Page 85 of Hexed Up

“Victoria sponge is my favourite.” He peers into my eyes. “No one’s ever baked a birthday cake for me before … I mean, not apart from my mom.”

“Oh,” I say because I’m not sure what else to say.

He balances the cake in one hand and takes hold of my elbow with the other.

He doesn’t need to steer me through all the people because all the people automatically clear a path for him. I guess that’s the advantage of being really damn big and really damn tall. No one fancies being rugby tackled by such a giant.

We reach the roped-off area, where I spy Damien and Prim already here, guzzling Prosecco in a corner and whispering to each other fervently. Damien is wearing a bright electric-blue suit with no shirt underneath the jacket. At least heiswearing clothes and his mane of hair is ginger tonight. Tiggie trots off to join them and I spin my gaze around the other people gathered here tonight. There’s no one else I recognise, which surprises me. I’ve lived opposite Mr Hottie for nearly two years, apparently. You’d think I’d recognise a few faces. Friends or relatives that pop round. Even one or two of those ex-girlfriends. But I don’t. Not one face.

Horatio places my cake down next to that magnificent chocolate creation, making me wince because my cake looks pretty pathetic in comparison.

“Did the bar arrange the other cake?” I ask him.

“No, my work colleagues,” he says, manoeuvring me away from the cakes and into the throng of his friends. He starts introducing me to people, his hand on the small of my back the whole time, sending delicious shots of electricity up and down my spine.

He introduces me as Molly, his girlfriend and his next-door neighbour.

“Girlfriend?” one woman says with a trill little laugh. I think she’s called Tasha or Pasha or perhaps Gnasha. A pair of diamonds are pinned to her ears and designer heels strapped to her feet. More diamonds are looped around her slim wrist and her nails are filed to sharp points. For a moment I wonder if she might be a vampire blending in with all these civvies, but I don’t experience the prickle of magic I usually do when I meet anotherparanormal person out here in the normal world. She’s almost as tall as Horatio, and she whispers something in his ear and titters again. He manages a polite smile in return and is about to lead me away, when she grabs my hand and says, “I’m so sorry about the cake situation. I had no idea Horatio had a girlfriend. He’s never mentioned you.” She gives me a sad, little smile that, as someone now familiar with faking it, I can tell is about as unreal as they come. “And I had no idea you were arranging a cake, so I went out and got that one from Ricardo’s. Have you heard of Ricardo’s? He makes the best cakes in the whole of London! They are divine. I had to pull a few strings, of course, and it cost a small fortune, but I promise you it will taste like heaven. And Horatio does have a weak spot for chocolate.” Something flashes in her eyes – and am I really sure she isn’t a vamp? “And sophisticated, complex, and well-made things, don’t you, darling?” She turns her head and flashes Horatio a much more convincing smile.

I’ve never been very good at the whole bitchy girl thing. Maybe that’s how I ended up best friends with a demon. Most passive aggressive insults float right over my head without even leaving a scratch. But even I am pretty sure those last words of hers were meant as an insult aimed squarely at me.

“I’ve always preferred homemade cakes,” Horatio says sharply, pulling me away.

“Are you trying to say I’m homely?” I whisper-hiss at him, once we’ve stepped away from the vamp-wannabe.

“What?”

“I’m pretty sure you just compared me to a homemade sponge?”

“Did I?” he says, looking confused.

Everybody else is very polite. I shake a lot of hands. I say a lot of how-do-you-dos. But, though they may be polite to my face, I’m not blind to twitching eyebrows and flashes of astonishment.

I can’t blame these people. I am the antithesis of Horatio’s usually preferred girlfriends. I’m not tall and elegant and model-like. I’m not wearing a designer dress fresh off the runway. My dark roots are showing, and the ends of my hair are dyed pink and not an expensive shade of blonde.

After I’ve shaken about twenty hands and kissed at least fifteen cheeks, I’m finally introduced to a man similar in age to Horatio, though much shorter and slighter, and with a lot more colour in his outfit.

“This is Alex,” Horatio says. “My best friend. I’m going to leave you in his relatively safe hands while I find you a drink.” He narrows his eyes at his friend. “Do not tell her any horror stories.”

Once he’s left the two of us alone, I say, “You’re Alex. The best friend. I’ve heard lots about you.”

“And you’re Molly,” he replies. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“You have?” I say, slightly stunned.

Then I realise Alex is Horatio’s oldest friend, and they’ve done the whole fake-dating thing before. Maybe Horatio has told Alex all about our arrangement. Although hopefully he’s omitted the parts about me being a witch who happened to bewitch him with an exploding love potion.

“Oh yes. Talks about you all the time,” Alex says, grinning at me behind his glass of Prosecco and waggling his eyebrows. “Can’t believe he finally got the guts up to ask you out.”

“Got the guts up?” I mutter, not understanding what he can mean.

Alex leans forward. “So now he’s out of earshot, what do you want to know? I’m willing to divulge everything!”

“That sounds tempting! Although, I can’t imagine there’s much to tell. He’s a very well-behaved boy.”

“Don’t be fooled. He has at least one parking ticket.”

I laugh. “Well, I have at least ten and I can’t drive and don’t own a car.”