Page 2 of Hexed Up

“Oh,” I say, attempting to shield my boobs with my arms, “I was just …”

He shakes his head and drags his sky-blue eyes from my cleavage and up to my face – and oh, if only those eyes weren’t quite so pretty. They really are wasted on a man like this.

The startled look lasts a fraction of a second longer and then his brows descend in unison, down into that all-too-familiar frown.

I don’t actually know his first name – he probably told me that first day we met almost eighteen months ago when he moved in across the hall, and, being the friendly neighbour I am, I skipped over to introduce myself. But, as always, my little introduction soon descended into chaos as I tried to stop McGruff from humping his leg (I guess I’m not the only one who finds the man attractive) and his name passed me by.

He works in banking or finance or something equally as ludicrously well-paid. He’s most likely a Henry or a Harry, but Damien nicknamed him Mr Hottie and that has stuck.

My neighbour swallows, his gaze flickering across my face, and even though I find the man an incredible annoyance, heat crawls up into my cheeks. I am standing here in nothing but underwear after all.

“There’s a strange sme–” Mr Hottie begins in his American drawl.

But he never finishes that sentence, because in the next moment, a thundering boom rips through my apartment and a cloud of purply-pink smoke blasts both of us right off our feet.

And then that purply-pink cloud comes wafting towards us both.

I stare down at Mr. Hottie in horror.

Merlin’s toenails! The love potion!

Chapter Two

I’ve landed, not on the hard black and white tiles of our communal hallway, but the equally hard body of Mr Hottie.

Very hard.

All those early mornings at the gym have definitely paid off. The man is built of solid muscle.

Unfortunately, that means my landing isn’t a soft one, and I grunt, the breath knocked momentarily right out of my lungs.

I gasp and wriggle around on top of him like a little piggie stuck in the mud, all too aware that my sweaty, very much on display, breasts are pressed right into his chest.

He doesn’t seem as alarmed as he did two minutes ago, though. Mr Hottie is clearly calm in a crisis. He glides his hands – large hands, I note in my oxygen-starved state of mind – up and down my bare arms, causing unnecessary goose pimples to break out across my skin despite the oppressive heat.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

His blue eyes are not irritated for once; instead, they search my face with concern.

They really are incredibly blue – like a cloudless sky on a bright summer’s day.

“Fine …” I gasp, “just … need … air!”

“You’re winded,” he informs me, seemingly unbothered that my sweaty form is sprawled over his neatly pressed Ralph Lauren polo shirt. “Concentrate on breathing.”

I nod. He’s right. Breathing: good advice.

Damien thinks I should have told Mr Hottie to fuck right off with his never-ending list of complaints. I’ve tried on numerous occasions. But faced with his bewildering beauty, coupled with his great height and dominating persona, I’ve failed every time.

“What the hell was that?” he asks, peering over my shoulder as pinkie-purple smoke wafts our way and I watch in horror as he takes a deep inhale.

Oh no! Oh no, oh no, oh no!

“Rat’s bollocks, that smells revolting!” He crinkles his nose, and, as if in slow motion, turns his head, his gaze inching back towards my face.

I try to scramble away, but I’m far too slow. Those blue eyes connect with mine and his dark pupils blossom wide.

Rat’s bollocks indeed!