Page 96 of Hexed Up

He winks at me and then he’s gone too.

And I’m left alone in the hallway.

I peer over towards Horatio’s flat. I can hear his deep voice, and Alex’s too. I’m severely, extremely, dangerously tempted to knock on his door and rejoin them, but I think I’ve had enough adventures and enough drama for one evening. I think I should retreat to the safety of my bed.

* * *

My head is pounding when I wake the next morning, and I have to beg McGruff not to yap at me because every little bark is like a stab of pain straight through my temples.

I drag myself out of bed and stumble into the kitchen, throwing all the ingredients I need for an anti-hangover draught into the cauldron to start simmering. While I wait for the kettle to boil, I check my messages.

I have one from Tiggie this morning, who in her more sober state is a lot more apologetic, although not completely one hundred per cent so. She reminds me that Horatio is head over heels in love with me and that I could fart in his face and that wouldn’t change.

There are also several from Prim in our sisters’ group chat, wanting to know exactly what happened last night because her memory is a little hazy. Tiggie has helpfully sent her a photo – one of her and the bad boy snogging in the middle of the bar’s dance floor.

I expect Prim’s response to be one of dismay, self-flagellation, and embarrassment. Instead, she simply responds, “I snoggedhim? Wow!”

I giggle – which makes my head hurt – place my phone to one side, make myself a cup of tea without milk – because I haven’t got the stomach for that this morning – and then continue with my brewing.

Once I’ve drunk the anti-hangover cure, I feel a lot better and like I can face the day ahead, so I pull on some clothes, clip McGruff’s lead to his collar, and head for the door.

I really wasn’t expecting to find anything on my doorstep this morning, but there is something, another little note in that neat handwriting of the man who lives opposite. It sends all those butterflies in my stomach into a giddy frenzy, and I swear even my heart skips a beat.

I bend down and pick it up. And because I have completely lost my mind and my senses and all reason, I give it a sniff. Is it my imagination, or does it smell like him – that deeply masculine scent that does that funny thing to my knees?

McGruff looks up at me in a begging manner, so I dismiss any ideas of creeping back into my flat and reading what’s inside the envelope. I tuck it into the back pocket of my shorts and take him off for a walk.

It’s a quick one. Enough for him to relieve himself, sniff some bushes, and bark at some friends. Not that McGruff’s complaining, his preferred length of walk has always been short.

And then we’re back at the flat, both sitting on the sofa and me looking at the envelope.

Why do I feel nervous? Do I half expect the note inside to tell me that after last night’s shenanigans and the way I embarrassed him in front of all his friends, he’s decided he wants out of the fake dating early – and possibly the whole bewitching thing too?

I take a deep breath, tuck my finger under the flap of the envelope and rip it open.

Inside is a little note.

Hey sunshine, it says.

Thanks for coming along to the bar last night. Having you there was the best birthday treat I’ve had in a long time. H.

And this time, three kisses in a row.

It’s a short note, but perhaps it’s the nicest note a man has ever written to me.

I flop back on the sofa, close my eyes, and bite my lip really hard in an attempt to control my breathing.

It’s not real, I remind myself. All this is not real.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Because Thursday’s potion – one that helps soothe toddlers in the middle of a tantrum – requires a considerable amount of time simmering on the stove, I have time on my hands. Of course, I could use that time sensibly – updating orders, fiddling around with my website, taking stock of my ingredients, chasing up that lost delivery. Instead, I make Horatio a birthday card because I forgot to give him one yesterday.

I sit down at the kitchen table with my card and colouring pencils, ignoring McGruff’s accusatory looks and general sulking. He clearly doesn’t approve. But what harm is there in one friendly neighbour writing a birthday card to another? And so what if that card happens to be handmade with a considerable amount of thought and attention? That’s just nice, neighbourly behaviour.

It takes me a while to decide on a subject, but in the end, I opt for my favourite view from the bench on Hampstead Heath. A place I’ve always loved. A place, I think, I may have first started developing these silly feelings for my next-door neighbour.

I abandon my colouring pencils in favour of some water-colour paints. It’s been a long time since I’ve cracked them open. I used to paint and draw a lot, but since the explosion of orderson WitchBay, I haven’t really had the time. I’d forgotten how mindful this is, how it soothes away all the anxieties bubbling away in my belly, and how I can completely lose myself in it and forget, for just a moment in time, all my worries.