Chapter 6 #2
“Seeing as you’ve poisoned me with your potion and I’ve brought you breakfast, I think we can bypass the Mr Shaw and you can call me Horatio.” I crinkle up my nose. He stops. “What?”
“You’ve just always seemed more of a Harry or a Henry to me.”
“Molly,” he says, holding his hand to his chest as McGruff comes trotting back over, “first you insult my coffee, now my name. Way to gut a man completely.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, pacifying him by taking a large gulp of the very good coffee. “I’ll get used to it. What do your friends call you?”
“We’re friends now?”
“Not yet. I’m just curious.”
“My friends call me Horatio. It’s not exactly a name you can shorten.”
“Hore?” I suggest, giggling. “Ho?”
“You see what I mean?”
“Was your mom a Shakespeare fan or something?”
“No, a CSI fan,” he says and I can’t help giggling again.
He grins at me, all big blue eyes, those white teeth, and dragon’s eyelashes, dimples – actual dimples.
This man is too much. And my stomach actually flutters.
Which has to do with the unruly time of day, right?
Because as beautiful as this man is, he isn’t my type – far too serious, far too grumpy. He’d suit Prim much better than me.
We take the path up the hill, passing even more joggers, and a man pushing twins, another baby strapped to his chest.
McGruff trots along beside me, occasionally deviating to sniff at something in the bushes, and overhead a jumbo jet thunders on its way to the airport.
“I love the Heath at this time of year,” he says, hands deep in his pockets, tipping his chin backwards to let the sun’s rays fall across his face.
“Seriously?” I say, pushing my sunglasses securely up my nose, thankful for the factor 50 I smothered over my face. “That’s so predictable.”
“I suppose, being a witch, you prefer fall.”
I smile at the little slip of American vocabulary.
“Actually I like winter best – there’s something beautiful about the starkness of it and I get to snuggle up inside and not feel guilty about not being outside.
Also,” I add, side-eyeing the people around us, “please do not broadcast to everyone about my hidden identity.”
“Why – is it a secret?”
“Of course it’s a secret!” Something I probably should have told him yesterday. “Telling you about the paranormal underworld broke about a billion different rules.”
“You really like breaking rules.”
“You sort of left me no choice,” I remind him.
“If they hit you with a fine, I’ll pay it.”
“You’d probably have to sell the Ferrari.”
“It’s fine. I have another in my mom’s garage.”
I choke on my coffee, and Horatio has to resort to bashing me on the back. When I’ve regained my ability to speak, I say, “You have two Ferraris?”
I knew the man was wealthy. House prices in this area have skyrocketed over the last few decades, and while my aunt bought my flat for a reasonable sum back in the ’70s when Hampstead was full of hippies and intellectuals, Mr Hottie bought his for an eye-watering sum.
But still – two?
“I couldn’t choose between the colours.” He shrugs.
“That is ridiculous.” I shake my head. “You should sell one. Donate the money to charity.”
“If I don’t need it to pay off your fine, I will.”
“Hmmm,” I respond, not knowing if he’s winding me up.
We pass Kenwood House, the tourists already queuing up for their scones and ice cream, and the ponds, early morning swimmers racing laps in their caps and nose clips, and start the climb up Parliament Hill.
By the time we reach the brow of the hill, I’ve finished my coffee and all of the pastries, McGruff demolishing the other croissant and the cheese twirl.
Horatio takes the rubbish from my hands and deposits it in the bin like a true gentleman. Then he turns towards the path that winds back down the hill.
“Where are you going?” I ask him.
“That way?” he suggests.
“We haven’t admired the view yet.” I point towards mine and McGruff’s favourite bench and take a seat, McGruff flopping down with relief by my feet.
Horatio comes to sit beside me. There’s a respectable distance between us and yet I’m still very aware of the closeness of his very large body and the heat it seems to radiate.
For a moment, we both gaze out across the view – the green carpet of the Heath rolling down the hill and meeting the metropolis of London, tall skyscrapers lining the distant blue horizon.
“I think this might be my very favourite place in the whole of London.” I sigh. “Possibly the world.”
“I usually run right past it,” Horatio says.
“You do? Why? You know this view is protected? They’re not allowed to build anything that would block our view of St Paul’s Cathedral or the Houses of Parliament.”
“You can see those things?” he says, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees.
“Yep,” I say, sliding my sunglasses up to the crown on my head and squinting out towards the vista. “There,” I point, “that’s St Paul’s.”
It takes us a few minutes of pointing and counter-pointing but eventually he spots it.
“Shit, I never knew you could see that from here.”
“Too busy being busy. Not enough time to stop and smell the coffee.”
“Yeah,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “The job can be pretty demanding.”
“Finance?”
“Banking.”
I crinkle up my nose. Bankers have a reputation in this city and it isn’t a good one. “Do you enjoy it?”
“Most days. It’s intellectually stimulating, fast-paced, and I earn good money.”
“Did you always want to be a banker then?”
He snorts. “No, I wanted to be a train driver! I was a complete nerd as a kid.”
“Mr Shaw, you work in banking. You are still a nerd.” Just a very good-looking one with an awful lot of charisma I didn’t realise he had behind all those frowns – plus looks that could earn him a modelling career if he wanted one.
“Probably.” He leans in closer, and I get a satisfying whiff of his cologne, woody and masculine. “I do have a secret collection of model trains.”
“I don’t know if that’s nerdy or a little scary.”
“Says the witch,” he whispers.
“You think I’m scary?”
He considers me. “What are you, 5 ft 3?”
“5 ft 4,” I say in outrage, sitting up straighter on the bench.
“Have you ever hexed anyone?”
“No.”
“Injured them?”
“Once, by accident.”
“Punished an ex?”
“I’ve been very tempted!”
“No, Molly,” he says, gazing at me in a way that is far too penetrating, “I don’t find you scary.”
His eyes are way too blue and I feel like I’m being analysed like a spreadsheet of numbers. I glance back out to the safety of the view.
“So why did you become a banker and not a train driver?”
“My stepdad. He was a banker. I guess I wanted him to like me.”
I turn back to look at him, but he’s staring out across London now, his gaze glassy and I don’t feel like I can press him further.
“It really is breathtaking,” he murmurs.
“Maybe if you spent more time soaking in the view and less time running around in your silly little shorts, you’d spot these things.” I knock my sunglasses back into place, and lean back against the bench, closing my eyes. Beside me the bench groans and I figure he’s doing the same thing.
“I’d like to point out that you were the one planning on spending your morning in bed,” he counters. “And if anyone owns a pair of silly shorts, it’s you. Those ones yesterday were …” There’s another groan and this time it isn’t the bench.
“Those weren’t meant for public consumption.”
“I agree. Those shorts should be fucking illegal. The way they hugged your–”
“Shhh,” I say, pressing my finger to my lips, “this is not a suitable topic of conversation for McGruff’s innocent ears.”
“I’ve seen that dog stick his nose in about ten other dogs’ asses since we entered the park.
There’s nothing innocent about him.” I peek at him from under my sunglasses and he’s examining my dog with a look of repulsion.
“Also the first time I met you, I seem to recall him getting pretty up close and personal with my leg.”
“He was overly excited that day. And you probably smell nice.”
Horatio dips his head and sniffs the neck of his T-shirt. “You think I smell nice?”
“To dogs, yes, probably.”
“Jeez, you’re a tough customer, Molly. Trying to wring a compliment out of you is like trying to wring blood out of a stone.”
“Which is not actually that hard if you know the right spell,” I tell him, loving the way his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Besides, I’m sure you are inundated with compliments. I don’t think you need any from me. It wouldn’t do your over-inflated ego any good.”
“Who says I have an over-inflated ego?”
“The two Ferraris do.”
“Hmmm, I think you just don’t like compliments. Or for some reason, you’re not used to receiving them.”
“And what makes you surmise that, Poirot?”
“You look a little shocked every time I give you one.”
“I do not,” I say in outrage, realising he is completely correct.
The men I’ve dated in the past haven’t really done compliments – it was never part of their style.
I don’t remember the last time my family gave me one.
Damien sometimes tells me I look hot but I can never be sure if he’s messing with my head – the downside of being best friends with a demon.
“Anyway, the compliments are mostly potion-induced.”
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head, amusement hovering on his lips. I go to argue that, up until today he’s only ever talked to me to point out one fault or another. But before I get the chance, he adds, “I’ve always considered you very beautiful.”