Chapter 6
Chapter Six
I hear from him the very next morning.
I wake to him leaning on my buzzer and McGruff yapping in response.
At first, I ignore the door and my dog, but when it becomes apparent that neither are going to stop the incessant racket, I stumble from my bed, blowing hair from my face and wiping sleepy dust from my eyes, and open the door.
“You’re not dressed?” he says in that American lilt – one that shouldn’t be so damn sexy at this god-awful hour.
I glance down at my body. I’m wearing an oversized Oasis T-shirt.
“It’s early and it’s a Sunday. No one in their right mind would be up and out of bed,” I point out. “Please go away until it’s a more civilised hour.”
He laughs like I’m joking and steps inside my flat, shutting the door behind him. “I thought we could spend the day together.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise,” I mutter, attempting to drag my fingers through the crows’ nest that has become my hair overnight. I’m not sure I bothered to remove my makeup in the shower last night. I probably have a combination of eyeliner and mascara all over my cheeks.
“I don’t think I can be apart from you,” he says. “Last night was very difficult. The potion. The feelings …” He waves his hand through the air.
I narrow my eyes and consider him. His face tells me he’s serious, but the man works in banking. I bet he has an incredibly steely poker face.
“Are you messing with me?” I ask him.
“Me?” he says pointing at his chest innocently. “It was your potion.”
“True,” I say, yawning as I stretch my arms over my head, realising a bit too late that that raises the hem of my T-shirt dangerously close to my knicker line.
Luckily, Mr Hottie doesn’t seem to notice.
“It’s a beautiful day outside.”
“It’s scorchingly hot,” I point out. “Which is okay for you and your golden Californian skin. But I will fry like a fish in a chippie if I step out into that light.”
“I thought you were a witch, not a vampire,” he deadpans. “The weather broke last night, it’s much cooler today. Also, I’m not from California.”
“You aren’t?”
He shakes his head. “Chicago. But I’ve lived over here since my mom remarried when I was fifteen.”
“You didn’t fancy moving back?”
“No, I like it here – despite all the rain, appalling coffee, and the depressing nature of the people.”
“I’m a tea drinker,” I inform him.
“Tea tastes like gnat piss.”
I scowl at him. “Coffee tastes like someone boiled their own scrotum.”
“Because you’ve never had decent coffee before.”
I rub at my eyes. “It’s far too early in the morning to be having this conversation.”
“You’re really not a morning person, are you?” He shakes his head. “It’s the best part of the day. You shouldn’t be missing it. You know, you’re 20% more productive in your day if you’re up by 6am.”
“That is not a thing. Goodbye, Horatio,” I say, pointing towards my door.
“Don’t you need to walk your dog?”
“Huh!” I say, not falling for that one, because, McGruff, unlike every other dog on the planet, is not a fan of a walk.
I have to brigade, coerce, and drag him on one every day.
However, when I peer down at McGruff, he’s squinting up at me in that way he does when he needs to go pee and I realise, in my flustered state last night, I forgot to take him out to relieve himself.
“Hmmm, he probably does need a walk around the block.”
“How about a walk around the Heath?” Mr Hottie suggests. “Look, I’ll make you a deal.” I raise an eyebrow. “You go get dressed and I will return in ten–”
“Twenty,” I barter.
“Twenty minutes with the world’s best coffee.”
“That is a high claim, Mr Shaw.”
He laughs, the noise rumbling in his chest. “I have freshly ground Columbian Supremo beans. And I own a Elixur500.”
“What is that? A space ship?”
He laughs again, although I was being dead serious. “No, it’s only the best coffee machine in the world. You wait. I’m going to convert you into a coffee-drinker.”
I can’t help smiling. His early morning cheerfulness is infectious. Is this the effect of my love potion? Or does he always start out this happy in the morning and sink into a grump as the day progresses? It looks like today, I will be finding out.
“Okay,” I finally concede, “but make it a strong coffee.”
“Are you sure about that?” he says, smirking.
“I don’t usually get up for at least another three hours!” I tell him, heading for the bathroom.
As I take another shower, this time scrubbing away yesterday’s makeup, I wonder if this is a date.
I also wonder if that is such a good idea given what Damien told me last night.
But I’m up and awake now, McGruff does need a walk, and I am responsible for Mr Hottie’s current predicament – which is, what? An unhealthy interest in me?
I snort. It’s very hard to believe that can be true – even with the potent effects of the potion. Mr Hottie has never looked at me before unless he’s been looking at me with a scowl of disapproval. It was frankly nice to see him smile for once.
It isn’t a date. It’s just two neighbours going for a walk. Therefore, I should throw on an old T-shirt and an even older pair of shorts, drag my hair up into a ponytail, and forgo any makeup.
Instead, I pick out a cute tea dress I picked up from a vintage shop last year, add cat flicks over my deep brown eyes, and brush out my dirty-blonde hair.
It’s a look my mum despises. She thinks it’s messy – which is her code for slutty.
But she let me listen to too many rock bands as a little girl.
I wanted to be Courtney Love when I grew up – not the next president of the Witching Society or head mistress of the Witching Academy.
She only has herself to blame for my lack of life goals.
When I step back out into my lounge, I find Mr Hottie has already let himself back in and is settled in my armchair, a travel mug in his hand, and another waiting on the table along with a paper bag. McGruff is ready in his collar and lead.
“It’s been thirty minutes,” he informs me, tapping his watch, as his gaze travels over my form in a way that has my cheeks heating. Maybe I overdid it with the outfit; maybe, like my mother, he won’t approve of this style. His usual female companions dress in Gucci and Chanel.
“You’re lucky I didn’t head straight back to bed,” I point out.
“Coffee,” he says, pointing to my cup, “and pastries. I wasn’t sure what you’d like so I got a selection.”
“Pastries?” I say, my stomach growling at the prospect. I pick up the bag, still warm, and peer inside. There’re croissants, cinnamon rolls, and chocolate swirls. “Where did you magic these up from? Do you also own a pastry chef?”
“The Steam Beam – at the other end of the street.” The over-priced coffee shop I can only afford to indulge in when I actually have money in my bank account. Perhaps the next three weeks aren’t going to be so awful after all.
“I’m kind of shocked you eat anything with, you know, sugar,” I say, considering which pastry to choose first.
He looks at me with that amusement again. “What makes you say that?”
“All the …” I waggle my finger in his direction.
He’s wearing a pair of dark chinos today, matched with a white T-shirt that sets off that tan and his dazzling white teeth.
If I didn’t already know he hails from over the pond, I’d know it by those teeth.
They are totally straight, totally symmetrical, and gleamingly white.
“All the …”
“Muscles.” I swallow. “Don’t you exist on a diet of whole chickens, rice cakes, and boiled cabbage?”
“Nah,” he says, “I have a soft-spot for sweet things. They’re my weakness.” He licks his lips as he says that and I’m not sure he’s talking candy.
“Let’s go,” he tells me, rising to his feet, as I slide a pair of love heart-shaped sunglasses onto my nose, pick out a pain au chocolat, hook McGruff’s lead over my arm, and grab my flask.
I have to admit, the aroma wafting from the flask is rather dreamy – almost as good as the aroma wafting from the man himself – and certainly better than the aroma lingering in my flat: a combination of the love potion and old dog.
Mr Hottie waits for me as I lock my front door.
“Why so many locks?” he asks me with another of his frowns.
“Trolls.”
“Ahhh,” he says, taking that piece of information in his stride, “I thought it was an ex-boyfriend or something.”
“Oh no, most of my exes don’t hang around,” I blurt out, wishing I hadn’t said that. Although, if he’s at all observant, he must have noticed the lack of male companions coming and going from my flat.
When we step out of our building and onto the street, I realise he’s right about the temperature – it’s easily seven or eight degrees lower than it was yesterday, although the sun remains startlingly bright, even at this early hour.
We walk along our street, past the old Victorian houses, The Steam Beam, and the Crooked Antler pub on the corner, round the bend and onto the Heath.
There’s an alarming number of people out and about at this hour.
Most of them are running, dressed in lycra and on a mission.
There are a few dog walkers, several dads pushing prams, and one or two church goers.
I unhook McGruff from his lead and he dashes off to pee against a bush.
“You haven’t tried your coffee yet,” he says, taking a long gulp of his own, followed by a bite of a croissant. The most plain of all the pastries. Not such a sweet tooth after all.
“I’m telling you, I can’t stand the stuff.”
“Just try it.”
I shrug and bring the flask up to my mouth. The first taste against my lips is bitter and I’m resigned to hate his over-priced, pretentious coffee, but as the liquid tips into my mouth, the flavour mellows and I have to admit, it’s pretty good. Not that I’m going to admit that to him.
I swallow my mouthful. “Not bad,” I tell him.
“Come on. It’s delicious. You have to admit it.”
“I don’t have to admit anything, Mr Shaw.”