Page 3 of Too Hexed to Handle

‘I understand,’ I say. ‘But I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. You’re welcome to try the Duck in the Dark, but it’s twenty miles further into the forest, and between you and me, the name’s a little too literal. Nobody wants to be woken by quacking in the night.’

The woman chews on her lip, and the man immediately fixates on the way her teeth sink into the plump flesh. I watch with no small amount of glee as he swallows. Hard. I’m practically giddy. He wants her so badly I’m afraid he might throw her over my bar and take her here and now.

‘It’s one night,’ he says. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage.’

Their gazes connect again, as though tied by an invisible string. I can already sense those knots tightening, pulling together until they can’t be undone, and the room I’m offering is the final flourish; the bow sealing everything shut.

I slide the solitary key towards them. Casually. Really, I want to shove it in their hands and march them straight upstairs. ‘Here you go. It’s fifty pieces of gold for the night, with breakfast included.’

‘Actually –’ a deep, all-too-familiar voice says from behind me. I fight the urge to groan when heat hits my back. ‘We do have a second room available.’

Ugh. Every inch of me tenses. Around the time Astin stopped reading numbers over my shoulder, he started meddling. He says this is acceptable because I am also meddling, but everyone knows meddling with meddling can only lead to . . . well, an excess of meddling. Which cannot be a good thing. In fact, I know it’s a bad thing because he is ruining my plan to get these two clearly in love people in the same bed.

I tread on his toe. ‘That room’s flooded, remember? A pipe burst.’

His arm brushes my side as he fishes out another key. He meets my untruth with one of his own, his breath hot and his voice low against my ear. ‘It got fixed.’

Hexes, he’s infuriating. Sometimes I wonder why I let him stick around. Granted, he’s willing to work for free in exchange for room and board, but who really needs pretty flowers and well-maintained bushes? Not me.

I spin round, ending up with a nose full of linen shirt for my trouble (he has seven in total, dyed a different colour for each day of the week. Today is green, so it must be Thursday). He retreats several steps, the new inches between us allowing me to look at him properly. And by look, I mean glare. And by glare, I mean force him to read my mind and know I am on the cusp of making another successful match.

The problem is, Astin knows exactly what I’m thinking, but he doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t believe in love at all. He gives me a bland smile, like he already thinks he’s won, which only makes me glare harder. Unfortunately, glaring at Astin leads me back to looking at Astin, which I generally prefer not to do. Nobody with such terrible opinions should have a jaw that chiselled. It’s unfair.

‘Here you go.’ Although he’s talking to the couple, his blue eyes stay locked on mine as he pushes the second key over the bar. My blood pressure spikes. ‘One hundred gold per room. Dinner’s an extra twenty, if you want it.’

The couple murmur words of thanks and set off for the steep staircase in the far corner, allowing me to seethe at my gardener in peace. Once they’re out of sight, we’re left with nothing but the crackle of the fire and the rain lashing at the window for company.

‘I can’t believe you did that.’ I shove the lust-sprinkled roses to the far side of the bar, given they’re useless to me now. ‘They needed my help!’

Astin rakes a hand through his hair, showcasing knuckles bruised from doing goodness knows what. I’ve never considered gardening a dangerous activity, but he frequently appears to have gone ten rounds with a trowel. When he pulls his hand free, his hair falls over his forehead in waves, as black as onyx but looking as soft as silk, not a single strand out of place, as though he’s recently visited Madame Lucinda’s salon in town. It’s baffling to me, how a man who spends most of his day outdoors manages to keep his hair that tidy. I hate him all the more for it.

‘What they needed,’ he says, ‘is the two rooms they asked for. And you need the extra money. You’ve run out of credit with –’

‘I know who I’ve run out of credit with, thanks,’ I snap. Actually, I don’t. I’m avoiding the letters that arrive with the word overdue stamped on the envelope. Out here, our mail is delivered sporadically by anyone who happens to be passing through, which means it’s conceivable the letters might never have reached me. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I need to put out the fire. If it’s cold in here, they’ll have to snuggle.’

‘I wasn’t aware hypothermia was one of the extra services we offered.’

‘I’m sure it would be, if you found a way to charge for it.’ I fold my arms. ‘Why are you even here? Don’t you have a tree to go prune?’

Another flash of lightning floods the room, and he gives me a withering look I’m sure I don’t deserve. ‘It’s raining.’

‘Then take the rest of the day off. Go and do . . . whatever it is you do in your free time.’

After nearly two years, you’d think I’d know the answer to this, but I can count on one hand the things I know about Astin. After inheriting the inn from my grandmother and deciding to make a go of running it – much to the rest of my family’s dismay – he appeared at my door after I opened. It was only a couple of weeks after the attack, and all I knew of him was that he’d gained a hexmark and lost a sister that night. I’d taken one look at his face and said he could stay as long as he needed.

Of course I didn’t realise sympathising with him would mean living with an insomniac who creeps around at night while spending his days offering me lectures on Things Daisy Is Doing Wrong. If I ask him about his life, I’m lucky to get anything more than a grunt in response.

We might share some mutual trauma, but it doesn’t make him any less of an ass.

Instead of going away to prepare for his strange nocturnal activities, he settles for squeezing past me and saying, ‘I’ll sort out your fire, shall I?’

I pout while he pours a bucket of water over the flames, sending a gush of smoke into the empty sitting area. It’d be a lot easier to stay annoyed with him if he didn’t end most of his lectures by finding a new way to make himself useful.

When he’s finished, he drops into one of the armchairs – covered in a floral fabric he once described as the most hideous pattern he’d ever seen – and glances over at me. ‘Happy?’

I’d be happier if our guests were in one room and I didn’t have to resort to making myself freeze in the name of love. ‘Delirious,’ I tell him.

‘Excellent. So maybe now’s a good time to discuss this?’ He slides his hand down the side of the seat, and my stomach drops as he pulls out a red envelope.