Page 21 of A Witch in Notting Hill

“Doesn’t it do that sometimes?” she asked. Wisps of her hair floated up from her shoulders, surely a result of the electricity in the air, drifting across her face in a scene entirely too angelic for the grimy underbelly of the city.

“Not like that,” I said. It appeared everyone was fine, and the sparks were definitely a sound distraction, so I nodded toward the train. “Ready? Now’s our chance.”

“Let’s do it.”

I grabbed her hand to make a break for the closing doors, ignoring the shock I felt at the contact. Again, electricity. Not at all a literal spark between us. Only she pulled hers away at the sensation, leaving me to take the hint.

We made it onto the train just as the doors slammed closed, and I was relieved when she stayed close, positioning herself between me and the doors the same way she’d been in the space between the platforms. Hidden, secure, protected. I liked her there. And judging by her return, she didn’t seem to mind, either.

We got off the train at Camden Town, dodging the crowds outside the station until we could slip undetected onto a quiet side street. Fortunately, there were enough street vendors hocking knockoff designer bags and punks begging for a few quid for a photo that Willow’s presence didn’t demand any attention.

“You can exhale now,” I said, looking around the tree-lined street to make sure no one noticed her. “Bromley’s place is tucked away back here, so I doubt we’ll be seen. Just a fewminutes’ walk up this way.” I started up the street, exhaling as she fell into step beside me.

“That was crazy back there.”

“Never been to Camden Town?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“The market is a good time, but the crowds make it nearly impossible to tolerate. Solid food, though. I’ll take you back sometime if you fancy the best bao bun you’ve ever had.”

My words shocked me as much as they seemed to shock her. What the hell was I doing, offering to take her to the market? I didn’t even go through the trouble of taking women I was dating to the market. And here I was, technically on a work assignment, offering to take this woman for bao buns, even after she’d made it abundantly clear she was only here to get what she needed to help her gran and then go straight back to California?

In an even more surprising turn of events, however, she didn’t run for the hills. “That sounds nice,” she said. “I love bao buns. There’s a place around the corner from my apartment that makes the most delicious vegetarian ones.”

“Flat.” I couldn’t resist.

“Sorry?”

“Your flat. You’re in England now, love.”

“You know what they say.” She smiled. “Can take the girl out of America and all that.”

Why did I love the thought of taking the girl out of America?

“Just up here, then,” I said, trying to bring myself back to the present before I said what I was really thinking.

“This one?” she said, pointing toward a townhome with smudged windows and a beat-up door.

“Mm-hmm,” I confirmed. “I know it doesn’t look like much on the outside, but trust me. It’s a proper show inside. And remember, don’t touch anything.”

She made a show of shoving her hands into her pockets and arranging her features into something solemn. Or her version of solemn, anyway. Her eyes still sparkled and her full lips still curved up at the corners, but I appreciated the effort.

We climbed the rotting front steps, and I knocked before entering, so as not to alarm the old bugger. “Bromley,” I announced, looking around the ground floor. “It’s Oliver Hadley. Are you in?”

“Where else would I be?” he grumbled from the back room. “Come through, will you? I’m in my chair and I’d fancy staying in it if it’s all the same to you.”

“Come on,” I said to Willow, trying not to smile at the startled look on her face “He’s harmless. Trust me.”

“Can I?”

“I’m on the other side of the bloody city on my day off looking for an old book for your gran,” I said. “You tell me.” When she said nothing, I took it as a concession. “This way, then.”

We picked through the overflowing antiques and showcases that littered every square inch of his home: glass boxes displaying old dolls; large, yellowing books propped open down the middle; tasseled lamps and brass candlesticks and porcelain figurines.

“It really is like a museum,” Willow whispered, closer behind me than I’d realized.

“Told you,” I said as we reached the back room. “Bromley, nice to see you. Please, don’t get up.” I leaned down to shake his hand, noticing how much older he looked since the last time I’d seen him. “This is Willow. She’s American, but I’m trying not to hold it against her.”