Page 24 of A Witch in Notting Hill

Oliver cleared his throat, and Lola clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sure you’ve realized by now I don’t exactly have a ‘normal,’” she said.

“No one does.” I smiled. “It’s nice to meet you both. And thank you for doing this. I’m sure you have much better things to do today, and I know this is a lot to ask.”

“Nonsense,” Minho said. “I’ve been meaning to get back into this building anyway, and Lo never has anything going on.” Lola only shrugged. “Don’t let Oliver here convince you this is a burden.”

“No, no, he’s actually been really helpful.”

“Oliver Hadley has been helpful?” Lola asked. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy? Bad attitude, general disdain for anything fun and whimsical, impossibly nice hair that women love even though he—”

“Thank you, Lola,” Oliver cut in. “I’m standing right here. I think she knows which Oliver Hadley we’re talking about. And is it so hard to believe I’ve been helpful? It’s literally my job.”

Obviously it was his job, but for some reason hearing him say it felt like just missing the train. I hadn’t even been willing to admit it to myself, but this gut punch made it impossible to deny I’d been secretly hoping he’d been doing this because he wanted to, not because he felt an obligation.

But maybe the reality check was for the best.

“It’s just that we don’t actually think you like doing your job,” Lola said.

“I like my job just fine.”

“Yeah, we’re all convinced,” Minho said, and laughed, pulling a key fob out of his pocket and heading toward the door. “Are we ready, then?”

“You guys think I don’t like my job?” Oliver asked, apparently unable to move on.

“It’s not that,” Lola said, softening her tone. “We know you like thebookpart. But we also know you don’t like the magic part.”

“It’s not that I don’tlikethe magic part,” he clarified. “It’s that I don’tbelievein the magic part.”

“There’s a difference?”

I was wondering the same myself, only I hadn’t the courage to ask. Thank god for Lola.

“Do we have to talk about this now?” Minho asked. “I’d like to get in and out of here before anyone starts asking questions.”

“Are we not allowed to be here?” I asked, suddenly worried I was about to get us all in trouble for trespassing.

“Technically we’re allowed to be in here, but it isn’t exactly encouraged. So I’d like to make this fast, if you don’t mind.”

“Which means you,” Oliver said, turning to me and pulling the brim of my hat so low it almost covered my eyes, “need to stay hidden. Last thing we need is a scene.” I slid my sunglasses onto my face and tucked my hair up into the back of the hat, and he nodded in approval.

“You two have gotten into quite the rhythm, haven’t you?” Lola asked.

“Not the time, Lo,” Oliver snapped. “Min, let’s do it.”

“Right.” Minho scanned his fob, and we all breathed a sigh of relief when the sensor turned green and the lock clicked open. “Act like you know what you’re doing.”

“Third floor, green door,” Lola repeated like a mantra, and we followed her with our heads down.

Fortunately, the first floor was bustling, which made it easy for us to blend in. Creatives of all ages shuffled around in Birkenstocks and trendy sneakers that were so ugly they were cool, wearing coveralls and chambray button-downs and acrylic glasses.

“What is this place?” I asked as we slipped unnoticed up the stone staircase that dominated the center of the room. It looked like if the Museum of Natural History had a baby with Mia Thermopolis’s apartment inThe Princess Diaries.

“Kind of a hybrid coworking space and artists’ collective,” Minho explained, nodding to someone we passed on our way up. “My company didn’t do too much by way of the design, sincewe were trying to preserve the historic integrity of the building. Just reinforced the structure to bring it up to code.”

“What did the building used to be?”

“Saw a couple different uses over the years. Churches, theater companies, art installations, auctions, that sort of thing. Been this collective for years now. Some locals rotate in and out and rent spaces, and others, like this”—he checked the paper in his hand—“Diane, I presume, have made themselves at home.”

We rounded landings on the second and third floors, lined with faded portraits and ripped newsletters and cigarette butts in the windows. How a place could be at once so charming and vaguely gritty I wasn’t sure, but something about it felt promising.