Page 52 of Hexed Up

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been given the lousiest room on any kind of family trip or holiday. The reason has always been that I’m either single or have chosen (probably wisely) not to bring my bad-boy boyfriend with me. The good rooms go to everyone else and I’ve slept in attics, basements, and even once what I suspect was a converted closet.

So when I step into this room, I positively gasp, because, not only is it huge and beautiful and probably the bridal suite, standing right in the very centre of the room is only one bed – only onefour-posterbed.

This doesn’t seem to perturb Mr Hottie. I suspect he’s slept in many beautiful hotel suites and many four-poster beds all across the globe. He strolls straight into the room, deposits the suitcases on the waiting stand and wanders around the room, peering through the window and glancing into the accompanying ensuite bathroom.

Then he stops, and turns to me, realising for the first time that I’m still hovering in the doorway.

“Is there a problem?” he asks me.

I lift my hand and point to the bed. It’s been made invitingly in expensive cotton sheets and decorated with pillows of all shapes and sizes, curtains draped around the frame. It could have been lifted straight out of an eighteenth-century brothel.

“Ahhhh,” he says, “it’s probably more comfortable than it looks.”

“Are you kidding me? It looks divine! It’s just … there’s only one.”

He plunges his hands into his pockets and tilts his head to one side. “You were expecting more?”

“No … I mean … I guess …” I step inside the room, slamming the door behind me, and whisper-hissing, “what are we going to do?”

“About the bed?”

“Yes, about the bed.”

“Sleep in it.” His lips twitch. “Or if you’d prefer–”

“Where is that dog when I need him?!” I say, placing my hands on my hips.

“–I could enquire about a different room with twin beds,” he finishes.

I sigh, peering around the room longingly. It’s nearly as beautiful as the man standing in it. “This is the nicest room I’ve ever set foot in. We’ll make the bed work. We can place pillows down the middle or sleep head to toe or something.”

“Sure,” he says, amusement still dancing in his eyes. “Although, remember that I do have those hairy toes.”

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?” I say, narrowing my eyes.

“Just a little bit,” he admits. He peers down at his wrist watch. “It’s half an hour before drinks. Do you want to use the bathroom first or …?”

“No, go ahead,” I say, flinging myself down on the luxurious bed. Horatio is correct. It’s far more comfortable than it looks. In fact, I can already feel myself drifting away as Horatio rifles through his suitcase in the background and then locks himself in the bathroom.

* * *

I’m startled awake sometime later by a warm hand shaking my shoulder lightly and I blink open my eyes and find myself peering up into Mr Hottie’s face. For a moment I wonder if this is a fairytale and he is the prince come to wake me from my enchanted sleep. Then he utters the words, “It’s six fifty,” and the spell is most definitely broken.

“What?” I yelp, jerking upright and nearly crashing my head against his. “That leaves me only ten minutes to get ready! Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You looked so peaceful,” he protests. I glare at him. I have been reliably informed that I look about as elegant as McGruff when I sleep – I think ‘like a pig enduring an abattoir nightmare’ was the way my sister once described me.

Horatio has changed out of his suit and is wearing dark chinos and a light blue shirt that makes his eyes pop. His hair is damp from the shower and he smells especially yummy. I glance down at my crinkled top, knowing my eye makeup has probably smudged right across my face.

“Ten minutes is not going to be enough time to sort this mess out,” I say, gesturing to myself as I hop off the luxurious bed and hurry to my suitcase. “We’re going to be late for drinks.”

“Does it matter?” Horatio asks, propping himself up in the bed and looking far too seductive there. I bite on my lip and remind myself that jumping back up onto the bed and into his lap would not be a sensible thing to do. After all, we have a contract in place now.

“Does it matter?!” I snort. “Did you meet my mother? Arriving late is a cardinal sin according to her – particularly turning up late and embarrassing her.”

“It’s fashionable to be late,” he informs me. “And also, you look beautiful as you are.”

I peer down at my top, skirt, and black boots. Seriously, how am I not making millions of pounds from these love potions? Its impact is crazy effective.