Page 97 of Hexed Up

When I’m done, I’m pretty pleased with the effect. Sure, I wouldn’t hang it in a gallery or call it particularly skilled. But it looks nice. And it’s the thought that counts, right?

I leave it to dry and go sieve the toddler-tantrum potion, collecting up all of the gunk and siphoning it into cute little bottles with homemade stickers already pinned to their fronts.

When that’s finished, I go back to the card, write my message inside, and leave it on his doorstep.

On Friday morning, my heart is thumping with anticipation when I open my front door, only to be met with an empty doorstep. The disappointment is crushing and a big wake-up call. This little note-sending, gift-giving routine couldn’t last forever. The man is busy. He has other things to do, even if he is currently madly, crazily in love with me.

So, I tuck away that sense of disappointment and, much to McGruff’s disgust, take him on an extra-long walk, romping across the Heath, up and down the hills, through the shady trees, and along the windy pathways. After an hour and a half of this, McGruff is puffing and panting and seriously overheating. I unclip him by the ponds and let him plunge into the water to cool off. When he emerges, he takes his revenge by standing right up close to me and, before I realise what he’s about to do, shaking his little body, coating me with cold pond water.

I can’t blame him. And actually, although I squeal and protest, it’s pretty cooling on the skin.

I reattach him to his lead and we walk back to the flat, where I work diligently and sensibly the whole day long, with no slip-ups, no explosions, and no interruptions for heartfelt gifts.

Seriously, what was I thinking? I’ve probably scared the man away, and that is pretty impressive, considering he’s currently bewitched into loving me.

Late afternoon, McGruff and I head to the supermarket to stock up on groceries for the weekend. I have a feeling I’m going to need a lot of chocolate and a lot of ice cream. I buy as much as I can carry. Then we set off back to the flat, my arms weighed down with shopping bags.

We’re back by five-thirty, and I almost drop the four shopping bags I’m carrying – and all their contents – when I find Horatio lingering in our communal hallway.

“What are you doing here?” I say, completely stunned.

I’ve never seen Horatio home from work on a weekday before seven o’clock. The only exception was last Friday, when he picked me up in his car for our weekend away. Other than that, he’s never returned home early. Ever.

“Um…” Horatio says, scratching the top of his head. “I live here.”

“Yes, I know that,” I say, taking a step forward and then, because my arms are absolutely killing me, dumping the four bags on the floor.

McGruff immediately takes his opportunity, shoving his head straight into a bag and snuffling at the ice cream tubs. I haul him out by the collar and give him a stern wagging of my finger, then turn my attention back to Horatio.

“You’re home early? From work?”

“Yeah,” he says, coming forward to pick the shopping up for me. “Do you need a hand?”

I hesitate. Is it me, or is there a funny feeling in the air? Or maybe that’s just me and my funny feelings. I’m feeling awkward. It reminds me of being in school and having a massive crush on Stephen Dingham. Stephen Dingham was dating the hottest girl in our year, obviously, and didn’t even know Iexisted. That didn’t stop me from being incredibly self-conscious around him. My tongue was always in a tangle and my feet were always tripping me up.

I unlock my front door, sliding back all the bolts, and beckon Horatio inside. He places all four shopping bags on the countertop, lifting them as if they weigh nothing but a bag of feathers.

“So why are you home early?” I ask him again, still trying to get to the bottom of this mystery.

He sighs dramatically and leans back against the counter. “I’m visiting my parents this evening.”

“Okay,” I say, hooking three tubs of ice cream from a shopping bag – don’t judge me – and cramming them into the freezer box.

“My mom wants me there for dinner.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I say, studying him over the top of the shopping bags, “I’m not always the best person at reading people, but I’d take a guess you’re not looking forward to it.”

I could be blind and still detect this. The vibes rolling off every inch of his body read: I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go.

He looks like a child being forced against his will to visit the dentist.

“No, I’m not,” he says, dropping his gaze to the ground and scuffing his shoe against the floor.

He’s dressed in a suit as usual – dark trousers, polished shoes, smart shirt – but he’s lost the tie, his jacket’s hanging from his fingers, and he’s rolled up his sleeves and undone the first few buttons of his white shirt. And while I like T-shirts, tattoos, ripped jeans, and piercings, I’m developing a strong attachment to this preppy look as well.

Why does the man have to be quite so hot?

“Why?” I say. “Why aren’t you looking forward to it?”