Page 23 of Too Hexed to Handle

Whether he believes me or not, he nods. ‘Good.’

‘Good.’ I nod back. We have yet to stop staring at each other. I can’t decide if I want to laugh or cry at the absurdity of the situation.

Another beat, two, three later, and we lunge for the door, our hands reaching the knob at the exact same moment. His fingers graze my skin for all of a second before he pulls away like I’ve scalded him.

‘Sorry,’ he says.

‘No, it’s – I’m sorry.’ Honestly, I’m not sure what either one of us is apologising for. I do know we’ve been standing in the corridor for far longer than is considered normal, and we’ve yet to open the door.

‘Look, I . . .’ There’s an intent in the way he paces forward now, frowning as though he’s about to tell me something serious – I cringe against the wall, imagining he’s going to give me a list of reasons why all the depraved thoughts in my head are unacceptable – but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. He closes it. Opens it again. I get the slightest whiff of something floral before he says, ‘Never mind.’

Astin opens the door to reveal a room that cannot be big enough for two people. One side of the bed is flush against the window, threadbare curtains skimming the top of the sheets, while a tiny strip of wooden floor separates the other side from the washroom. The rest of the space is occupied by a dresser jammed against a small wardrobe.

‘Hm.’ I try to find something nice to say. Running a hand along the dresser to find it free of dust, I go with, ‘It’s smaller than any of our rooms, but at least it’s clean. A solid two out of five stars. Maybe three, if breakfast is nice.’

‘We won’t be staying long enough for you to rank the breakfast options.’ Astin drops our bags on to the small patch of floor available, before jerking his head at my leg. ‘Can you manage getting in the bath with that ankle?’

I gape at him – something I’m doing a lot of today. Leaving Honeysuckle Inn has been the equivalent of entering some parallel world, one where I am forced to be in his proximity for longer than I’m used to, and it’s making me notice new things about him, like the way there’s a faint scar above his upper lip – I dread to think where it came from – and that one eye is a slightly lighter shade of blue than the other. Meanwhile, he’s going around saying unexpected things like, Should we bathe together?

He raises a brow, as though I’m the one acting strange. ‘Daisy? Did you want a bath? You’re covered in mud.’

Oh. Oh, well, that makes more sense. Of course he wasn’t suggesting –

I take a deep breath. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ Clearly, I need a cold one.

I grab my pack and bring it with me. Once I’m in the washroom, it’s evident cold water is, in fact, my sole option, because I’m presented with two buckets of freezing water and no fire to heat them. Another tick in the pros of Honeysuckle Inn column. I fill the tub and sit on the edge, allowing the water to soothe the swelling in my ankle before scrubbing the rest of myself clean.

When I’ve finished, I change into my nightdress, cringing as I check the mirror. Packing in a hurry this morning wasn’t a good idea. The straps are too thin, the material too flimsy. It clings to me in all the wrong – or I guess, depending on your opinion, the right – places. Between this and my strange behaviour in the hallway, Astin will think I have some misguided notion of seducing him.

Clutching my pack to my chest in a desperate attempt to hide what I’m wearing, I limp out of the washroom. Although we’re only here for one night, Astin has taken it upon himself to unpack. His shirts are hanging in the wardrobe in the order he wears them, and the bread and cheese we brought are piled in a neat stack on top of the dresser, although the packages are squashed. He wrings his hands together like he doesn’t know what to do with them now he’s run out of things to rearrange.

I clear my throat. ‘Washroom’s free.’

He jumps at the sound of my voice, head whipping round at top speed before he goes utterly still. There’s a mild note of horror in his voice when he asks, ‘What are you wearing?’

‘A nightdress. It was the first thing I found to pack,’ I say defensively. ‘If you hadn’t rushed me this morning, perhaps I’d have given the matter more consideration.’

I expect him to tell me it doesn’t appear I gave it any consideration at all, but he merely flicks a brief glance at where the hem of the dress skims my thighs, swallows visibly, and throws a towel over his shoulder. We glide past each other – him to the washroom, me towards the bed – avoiding contact in the cramped space. Two years living together have left us attuned to each other’s movements; able to sense where the other plans to step from the simple shift of their body.

It’s only once he’s locked away that it feels safe to breathe, although my nerves don’t fully settle. Goosebumps erupt down my arms as I sink on to the mattress. That I’m about to share. With him. What if we touch in our sleep and I go all Souleatery on him? What if I wake to find him throttling me because he’s realised what I am?

What if I’m simply in bed with my gardener wearing a skimpy nightdress, and we become so overwhelmed by the situation I accidentally kill him with my kiss instead?

By the time he’s finished, I’m a shivering mess who’s fully convinced that only one of us is making it out of the room alive. When the door clicks open, I quickly shuffle underneath the covers and slide to the far side, as though the wall will protect me from the situation at hand. Instead, I’m suffocating. It’s so stuffy under here I could be wearing several cloaks. I poke my head out for some air, and immediately regret it when I catch sight of Astin.

His back is bare, muscles shifting between his shoulder blades as he towels his hair. Water gleams on his skin. Loose black trousers hang low on his hips. The image has me biting my lip and closing my eyes, tucking myself beneath the sheets while ignoring the parts of me that ache for a life I’ll never have.

I will myself to fall asleep before he retires beside me, but I’m wide awake when he slides in, and the moment he settles, it’s as though we’re plunged under a new kind of hex. One filled with awareness.

Although we’re not touching, warmth seeps from his side of the bed. Every rustle of the sheets makes my blood pressure spike. When I shift, the glide of cotton against my bare leg feels too smooth, too soft, reminding me how exposed I am, how it would only take one small movement for it to be his hands running up my calves instead. His elbow brushes mine, and I almost jump out of my skin.

A duck quacks.

This time, I do jump out of my skin. I go ramrod straight, and it takes all my willpower not to sit upright. I take it back. This inn deserves no stars. Why are the ducks awake? What if one wriggles inside? What if it’s waddling towards us on its spindly, ducky legs, placing its webbed feet on the walls and simply walking up the brick to my window, where it’ll tap, tap, tap with its beak and it’ll come inside with its wings and they’ll –

‘Why are you shaking?’ Astin huffs. ‘It’s not cold.’

‘I’m not shaking.’