Right now, the shop was still his.
This week could change everything. This week could make sure that he still had a place to call home, and a business that was his pride and joy.
Call it tiredness, call it the decaf tea, but Quinn created a plea on a fundraising website. Ivy’s fundraiser had faltered, going out with less of a bang than a wet firework. He needed something more refined that was set up from the heart.
It was late, he knew, but he posted the link on his social media sites, personal and business, explaining the situation. He hated asking for money, but something Ivy said stuck with him, and it wasn’t the tarot reading this time.
A page where people could donate to him so he might buy the shop from Harold. Well, thatwouldbe a Christmas miracle. But that was the only option he had.
He expected nothing; not a bite until morning. He knew there was a lot to raise, and in such a short amount of time. That would be hard to do. Near impossible.
Then there was a ping from his email. He looked confused, only to see a donation.
A donation for £100.
A donation from N. Sage.
Quinn leapt for joy. He wanted to run to the windows and shout into the night that Noah Sage was his first donation, and it was a big one. He was about to refresh his email again, to see if someone else might have donated, when a message came through on his personal Instagram.
Noah.
What are you doing up at this time?
Quinn replied.
The witching hour.
I’m a witch
Figured.
What do you mean by that?
I had a feeling you cast a spell on me.
Quinn’s eyes widened. He re-read the exchange, waiting for the moment that Noah might unsend the message, but it stayed. A little green ball next to the profile photo of Noah blinked at him, telling him they were both active in the chat and online.
Quinn pictured Noah in that cosy bedroom, maybe alone, but no doubt with Matty. He wondered if Noah was waiting for him to reply. Or maybe he was already offline, and the chat hadn’t refreshed.
Why are you awake?
It was a safe reply, one that wasn’t flirty, one that didn’t break boundaries.
Though he wanted to break everything. He did.
I do my best writing at night.
Quinn could picture him now at his oak desk, cast in a low orange glow, maybe topless, his back muscles rippling as he typed.
Thanks for the donation.
You’re welcome.
Then Quinn thought of something.
How did you know to message me on this account?
It was his personal account, and as far as he was aware, Noah hadn’t followed Quinn back, which was rude but totally okay, of course.
