Page 72 of Hexed Up

“Average size,” I say.

“Average size,” he murmurs, not impressed by that detailed instruction.

A minute later, he plops five different-sized saucepans down on the counter beside me.

“Perfect,” I tell him.

“What else can I do to help?” he asks.

I glance at him over my shoulder. That T-shirt is still sticking to him like lycra. He reminds me of a superhero in a superhero suit. Only his muscles are real and not down to padding and clever fakery.

“How about you go and get dry?” I tell him. “I’m going to have enough trouble brewing this ointment to cure my ankle. I don’t need to be brewing potions for colds, flu, and pneumonia as well.”

“I never get sick,” he tells me.

“Famous last words,” I warn him. “I’ll be fine. And if not, you’ll hear me scream.”

He laughs. That noise. It seriously does funny things to me, and I have to grip the counter because I don’t want to swoon and tumble to the ground again.

Ten minutes later, I have a concoction already simmering on the stove and Mr Hottie has returned in a fresh T-shirt and a fresh pair of trousers, although his hair is still damp and just calling out for me to run my fingers through. I swallow a little noise of appreciation and stir the concoction.

He comes to stand beside me and peers down into the bubbles.

“What’s in there?” he says.

“You really want to know?”

“Yep.”

“Well, we have dandelion, river water, dragon’s egg shells, and ketchup.”

“Ketchup?”

“Yep, it goes in practically everything.”

“No fairy toenails in this potion then,” he says, walking over to the various bottles and picking them up one at a time to read the labels.

“I already checked,” I say, “although I think I’m going to be pinching the dragon’s egg shell. You know it’s worth more than gold.”

“Your mum won’t be happy,” he tells me. “She’s already had a warning from the manager.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, gulping and feeling guilty, trying my best not to think about the events of last night and how good his tongue felt between–

“Molly?”

“Huh?”

“The potion; it’s boiling!”

“Demons’ buttholes!” I cry, heaving the saucepan off the heat and flicking off the flame. I stir the potion rapidly and as it cools it congeals, forming a paste the colour of slug slime.

“Looks appetising,” Horatio comments.

“I’m not going to eat it!” I blow across the paste and test the temperature with my finger. “Still a little hot.” I blow on it some more and finally it’s cool enough to dip my fingers into and then smear across my swollen ankle. I moan with relief, my eyelids fluttering shut and my body slackening as tension I didn’t know I was holding floats away.

When I open my eyes again, I find Mr Hottie staring right at me.

“What?”