Page 80 of Hexed Up

“What do you mean?”

“You could give him a potion, tell him it’s an antidote, when really …”

“When really …”

“It’s not,” he says, meeting my gaze.

I consider the idea for one second. It is tempting. Very tempting.

Then I dismiss it. It’s also immoral. Completely immoral. And while my demon best friend may have no issues with that at all, I unfortunately do. Damn me and my morals.

“No,” I sigh. “I couldn’t do it. And besides, I’d just end up feeling guilty for the rest of my life. You know what guilt does to me – brings me out in hives.”

Damien frowns with disgust. He’s not a fan of the problems humans experience with their flesh, or any kind of bodily fluids either.

“Then I can’t help you, Molly,” my friend says, spreading his arms out wide in surrender.

“No,” I sigh again. “You can’t. I’m just going to have to accept the situation. Maybe a bit of unrequited love will do me some good.”

There have been two occasions where this predicament has been extremely enjoyable. More than enjoyable. The kind of occasions I’ll still be thinking about and reliving in my old age. I can’t say there are any occasions with my actual ex-boyfriends that I would want to relive.

“No pain, no gain,” Damien says. It’s one of those positive-affirmation phrases he’s picked up from humans, along with ones like ‘you are enough’ and ‘happiness is a choice’.

I’m not sure it really relates to my present predicament, but I manage a smile anyway.

It’s just one more week. One more week and then Mr Horatio Hottie can go back to hating me, and I can go back to avoiding him.

Chapter Twenty-Four

I don’t see Horatio on Monday or Tuesday. He’s up and out at the gym or the office or wherever he disappears to before the crack of dawn each morning, way before I’m awake and have dragged myself from my bed. And each day, he fails to return to his flat before I’ve stumbled back to my bed and fallen asleep.

However, on Monday morning, I do find a flask of coffee sitting on my doorstep, along with a little note.

I’m assuming that you are now a coffee addict,

the note says, in neat, orderly handwriting.

And as I feel responsible for this addiction, I thought it only fair to supply you with your poison.

Horatio.

There’s no “love from”, no little kiss. My heart does a little skip anyway, until I remind it that not only is Horatio myfakeboyfriend, but any feelings he may be harbouring are also fake.

Still, in between potion brewing, I can’t help baking a fresh batch of brownies, which I cut up neatly, placing them in my best Tupperware dish and leaving it on his doorstep with a little note.

I’m assuming you are also now a sugar addict, and as I feel responsible forthat, here’s your supply.

Molly

PS. I added a little coffee kick to these!

No loves, no froms, no kisses. We’re just friends. That’s all.

Tuesday morning, there’s a brand-new cafetière on my doorstep, as well as a bag of expensive-looking ground coffee beans. There’s another note.

An addict ought to know how to brew their own,

it says, followed by some detailed instructions on how to make the perfect cup of coffee. He signs it this time with just anH. Plus a little squiggle that might – just might – be a kiss.