Page 13 of Under Your Spell
There is only one thing for it now.
‘Henry,’ I say grimly, marching over to him. ‘I’m going to need that tequila.’
Without a word he hands me the bottle and I snatch it, running upstairs and down the hall until I reach my bedroom door. I burst through, ready to throw myself face down on the bed.
‘Hello,’ a voice says. ‘Are you okay?’
Chapter Five
There’s a boy in my room. Those are the only words my scrambled brain can seem to latch on to as I stand with my back against the door, heart pounding, bottle of tequila clutched in my hand. There’s a boy on my bed.
And he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
‘What are you doing in here?’ I manage. I’m still reeling from the encounter with Sam, and now this? Someone is definitely messing with me. Just what exactly did Lil put in that frying pan?
‘Sorry,’ the boy (who is actually a man) says. ‘I couldn’t stand another minute of that lot. Do you live here?’
‘N-no,’ I say, because that is true, at least for the time being, and I’m clinging to the fact. I’m also trying to catch up with the scene in front of me.
Mum has left my bedroom untouched since I moved out and it’s still the room of my childhood: a bookcase full of battered books about ballet dancers and pony clubs, a small dressing table crowded with crusty Rimmel nail polishes and dried-up tubes of mascara. Beside the single bed, a poster of Geoffrey Chaucer is pasted on the wall next to one of Ryan Gosling in The Notebook. The bed itself is currently occupied by the beautiful man sprawled across my soft floral duvet cover.
He moves now, swinging his legs so that his feet hit the floor and he’s sitting up, his back against the wall, the top of his head brushing the bottom of the Ryan Gosling poster. He looks like he’s in his late thirties, inky hair that curls slightly in a way that makes you want to plunge your fingers into it, dark eyes lit with mischief, which stops the rest of his face from looking too severe – otherwise he’s a series of sharp corners, straight lines, perfectly symmetrical.
I realize he’s the pall-bearer from the funeral, and once again I feel that keen-edged slice of lust. It’s not helping with the shock of finding him in here. On my bed.
‘I’m Clementine,’ I blurt.
‘Clementine?’ The hard line of his mouth softens, and his smile causes all the air to leave my body.
I nod, before continuing inanely, ‘My mum says she chose it because clementines are the friendliest fruit.’
The smile widens, revealing the ghost of a dimple in his left cheek. Not totally symmetrical after all. ‘And why,’ he asks, ‘did you have to be any kind of fruit at all?’
‘Believe me, I have asked that question many times,’ I grumble, regaining a little of my poise. ‘And the reasoning remains unclear. Imagine being a small ginger girl called Clementine.’
He laughs, and the sound zings through me. I instantly want to hear it again.
‘My mum still calls me Teddy,’ he says. ‘If it helps.’
‘It does,’ I reply. ‘If even a very sensible name like Edward can be got at by embarrassing mums, then maybe I don’t need to feel so bad.’ His mouth opens as though he’s going to say something, but I press on nervously. ‘Most people call me Clemmie, anyway.’ I hold up the bottle of tequila. ‘Would you like a drink?’
He pats the bed next to him. ‘I won’t, thank you, but do you want to join me? We can hide out together?’
‘Who says I’m hiding out?’ I take a step closer. ‘Maybe I was having a great time down there.’
‘The giant bottle of tequila suggests otherwise.’
‘Fair enough.’ I take a deep breath and plonk myself down on the bed beside him, careful to leave space between us so that we’re not touching. I undo the bottle and take a short swig, wincing.
‘So, how did you know Carl?’ Edward asks.
‘He was an old family friend,’ I say. I sit back underneath the poster of Chaucer, lean against the cool wall, my feet dangling off the side of the bed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he replies. ‘Were you close?’
‘I actually hadn’t seen him for a long time. He was a nice man though, from what I can remember.’
Edward smiles. ‘Yeah, he was a good guy.’
