Page 81 of Hexed Up

I tell my heart, and all those butterflies in my stomach, to behave, and carry everything inside, brewing myself a coffee while I cut up ingredients for a new batch of anti-snoring potion.

In the evening, I rummage through my cupboards for brownie ingredients, weighing them all out, tipping them into different containers and labelling them, and then writing out the recipe for Espresso Brownies for him along with a little accompanying message.

You should also be able to bake yours.

M.

X

On Wednesday morning, I find my Tupperware returned with another note.

I gave it a try, it says. What do you think?

H.

And this time, a most definite kiss.

I carry the different-sized boxes inside my flat and peel back the lid of the largest, finding ten little brownies inside. They aren’t the best. They wouldn’t win any cookery competitions. They’re a little too flat and a tad on the dry side. But they taste divine.

I flip over Horatio’s note and find another message on the other side.

P.S. Don’t forget the birthday drinks. Looking forward to seeing you there, Sugar Booger.

Shit. His birthday. I made him cook brownies for his own birthday. I almost face-plant my head into my palm.

Abandoning all my potion-brewing plans for the day, even though my bank balance won’t forgive me for it, I decide I’m going to bake him a birthday cake instead. A real girlfriend would do that. She’d bake her boyfriend a birthday cake to take to his birthday drinks. And as his fake girlfriend, I can’t let the side down.

I flick through my grandma’s old recipe book, one I stole from my mum’s house several years ago, looking for the perfectcake. I try to remember if Horatio has ever told me what his favourite cake is, but I swear that until he started hanging out with me a few days ago, he was probably avoiding sugar altogether.

Eventually, I decide that classic and simple is what’s called for. A Victoria sponge. You can’t go wrong with a Victoria sponge. Everybody loves one. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who doesn’t.

And seeing as I have a secret weapon – my mum’s homemade jam, made with berries picked from the enchanted forest where she lives – this cake is going to be the best cake Horatio and all his civilian friends will ever taste. No bewitching or hexing necessary.

Unfortunately, it’s stopped raining in London, and instead the weather is once again sweltering, which means I’m back down to my undies as I beat, whisk, and bake.

Damien arrives halfway through, screeching and covering his eyes when he finds me in my underwear.

“Do not be so dramatic,” I tell him, struggling to unscrew the lid off the jam jar. “You’ve seen all this about a million times before.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to see it again. Where are your clothes?”

“It’s too hot for clothes.”

“Ugh,” he says. “You humans and your poorly regulated and designed bodies.”

“Just because you can stand the fires of Hell does not mean the rest of us can.”

He frowns at me. “You know I haven’t been down there for centuries and centuries and centuries. And actually, it’s a nice temperature today,” he adds, hopping up onto the counter, taking the jam jar from my hands and easily removing the lid.“So, what exactly are we doing?” He sniffs the air. “Doesn’t smell like a potion to me.”

“I’m baking a cake,” I explain.

He tips his head. “Are you feeling stressed out? Remember, tomorrow is another day.”

“No. No, it’s for Horatio’s birthday,” I mumble.

Damien blinks and taps his claws against the countertop.

“It’s the anniversary of the human’s painful propulsion into the world through his mother’s vagina?” I flinch. “A special day?” Damien inquires. Birthdays are another thing he doesn’t quite understand.