Page 89 of Hexed Up

I almost faint.

I’ve dated many men who look like that, but my sister Prim wouldn’t go near one with a barge pole.

“How? What?” I mutter. “Do you think she needs rescuing?”

“Ermmm,” Horatio says. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Tiggie seems to agree. She’s pointing to our sister and giving me the thumbs up from across the dance floor.

I glance back at the mis-matched couple. This is too weird for words.

I’m currently fake-dating, and developing feelings for, the kind of man my older sister would consider her dream date. Sensible job. Sensible shoes. Sensible mortgage.

Okay, he also looks like a superhero and has not one but two very un-sensible cars. But still.

And then my older sister – a woman who usually hates the idea of public displays of affection – is currently grinding away with the kind of man that, until a few weeks ago, I would have found hot as hell. In fact, I’d have been drooling in his direction, dying of jealousy to see my sister with him and not me.

And yet I don’t feel anything like that at all.

I search the whole of my body and the whole of my brain for one teensy trace of jealousy or envy or anything other than astonishment and happiness for my sister, and I don’t find it at all.

I glance up at the man beside me.

Is this his effect? Or the effect of all those feelings?

I need another drink.

Chapter Twenty-Six

If I was lying, I’d say the next hour and a half is really stressful, what with having to keep an eye on my wayward demon friend, having to prevent my inebriated little sister from setting off magic spells into the crowd, and keeping a watchful eye on my older sister and Mr Bad Boy.

But in fact, it’s not stressful at all, because I’m having the best time.

Horatio intercepts Tiggie on three different occasions as she’s about to launch a drunken spell towards the ceiling. He advises Alex to steer clear of my demon best friend and reports on my older sister’s antics.

Usually I’d be stressing out about everything happening around me, waiting for another disaster to strike. But being part of a team, a pair, a couple halves all that worry. It’s nice to think someone has my back for once, even if it’s just on account of an exploding love potion and a fake-dating contract.

In between averting any disasters, we’re talking and laughing with his friends, who don’t turn out to be as uptight as I thought they were – well, all of them apart from Tasha Pasha Gnasha.

And the biggest delight of the night occurs when I finally persuade him onto the dance floor.

Turns out that Mr Hottie Hotshot cannot dance.

He cannot dance to save his life.

Mr Looks-Like-He-Just-Walked-Out-of-a-Modelling-Agency. Mr Flashy Apartment, Flashy Job, Flashy Car. Mr Horatio Shaw. Has Two Left Feet.

“Ha!” I say, giggling as he flaps his arms about like a funky chicken. “I’ve finally found something you’re no good at.”

“What?” he asks, shuffling from side to side like he’s queuing at the bank.

“You can’t dance. You’re awful at it. Dreadful.”

“There you go with all those compliments again, Molly,” he says, shaking his head with a smile on his lips. “You don’t like my dance moves?”

“You couldn’t possibly describe those as dance moves. I’ve never seen someone so uncoordinated in the whole of my life.”

“I told you I was uncoordinated.”