Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
“It was so romantic,” Prim gushes floating next to me in the hot tub.
I swish my arms back and forth through the hot, bubbly water and examine my older sister.
Her dark, short hair is wet and slick against her head, and her usually pale skin has flushed pink.
Prim doesn’t usually talk about romance.
She’s always considered it codswallop. She’s too much like my mum.
Both of them believe in practicalities, realism, and pragmatism.
“It was kind of romantic,” I confess.
“It was hot,” my younger sister says, wading into the hot tub and floating down beside us.
She has her dark, curly hair pinned to the top of her head and she’s wearing a scarlet bikini that does not leave much to the imagination.
“Really very hot. And I bet he carried you upstairs and you had a lot of hot sex while we were bumbling through the wet countryside having to endure Uncle Harold bemoan the witching authority’s new plans for tax reform. ”
“We didn’t have lots of hot sex,” I tell her. “We had a nice cup of tea and some cheese sandwiches.”
“Oh please,” Tiggie says. “Have you seen the man? I bet you can’t keep your grubby little fingers off him.”
“He’s very good looking,” Prim muses.
“Yes, although if you’d ever seen the merfolk out in the Caribbean, you’d really appreciate beauty,” Tiggie says.
I’m about to argue with her, although Minotaur’s nose-ring knows why, when the sound of shocked gasps ring out around the little hotel spa. There’s only me, my sisters, Cousin Nina, Cousin Eva, my mum, and Aunt Jane in here. But the gasps are still loud enough to catch my attention.
I wonder what’s happened now. Probably my mother’s found a toenail at the bottom of the swimming pool or a wad of hair in one of the drains.
However, the expression on Tiggie’s face – her mouth falling so far open I can see her tonsils, and her eyebrows shooting right up to the top of her forehead – tells me it’s something worse.
“Oh jeez,” she mutters. “I take it back. He is the hottest man alive.”
I frown, not understanding what she’s talking about, and turn my head to see Mr Hottie sauntering into the spa. Luckily, he’s not wearing one of those tiny pairs of budgie smugglers, but he is wearing a tight pair of swimming shorts that leave about as much to the imagination as Tiggie’s bikini.
“Oh, stars alive,” I mutter, sinking low into the hot tub, right under the water, and wishing I could swim down the drainpipe.
What was I thinking with this stupid fake-dating business?
What did I think was going to happen? Well, I certainly didn’t think he’d be parading around in a little pair of swimming trunks as if he were competing in a Mr Universe contest. And I didn’t think my heart would be thumping and my blood heating every time I looked at the man.
Tiggie grabs my arm and pulls me up to the surface.
“What are you doing?” she asks, examining my face for signs of insanity.
“Nothing,” I say, then gulp as Horatio reaches the hot tub and climbs down inside to join us.
“Why aren’t you at golf?” I blurt out.
We’ve done a few unspeakable things to each other now.
Things that should have been strictly off the table.
I’ve seen him in a wet T-shirt. I’ve seen him smear ointment on his flexed biceps.
I’ve seen him all hot and bothered. I’ve seen his face between my thighs.
I haven’t seen him with quite so little clothing on before, although I’ve imagined it several times.
Lots of times. More times than I definitely should have.
“I don’t really like golf,” he explains. “So your dad said it would be fine for me not to join the men for golf and come to the spa instead.”
Curse my father. The next time I see him, I’ll definitely be hexing him too. Why does he have to be so accommodating and nice? If it were my mother, she’d insist that the boys stay together and the girls stay together, and that we follow the plan.
“You don’t like golf?” Tiggie giggles, practically fluttering her wet eyelashes at Horatio. “You’re a banker. I thought it was mandatory to like golf.”
“Exactly. I spend far too much of my time on a golf course with a load of – how would you Brits phrase it – wankers.”
“Wankers, bankers, same thing, aren’t they?” Tiggie teases.
“In most cases, yes.”
“You’re not a fan of your colleagues then?” I finally pipe up, finding my voice again.
He leans his head back against the side of the hot tub and closes his eyes. “Not really. I can’t say I love the job either. I think being a Magical Enforcement Officer sounds much more interesting and exciting.”
He opens his eyes, directing his comment at my older sister, whose skin flushes an even deeper shade of red. Does this man realise the effect he has on female capillaries?
“I guess it is interesting and exciting sometimes,” Prim concedes.
“Don’t play it down,” Tiggie tells her. “It’s really exciting. Do you know, two months ago, Prim was involved in a raid of illegal dragon smugglers.”
“Were you?” I say.
“Yes. But don’t tell Norman. I told him I was at a Rules and Regulations conference in Birmingham.”
“Ew,” I say, thinking that conference sounds worse than a migraine. Then, I pause and tilt my head to one side. “Why would you lie to Norman?”
Prim stands up suddenly in the hot tub. “I think Mum’s waving at me,” and then she hurries out of the water.
“What was that about?” I ask Tiggie when she’s gone.
“Trouble in paradise,” she says, shrugging.
“We can only hope,” I whisper.
“You’re not a fan of Norman, then?” Horatio asks.
“No,” both Tiggie and I say in unison.
“I mean, he’s nice,” I add, suddenly feeling guilty, like I’m betraying my big sister who does seem to have decided this is the man she wants to spend her life with. “But just a bit dull.”
“Really dull,” Tiggie mumbles.
“Right,” Horatio says, leaning back again to gaze up at the ceiling. “And you don’t like dull?”
“No,” I say. “I really don’t. Life is far too short for dull and boring.”
* * *
Later that evening, as I watch Horatio attempt to act out The Lion King in the game of family charades after dinner – a task that proves doubly difficult because most of my family have no concept of, or interest in, the civilian world and have never seen or heard of the film and I can’t help smiling at him for his willingness to look ridiculous and keep trying anyway – it dawns on me, suddenly and spectacularly.
I am developing feelings for my fake boyfriend.
The fake boyfriend I have accidentally bewitched with a potent love potion.
The realisation has me frozen in my seat and unable to speak, which means poor Horatio crawls around on the floor roaring for the next two minutes because no one guesses the right answer.
“Better luck next time, lad,” my dad says when he reveals the answer and everybody gawps at him blankly.
“I thought my acting skills were better than that,” Horatio mumbles as he flops down in the chair beside me, and my cousin Eva takes his place. “I also thought you’d get it.”
“Wh-wh-wh-what?” I say, stuttering through my words because… feelings for a fake boyfriend whom I’ve bewitched? What the Jiggins?!
I’ve messed things up in my life. Some of those messes have been pretty darn dramatic. Getting thrown out of the Witching Academy is probably at the top of that list. But this, this is definitely pushing for pole position.
Despite what Damien may think, I don’t catch feelings that often or that frequently, and I certainly haven’t caught feelings in a very long time.
But feelings must be the reason my belly does that swooping thing when he looks at me, or speaks to me, or smiles at me, or laughs at my jokes, or says something nice to me or lies out on a sun-lounger in nothing but tight swimming trunks.
Ugh. Feelings. This isn’t good.
I reach for my wine glass and down the lot.
“Are you okay?” he asks me as I slam my now-empty glass back on the side table and motion for a refill.
“Fine,” I say with a hiccup. “It’s just, you know, families. I think maybe … I mean … would you mind if we left early tomorrow morning?”
“You don’t want to stay for lunch and the board games?”
I pull a face and shake my head.
“Sure,” he says, reaching down to tickle McGruff’s ear, the dog having settled comfortably by my fake boyfriend’s feet.
Then he lifts his gaze to my cousin Eva, whose acting skills are leaving everyone equally baffled, and shouts out, “Pride and Prejudice!”
She yelps with delight and claps her hands, and Horatio rises to his feet.
“Maybe go for something a little easier this time,” I advise him.
“I thought The Lion King was easy,” he says.
He really has no idea about our world, which – apart from the complications around faking our relationship and love potions that have yet to be reversed – is an added reason why this could never work.
A civilian and a witch is almost as unheard of as a witch and a vampire.
I can’t see that working. Maybe for a few months of fun, but long term? No way.
Imagine the shared Christmases. Not to mention Halloween. I shudder just thinking about it.
“Alien,” I call out as he mimes his hand bursting through his stomach, and he nods his head at me thankfully.
Unfortunately, putting Mr Hottie out of his misery means I’m up next. And though my ankle is healed, my knees are still a little wobbly on account of all these feelings.
I step out in front of my family, all their eyes staring at me. Horatio’s too. And I swear it must be written all over my face.
I have feelings for that man.
I have feelings for that man.
I have feelings for that man.
I have feelings for that man.
It’s so mortifying.
“Come on,” Prim says, nudging Norman, who once again has his nose buried in his mobile phone.
“Right,” I say, collecting myself.
Unfortunately, and unhelpfully, the only films, books, and songs that come floating through my mind are all love-related. Love Actually. ‘Love in an Elevator’. Love Story.
Love, love, love, love, love.
Hang on. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in love with Mr Hottie. I have feelings for him. There’s a difference, right? A big difference.
I lift my chin and draw back my shoulders. I’m going to do something which is the antithesis of love.
I stick up a finger.
“One word,” Prim calls out.
I make the motions of an old cine film.
“Movie!” she cries out.
Then I motion stabbing someone to death.
My family all stare at me like I’ve lost my mind, but Horatio’s calling out, “Psycho!” almost immediately.
“Wow,” Tiggie says, swirling a straw around a full cocktail glass. “You two are really in tune. It’s like you can read each other’s minds or something.”
I glance at Horatio, who glances at me, and then I scurry back to my seat.
“You’re up again, Horatio,” my mum calls out.
“No,” I say, putting my foot down. “Leave the man alone. Uncle Harold, you haven’t had a go yet.”
Uncle Harold is utterly hopeless at charades and the game fizzles out almost immediately after that, everybody retreating upstairs to their bedrooms, even Prim and Tiggie, who both complain about being tired after all the exercise, despite my best attempts to convince them we should stay up for more nightcaps.
“What’s wrong with you?” Tiggie asks me, whispering in my ear. “Why are you trying to get us to come to the bar? I thought you’d be dying to dive back into bed with your new boyfriend.”
“Yeah,” I say, obviously not very convincingly because my little sister grabs me by the elbow and hauls me into the nearest side room, slamming the door shut behind us.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Nothing’s going on,” I say, wishing there was a potion that made people better at lying.
“Have you had an argument or something? Or is he actually a complete cad behind that perfect facade? You do have a bad habit of picking complete cock-heads.”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. He’s lovely, really lovely,” I say, probably a little too enthusiastically, a little too swooning. My sister actually seems convinced, but then I go and ruin it by adding, “I just want to spend time with my two sisters.”
Her eyes narrow immediately.
“Since when?”
“Since always. It’s you two, who are always too busy to spend time with me. “
Tiggie – who has had several glasses of Prosecco and several more cocktails – wraps me in a hug. Her detective skills are certainly impaired, and she’s feeling much more mushy than normal.
“Oh, you’re so sweet. I think it comes with being the middle child.”
“I thought middle children were meant to be difficult and unruly.”
“Well, you’re that too,” she says, “but we still love you.” She kisses my cheek. “Now go upstairs and have very hot sex with your very hot boyfriend but try not to set off any more fireworks.”
“That wasn’t me,” I lie.
“Sure, Molly, sure it wasn’t,” she says, giving me a wink and skipping out of the room.
I gulp.
Unfortunately, hot sex is off the table. Sometimes I think being the middle child has left me cursed, because this situation is very, very cruel.