Page 70 of Hexed Up

“Nope,” I say. “Nope. Nope. Nope.”

“George!” my mum shouts. “First aid kit, please!”

My dad comes hurrying down the line, with a green medical bag clutched to his chest. He hands it to my mother, who rummages through it, pulling out a roll of bandages and then a jar of her home-brewed anti-inflammatory lotion.

“Not to worry,” she explains as she unscrews the lid, “we’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

However, the confidence on her face wanes as she glances down into the jar.

“It’s empty,” she says, a flush immediately claiming her cheeks. This is not like my mum. She’s usually super organised and super prepared. Failing to stock up the ointment is a major failure.

“It’s okay,” I say. “We can wrap it in the bandage and I’ll hobble along.” I grit my teeth at the idea. We’ve been walking for an hour. It’s an hour back to the hotel. An hour hobbling along when the pain already has tears bubbling in my eyes.

“I’ll tell you what,” Horatio says, stepping forward and taking command of the situation, “you continue your walk. I’ll take Molly back.”

“I think it’s going to take two of you,” I admit.

“No, it won’t,” he says, and before I know what he’s doing, he’s scooped me up into both his arms.

I make a little squeak, and I swear every female relative I have swoons slightly at the sight.

“You can’t carry me all the way back. We’ve been walking for an hour.”

“You don’t weigh a thing,” Horatio says, which I see out of the corner of my eye has my mother frowning. “I lift much heavier weights at the gym.”

“Right,” I say. “It’s still a long way.”

“Better get going then,” he says. “We’ll see you all later.”

And before anyone else can argue with him, he spins around and starts walking us back the way we came.

When we’re out of earshot of the others, he says, “I think there’s a shortcut.”

“So you were just showing off, offering to carry me on an over-an-hour hike to impress my relatives.”

“Of course. Isn’t that what I’m here for this weekend?”

“I suppose so,” I confess, trying not to notice how comfortable it feels in his arms and pressed against his muscular chest. A chest which is visible because I’m wearing his coat and he’s wearing nothing but a T-shirt; a wet T-shirt that’s clinging to his body and ensuring every single muscle he possesses is outlined as clear as day.

The shortcut definitely reduces our walking time by half, but that still leaves Mr Hottie carrying me across the countryside in the drizzling rain for half an hour. And without any complaint or any moaning. For a man who used to complain and moan whenever I left a pair of shoes in the communal corridor, or forgot to separate my recycling, this is strange behaviour indeed. It has to be the love potion, right?

How could he have gone from finding me excruciatingly annoying to literally acting like my very own action hero? Although, last night in the bar, he said he liked me as soon as we met. Though that was acting, right? Part of the fake dating.

It’s all so confusing. My head starts to hurt as much as my ankle.

In fact, that’s a little bit of a lie. My ankle is feeling a lot better. It’s no longer throbbing and the pain is no longer soaringthrough my leg. I could admit this to Mr Hottie, save him the trouble of carrying me and let me hobble the remaining distance.

But honestly… isn’t this every woman’s fantasy? Haven’t I been dreaming of this since hormones hit me like a bus at puberty? And won’t I be storing it away in my little bank of naughty fantasies? Yeah, this is way too good an opportunity to dismiss. Even if the poor man is going to have sore arms by the time we make it back to the hotel.

“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?”