Chapter 21 #2
“So how heavy exactly are the weights that you can lift at the gym?” I ask him.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yeah, I’m curious.”
“Four hundred pounds,” he says, with just a hint of pride.
“Is that a lot?”
He grunts. “It’s taken me five years of training.”
“I’m very impressed,” I say, “and grateful for my ankle’s sake.”
We reach the hotel, and with a little bit of back and forth and some miscommunication, we finally get the door open and he deposits me in an armchair in the lounge, dropping to his knees.
“What are you doing?” I squeal, for one second convinced he’s about to repeat last night’s shenanigans. And right now, I may not have the self-restraint to refuse him.
He cocks one eyebrow and shakes his head. “Taking a look at your ankle.”
“Oh yeah,” I say, relaxing back into the chair as he unlaces my trainer and slides it gently from my foot. Then he takes ahold of my sock and I squeal a second time. “Do not remove that sock!”
“Why not?”
“I’ve just been hiking for an hour.” His brow creases in puzzlement. “It’s going to be … you know … smelly.”
“I’m not sure I’m smelling so great myself right now.”
On instinct, I can’t help taking an inhale. I’ve never exactly enjoyed the smell of boy sweat. In fact, entering the boys’ changing room on occasion has left me gagging. But like everything else about this man, even his sweaty body doesn’t smell so bad. In fact, it smells rather nice.
Carefully, he peels off my sock and my ankle is revealed.
“Two hundred years ago this would have been quite scandalous you know,” I point out as we both stare down at my ankle. It’s not nearly as knobbly as usual. It’s swollen and puffy and turning slightly purple.
“And highly erotic as well,” he murmurs, cradling my foot in his hands and lifting his dark gaze to me. His hands are large and my foot, despite the swelling, looks frankly teeny tiny in comparison. Where is that damn chaperone?
“I really don’t understand it,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and breezy and paying no attention to my pounding heart. “The ankle must be the most boring part of the human body.”
“But they were illicit and hidden away.” He strokes his fingers over my injured ankle and I suppress a shiver. “I’d better go find you some ice.”
“Wait!” I call after him as he starts to stand.
It may appear dramatic but my ankle isn’t hurting nearly as much as it was.
I’m not sure I strictly need the ice. Although, once I lumber up onto my feet, I find I’m wrong about that.
I bet the pain was just being masked by all the adrenaline racing around my blood.
“I think the best thing for it,” I tell him as he hovers in the doorway, “is to make some more anti-inflammatory ointment. It’ll fix things up really quickly.”
“And you can make this ointment?” he asks.
“Well, I need a few ingredients and a stove and a saucepan, but I assume those will be down in the kitchen. The only problem is getting there.”
I peer down at my foot, and my own personal hero comes striding back towards me and sweeps me up into his arms again. Although this time there is a little bit of a grunt.
We spend a few minutes striding through the rooms on the ground floor of this hotel, finally finding a door down a flight of stairs to a large kitchen in the basement. It’s so big, it’s practically the size of my flat back in Hampstead.
This time he deposits me on a hard wooden chair and then turns to face me.
“What do you need?”
“Like I said, a saucepan and then various herbs.”
I swing my gaze around, pointing towards a cupboard with a glass door and rows of herb pots and plants sitting behind it.
Horatio starts opening cupboard doors and peering inside, and I hobble on my good foot and hop towards the herb store.
“Hey, hey, hey!” he says, spotting me.
“It’s fine,” I say. “It’s going to take me some time to sort through these.”
I reach the counter, open the glass door, and start searching through for the various different ingredients.
“How big does this saucepan need to be?” Horatio asks me.
“Average size,” I say.
“Average size,” he murmurs, not impressed by that detailed instruction.
A minute later, he plops five different-sized saucepans down on the counter beside me.
“Perfect,” I tell him.
“What else can I do to help?” he asks.
I glance at him over my shoulder. That T-shirt is still sticking to him like lycra. He reminds me of a superhero in a superhero suit. Only his muscles are real and not down to padding and clever fakery.
“How about you go and get dry?” I tell him. “I’m going to have enough trouble brewing this ointment to cure my ankle. I don’t need to be brewing potions for colds, flu, and pneumonia as well.”
“I never get sick,” he tells me.
“Famous last words,” I warn him. “I’ll be fine. And if not, you’ll hear me scream.”
He laughs. That noise. It seriously does funny things to me, and I have to grip the counter because I don’t want to swoon and tumble to the ground again.
Ten minutes later, I have a concoction already simmering on the stove and Mr Hottie has returned in a fresh T-shirt and a fresh pair of trousers, although his hair is still damp and just calling out for me to run my fingers through. I swallow a little noise of appreciation and stir the concoction.
He comes to stand beside me and peers down into the bubbles.
“What’s in there?” he says.
“You really want to know?”
“Yep.”
“Well, we have dandelion, river water, dragon’s egg shells, and ketchup.”
“Ketchup?”
“Yep, it goes in practically everything.”
“No fairy toenails in this potion then,” he says, walking over to the various bottles and picking them up one at a time to read the labels.
“I already checked,” I say, “although I think I’m going to be pinching the dragon’s egg shell. You know it’s worth more than gold.”
“Your mum won’t be happy,” he tells me. “She’s already had a warning from the manager.”
“Oh yeah,” I say, gulping and feeling guilty, trying my best not to think about the events of last night and how good his tongue felt between–
“Molly?”
“Huh?”
“The potion; it’s boiling!”
“Demons’ buttholes!” I cry, heaving the saucepan off the heat and flicking off the flame. I stir the potion rapidly and as it cools it congeals, forming a paste the colour of slug slime.
“Looks appetising,” Horatio comments.
“I’m not going to eat it!” I blow across the paste and test the temperature with my finger.
“Still a little hot.” I blow on it some more and finally it’s cool enough to dip my fingers into and then smear across my swollen ankle.
I moan with relief, my eyelids fluttering shut and my body slackening as tension I didn’t know I was holding floats away.
When I open my eyes again, I find Mr Hottie staring right at me.
“What?”
“Er, nothing.” He shakes his head, then points towards my newly made ointment. “Does it works on biceps?”
“You’ve hurt your biceps?” I ask.
“They’re a little sore,” he confesses.
“Oh really Mr I-can-lift-400-pounds.”
“It was a long way!” he points out.
I smile at him. “Sure. Aching muscles, bruising, swelling, torn ligaments, and muscles. It works on it all.”
I point down at my ankle. It’s already returned to its normal size and its normal colour. I give my foot a little twist to check it’s fully functioning, and I’m relieved to find no pain at all.
“Impressive,” he says.
“You sound surprised.” I dip a wooden spoon back into the ointment and hold it out to him.
He plunges his fingers in, then smears the ointment first over his left bicep and then over the other. I try my best not to notice just how insanely hot that is.
Honestly, what is wrong with me? Don’t get me wrong, I like muscles. But I’ve liked tattoos, piercings, and leather jackets a hell of a lot more. I never realised I had such a penchant for muscles. However, I have to conclude that I most definitely do.
“I’m not surprised,” he tells me, “but I am impressed.”
“You sound surprised that you are impressed.”
“Your last potion did explode and nearly blow up your kitchen.”
“That’s happened once,” I point out. “One time only. I’ve never exploded the kitchen before. Although…”
“Although…” he says, his hand lingering over his flexed bicep.
“I have let a potion boil over before and nearly flooded the kitchen. And I did tip an anti-aging potion down the drain once without thinking about it, and a week later I had flowers sprouting from the plug hole. Oh, and there was also the time I singed off both my eyebrows.” I shake my head. “I swear they grew back funny.”
“Your eyebrows are wonderful.”
I ignore the compliment. “But most of the time, it works.”
“Because you’re good at this,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I am.”
“So why don’t you do it legally?”
“No diploma, remember.” I shrug. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry. As soon as we have those fairy toenails, we’ll have you back to normal in no time at all.”
And there’ll be no more inadvertent compliments about random parts of my body!