Page 16 of A Witch in Notting Hill

“You own a bookshop. You don’t have to help pretty American celebrities prance around the city to help dear old women, do you?”

“No one is prancing. And yes, I do. The website literally says I will help people find and procure old titles and shit.”

“But this is Willow James, mate,” Minho said. “She isn’t just ‘people.’”

“It’s not like the website has a clause that says I can help everyone but celebrities, does it? Besides, she came in right as I was closing because she wanted to have a look around without anyone else in the shop, so I don’t think she’s keen on people knowing who she is or what she’s doing here. Which means you two aren’t going to go telling anyone about this, yeah?”

Two nods that said “obviously.” Thank god we were at least on the same page about that.

“So you also have to be her bodyguard?”

“Are my words translating into some other language in your ears, Lo? Because you’re hearing something completely different from what I’m saying, and I’d like to put an end to this miscommunication before someone overhears you and we’re on the front page of some tabloid.”

“Lighten up, will you? Aren’t you even the least bit excited about this?”

“Excited about tearing this city apart to find some old book about magic that doesn’t exist? Proper chuffed, if I’m honest.”

The truth was, part of me was a bit chuffed. Not that I’d ever admit it to Lola and Minho. But I didn’t mind the idea of spending more time with Willow. And perhaps I wasn’t even ready to admit this to myself, but I didn’t mind the idea of acting as her bodyguard, either. Her fake smile when she was spotted by those girls in the shop tightened a knot in my chest, and the pleading in her voice when she showed up at closing timetonight only pulled harder at the strings. I wasn’t sure what it took for her to be here alone looking for something for her gran, but if I could protect her at all while she was doing it, well, then I’d have done my job.

Or maybe more than my job. But hadn’t we already established that I didn’t much care about semantics?

“All the good shit happens to you,” Minho said. “And you don’t even want it.”

“Again, this is my job,” I reminded them. “And you make like five times what I do, and Lo has a cooler job than either of us, so I wouldn’t exactly sayallthe good shit happens to me.”

“Can you admit it’s at least a little exciting? Like, you don’t go to these lengths for your other customers.”

“My other customers haven’t asked me to go to these lengths.”

“But would you if they did?”

No.“Yes.”

“I give up,” Lola said, throwing her hands up then dropping them in her lap. “When you’re ready to be honest about your feelings on the whole matter, let us know.”

“I’m sure you’ll be here waiting.”

“With bated breath.”

“Another round?” Minho asked, already signaling the bartender. Thank god someone understood the assignment.

Though I couldn’t quite blame Lola.

Usually, I would pride myself on being an intuitive person. It came with the territory of owning a bookshop, even if I didn’t believe in what I was selling. I could still read people, make accurate assumptions about who they were and what they were looking for, find it before they even knew the answers themselves.Thatwas the real magic of the bookshop.

But not Willow. For someone famous, someone seemingly so open and vulnerable, I couldn’t read her past the first page. AndI’d be damned if that wasn’t the exact reason I’d keep coming back for more.

Besides, it really was my job.

Lola and Minho dropped the subject for the next round, sinking into our usual pub banter instead: football, Lola’s newest video game designs, Minho’s newest two-day relationship, Netflix’s newest horror docuseries. Despite our endless group texts, we still always found something to chat about, and it had been that way since uni.

We’d lived across the hall from each other, Min and I as roommates and Lo with a girl we hadn’t seen or heard from since first year, and it didn’t take long for us to realize how much we had in common. We bonded over many late nights playingMario Kart, eating frozen pizza, commiserating about women, and secretly caring way too much about our marks.

One Christmas, when Lola couldn’t afford to fly home to her family in Spain and I wasn’t celebrating because I’m Jewish, so I’m never celebrating, Minho invited us to spend the holiday at his parents’ house in Hitchin, and we’ve been family ever since.

And as great as it was to have found this kind of friendship in one another, it meant nothing was off-limits and it was impossible to keep secrets. For better or worse, or whatever. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when we came back around to Willow as we paid the tab.

“At least tell us your plan,” Minho said. “When do you start the search?”