less time running around in your silly little shorts, you’d spot these things.” I knock my sunglasses back into place, and lean back against the bench, closing my eyes. Beside me the bench groans and I figure he’s doing the same thing.

“I’d like to point out that you were the one planning on spending your morning in bed,” he counters. “And if anyone owns a pair of silly shorts, it’s you. Those ones yesterday were …” There’s another groan and this time it isn’t the bench.

“Those weren’t meant for public consumption.”

“I agree. Those shorts should be fucking illegal. The way they hugged your–”

“Shhh,” I say, pressing my finger to my lips, “this is not a suitable topic of conversation for McGruff’s innocent ears.”

“I’ve seen that dog stick his nose in about ten other dogs’ asses since we entered the park. There’s nothing innocentabout him.” I peek at him from under my sunglasses and he’s examining my dog with a look of repulsion. “Also the first time I met you, I seem to recall him getting pretty up close and personal with my leg.”

“He was overly excited that day. And you probably smell nice.”

Horatio dips his head and sniffs the neck of his T-shirt. “You think I smell nice?”

“To dogs, yes, probably.”

“Jeez, you’re a tough customer, Molly. Trying to wring a compliment out of you is like trying to wring blood out of a stone.”

“Which is not actually that hard if you know the right spell,” I tell him, loving the way his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Besides, I’m sure you are inundated with compliments. I don’t think you need any from me. It wouldn’t do your over-inflated ego any good.”

“Who says I have an over-inflated ego?”

“The two Ferraris do.”

“Hmmm, I think you just don’t like compliments. Or for some reason, you’re not used to receiving them.”

“And what makes you surmise that, Poirot?”

“You look a little shocked every time I give you one.”

“I do not,” I say in outrage, realising he is completely correct. The men I’ve dated in the past haven’t really done compliments – it was never part of their style. I don’t remember the last time my family gave me one. Damien sometimes tells me I look hot but I can never be sure if he’s messing with my head – the downside of being best friends with a demon. “Anyway, the compliments are mostly potion-induced.”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head, amusement hovering on his lips. I go to argue that, up until today he’s only ever talked to meto point out one fault or another. But before I get the chance, he adds, “I’ve always considered you very beautiful.”

Chapter Seven

There is only one thing in the world that both my mum and my best friend agree on – that I am resolutely stubborn.