Page 37 of Hexed Up

“What? Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Molly, I just did.”

He threads his arm through mine and pulls me out of the shop as I attempt to peer over my shoulder towards the shop assistant. He looks okay. I wonder if he remembers anything about that interaction.

“Is that how you pay for things all the time?”

“Yes,” Damien says, “It’s amazing how willing people are to give things away when they learn you are a social media star.”

“And you entrance them with your demonic abilities!”

“It’s not my fault,” he pouts. “Demons aren’t allowed to own money.”

“They aren’t?”

“No. Now, do you want to hit some more shops?”

I shake my head. “Can we go get a coffee instead?”

“You hate coffee!”

“It may be growing on me.”

Chapter Thirteen

I’m home by 5pm and I try not to think about how many more hours that leaves before Mr Hottie will be returning home from work.Ifhe returns home from work. There are a million other things he may have to do first.

I convince myself I am not anxious and slightly neurotic because I’m keen to see him again, but because I’m concerned about being found out by the authorities. My mum has already sent me three different messages with details of the weekend away, and my younger sister, my aunt, and my cousin have all messaged to say they’re looking forward to meeting my new man. There is no backing out now. I’m going to have to forgo the risks, pluck up my courage, and ask Horatio to join me.

I considered asking Damien to do that whole demonic influencing act to ensure Horatio would agree to being my fake boyfriend for the weekend, but I’ve already bewitched the man’s brain enough. Who knows what could happen if I tampered with it any more?

No, I am going to have to use good old charm. After all, it worked for him – convincing me to send him those dirty selfies. My cheeks flame at the thought.

To distract myself from the even bigger mess I have found myself in, I could throw myself into work. I have orders to update, potions to begin, and ingredients to restock.

Instead, I embark on some stress baking and, as the temperature in London is once again boiling, I’m back down to my underwear. So far I’ve baked a batch of cookies, a sponge cake, some cheese scones, and a peach cobbler.

By 10pm, my baking creations are spread out along the countertop and I am running out of space.

McGruff is circling my feet on the lookout for any dropped crumbs and I’m contemplating what to bake next when I hear a familiar sound of heavy footsteps striding across the shared hallway.

I tiptoe to my door, peering through the keyhole and watching as Mr Hottie unlocks his door and disappears inside his flat without a backward glance at mine.

Maybe he’s had second thoughts about the whole thing. Maybe the effects of the potion have worn off and he doesn’t even remember my name. Maybe he met the actual love of his life on the way home from work this evening and they’re already planning their wedding.

Perhaps I am losing my marbles. I slump over to the counter and tear off a large corner from one of the brownies, stuffing it into my mouth.

McGruff whines at me.

“Don’t,” I tell him, “these will literally kill you and,” I point towards the corner of the room, “you have a bowl full of perfectly good dog food over there.”

McGruff huffs in disgust and retreats back to his spot on the sofa.

I glance towards the oven, then the sofa, and then the front door. I could mope about like Cinderella waiting for my prince to arrive with a lost shoe, or I could grow some ovaries, rememberthat this is the twenty-first century, and take matters into my own hands. I trot into my bedroom, find the T-shirt dress I was wearing earlier, tug it over my head and stride across the hallway, knocking on the door before I have time to change my mind.

In doing so I realise, I’ve never actually been inside his flat. It’s always been him stomping over to my door with his latest list of complaints.