Page 3 of Hexed Up

The love potion! Activated by eye contact.

We stare at each other. I can feel the firm beat of his heart thumping against mine and I can hear the faint whistle of his breath. I can smell his cologne – smoky, with citrus notes, something expensive. I can see the pulse racing in his neck.

Maybe it didn’t work. I mean, the potion only works when there’s already a glimmer of attraction and I hadn't finished brewing it either.

But the way he’s looking at me … The way his gaze falls to my mouth and his hands are still stroking up my arms …

“I’m so, so sorry,” I mumble.

“It’s fine,” he says with what I think may be a seductive curl of his lips. “I’m perfectly comfortable.”

Oh sweet warlocks!

I peel myself off the man and scramble away. A decision that was probably not thought through because Mr Hottie raises his head and has a perfect view of me dressed in my candy-pink bra and black hot pants while braced on my hands and knees.

His expression darkens further.

Shit!

I leap up onto my feet.

“Are you okay?” I ask, realising I never even asked him that, and he not only landed on the floor, I also flattened him. Then again, Mr Hottie probably doesn’t feel pain and has probably done more damage to the art déco tiles than they have to him. “I’m so sorry.”

He jumps up neatly onto his own feet and I try not to check whether I’ve left a sweaty imprint of my boobs on his chest.

“Do you think it could’ve been a gas leak?” he says, brow crinkling as he peers up at the multi-coloured cloud lingering at the ceiling.

“No,” I say, “just a little cooking accident.”

“Cooking accident?”

I walk towards the door and he lunges for me, attempting to grab my hand and pull me away.

“I don’t think it’s safe.”

I dodge him and jog inside, calling McGruff’s name. The mutt shuffles out from under the sofa, tail between his back legs, white fur now a dusty shade of pink, and bundles into my waiting arms.

“Are you alright, boy?” I ask him. He whines dramatically, milking the attention, because, despite the drastic dye job, it’s clear he’s fine.

“I don't think this is safe,” Mr Hottie says, following me inside and swinging his gaze around my kitchen. “Look at the mess this has caused.”

I peer up from where I’m smothering McGruff in kisses. “Mess?”

“Yes, look,” he says, pointing. “Look at all that carnage.”

The cauldron I was using has exploded across the worktop and the floor, which is definitely a mess. But Mr Hottie is also surveying the array of wooden spoons and opened ingredients scattered across the work-surface and the dirty crockery stacked in the sink.

“Yes,” I say, nodding. “All that mess was most definitely caused by that explosion.”

“I think we should call the fire brigade.”

“Absolutely not. It was an accident. Everything is fine. I am very sorry.”

I attempt to hustle him towards the door, but the man is very big and very solid and apparently stubborn. He doesn’t move. “I can help you clear up,” he says, staring down at me with that look in his eyes once again.

I nibble on my lip.

Has the potion worked? I’m trying to devise a suitably subtle question I can frame that might discover whether it has, when there’s another loud pop from the kitchen.