Page 41 of Hexed Up

He reaches over and takes the lot in his hands. Then he walks over to me, and kisses my forehead, making my heart flutter about in my chest.

“I gotta sleep,” he says, “it’s been a rough day.” I look more closely at his face. There are grey shadows under his eyes. I never asked him about his day. Even as a fake girlfriend, I’mpretty bad at this stuff. “We’ll meet tomorrow to draw up the contract, okay?”

“Contract?”

“Yeah,” he says walking out my door. “There’s always a contract involved in fake dating – especially when there’s a love potion involved.”

Chapter Fourteen

I spend the next day Googling fake-dating contracts while I wait for an anti-acne potion to boil. Despite considering myself a romance fan, this trope has completely sailed me by. However, it turns out, Mr Hottie is right about this. It seems no fake relationship can survive without the relevant paperwork set in place.

I scribble down some ideas and then I text Mr Hottie and invite him around for dinner to discuss the terms of the contract. He texts me back almost immediately and insists we’re going to have dinner at his place.

At 8pm exactly I knock on his door (look I can be on time when there’s no travelling involved!), bottle of wine in one hand, my notes in the other, and McGruff trailing behind me.

“Sorry,” I say. “But he’s my chaperone.”

“I don’t remember him being a particularly effective chaperone on Sunday afternoon.”

“We’ve had words. He’s going to do better,” I say, handing him the bottle.

He bends down to kiss my cheek and right on cue, McGruff growls.

“Wow,” Mr Hottie says, “impressive.”

“Yep,” I say, “and if you get handsy at all, he’s been instructed to bite.”

“Noted. Come on in. I’m making Pad Thai.”

He leads me inside his apartment. None of the original features of the flat remain. It’s been completely modernised. It looks like something right out of a magazine. The floor and walls glistening in polished tiles, marble work surfaces, dark woods, and sleek lines, everything smooth, neat, and aligned, and the few accessories like pictures and ornaments matching and coordinated.

It’s also blessedly cool.

“Do you have air conditioning?” I ask him.

“Of course I have air conditioning,” he answers.

“Then why did we spend Sunday afternoon in my flat and not yours?”

“I prefer your place,” he says with a shrug.

“Seriously?” I say, because he obviously hasn’t seen the mould in my bathroom, the broken central heating system (which nine times out of ten means the hot water is cold and the cold water is hot), or the broken floor boards.

“It’s homely.”

“But this place is …” I can’t actually find the words. It’s too perfect for words.

“Soulless,” he says, “at times.”

We reach the kitchen and the aromas have both mine and McGruff’s mouths watering.

“So he cooks as well as everything else,” I say, going to inspect the contents of the frying pan as he places my bottle of wine into a wine fridge and pulls out another, unscrewing the cork.

“I can cook a few dishes. I can’t bake for shit.” He pours me a large glass of red wine. “Talking of baking, I have to thank you.”

I lift my glass to my nose and inhale, the bouquet is expensive and full of body. “Me?”

“Yes, I took the rest of those brownies into the office today and now I’m everyone’s favourite person.”