Page 42 of Hexed Up

“Is that good in banking?”

“Banking is part numbers, part relationships,” he says. “Technically bribery is illegal but I don’t think that rule extends to home-made brownies.”

“I think I may be a bad influence on you,” I say.

“Molly, you’re definitely a bad influence on me,” he says. I want to ask him what exactly that means, but then he says, “So you want to eat first or do the business first?”

“Excuse me?”

“The contract.”

“How do you usually do things in banking?”

“My step-dad always says, we break bread first, then we talk.”

“He sounds like a gangster.” I laugh.

“Yeah,” he says, combing his hand through his hair, then spinning around to the pan and dividing the contents between two bowls. When he’s done, he carries them over to a dining table already set up for two. “Take a seat,” he tells me, returning to collect the bottle of wine.

I do as I’m told, McGruff flopping down beside me.

“Does he want anything?” he asks me as he sits too.

“He ate,” I say.

The food, when I try it, is delicious.

“How are you not married?” I say.

“What?” he asks, almost choking on a baby sweetcorn.

“You’re a pretty good looking man, you earn enough to buy two Ferraris, and you’re also able to make food that tastes like this too. Is there secretly something wrong with you? Do you have hairy toes?” I narrow my eyes at him. Then shrug, nonchalantly. “You can tell me if there is, I won’t tell anyone.”

“I confess,” he says with a grin, “my toes are pretty hairy. I could be related to hobbits.”

“Disgusting,” I say, in mock outrage, although I don’t believe it. I bet his toes are as beautiful as the rest of him. “But seriously, how are you single?” I pause, my fork half way to my mouth. “You are single right?”

“Technically,” he says. My eyes widen in shock – of course he has a girlfriend – no one can be this lovely. Obviously he has to be a scumbag underneath it all. “I have this fake girlfriend.”

“Shithead,” I tell him, tempted to stab him with my fork.

“I guess I just never found ‘the one’,” he says, staring across at me in a way that has me swallowing down hard.

“Have you been looking?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, “isn’t everyone?”

“Hmmm,” I say, because most of the men I’ve dated seem more interested in sleeping around, and judging by the number of women coming and going from Mr Hottie’s flat, I thought he was interested in the same.

“You’re not looking for the one?” he says.

“I guess I’ve sort of given up on looking for the one.”

“You’re pretty young to give up. How old are you? Twenty-five, twenty-six?”

I grin at him. “Twenty-eight.”

“Young.”