Page 34 of Hexed Up

“Well, I’m not accidentally exploding my kitchen, or hiding from law enforcement, but yeah it can be.”

“And is this work you’re doing right now urgent?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then why don’t you turn off your laptop and we can–”

“We can?” he says, eagerly.

“Maybe watch another episode of the detective show together. I can’t believe it can always be the butler.”

“I’m telling you it is.”

“Wanna bet?”

“If the prize is another one of the selfies, then yes, I’ll bet.”

“And if I win,” I say, settling against the cushions and switching on the TV, “you have to send me one. You did promise.”

Chapter Twelve

Despite being an immoral person, and a criminal too, I sleep the best I ever have that night and wake without a crook in my neck, a pain in my head, or bags under my eyes, and a very tasty photo on my phone.

Like my pic, he hasn’t included his face. What he has included is better than I remember. He’s on his bed, propped up against some pillows, dressed in just a pair of grey sweatpants. His torso is ribbed with muscles and the bulge in those sweatpants confirms my size estimations from yesterday.

This means I’m still in an infectiously good mood even after I’ve dragged McGruff around the forest, have endured breakfast with my parents, and managed the journey back to my flat.

However, by lunchtime, the good mood is wearing off and my nerves are getting the better of me.

I’ve escaped detection so far and it seems the witching authorities are unaware of my serious misdeed, but I’m playing with fire here. Messing around with Mr Hottie, strengthening the potion’s effects, and telling my family he is my boyfriend opens me up to detection, especially when my own sister is a leading investigative officer.

To make matters worse, since I received that photo last night, I haven’t heard one peep out of Mr Hottie.

I know he is working today. I know we only spoke last night. And, I knowIcould messagehim. But I’m not the one who’s been bewitched by a love potion. Isn’t he meant to be head over heels for me? Infatuated? Obsessed? If he is, this is very disappointing.

Even lunch and watching an episode ofLoose Womenwith McGruff on the couch, isn’t enough to lift my foul mood. So I call Damien.

Rather than answer his phone like any normal person, he materialises into my flat instead, appearing on the couch beside me.

Today he’s wearing an orange and yellow kilt and his horns have been painted to match the plaid pattern.

“Please tell me you’re wearing something under that kilt,” I say.

“A gentleman never reveals his secrets.” He taps his nose. “Sochica, how’s things?”

I flop back on the sofa dramatically and slam the nearest cushion over my face.

“Awful.”

“Shouldn’t you be working, instead of whatever this is?”

“I can’t work. I’m too depressed. I’m going to jail. And you were right. I like him.”

“I knew this would happen,” Damien sighs, “well, at least it’s not as bad as it could be.”

“Really? How many men have you accidentally bewitched in the last forty-eight hours?”

“If you were doing the dirty with him, it would be a lot worse, because you, Molly,” he says, removing the cushion from my face, “are unable to keep feelings and sex separate.”