Page 22 of A Witch in Notting Hill

“We’re headed down to the Isle of Wight,” Oliver said, clapping his big hands together.

“A little earlier than we’d planned, but it’s now or never.

Minho will drive, and if we leave now, we should be there around half one.

There’s a farm in town that does a proper market of hundreds of locally grown herbs, so we’re certain to find your calamint there. ”

It sounded almost too good to be true. All we had to do was drive there and buy the herb? In my circumstances, however, I wasn’t exactly prepared to jinx it, so I kept my mouth shut. Maybe I’d actually be in for a streak of good luck. Maybe it really could be this easy.

“At the very least, let me pay for gas,” I said.

“It’s called petrol, and we’ll see,” Oliver said.

“This is fun for us, too,” Lola said. “I’ve been dying to get down there this time of year. You already know I want to have a lie on the beach.”

“And Min and I want to try their seafood,” Oliver said. “So we’ll make a proper day of it.”

“You really don’t have to—”

“Willow, respectfully, are you going to do this every time we make plans?” Lola said, and I snapped my mouth shut. “We’re locked in. That’s all there is to it. You aren’t forcing us to do anything. We’re excited. Now, are we ready to go?”

I was grateful she hadn’t given me much of a chance to respond, because I wasn’t sure what more there was to say other than “Thank you.”

“That better be the last thank-you I hear out of your mouth today,” she said, looping her arm through mine as she got out of the booth. “Min, take us to the isle.”

Oliver sat in the front to help navigate while Lola and I lounged in the back with the windows down and fresh air flowing through the car. I unraveled my hair from its bun, letting it whip this way and that, trying not to care about the knot it would be in later. It felt too good to just let it be.

It was easy to let my guard down for a few hours in the car, where no one would notice me and I didn’t have to do anything other than sit there and watch England pass by out the window.

But with my guard down, there was room for Oliver to slip in, which was arguably even more dangerous than being seen.

From my spot in the back seat, I had the perfect view of his profile: strong, angled jaw, curl of dark hair behind his ear, the kind of long eyelashes and sharp cheekbones my makeup artist would kill for.

I studied the veins on the back of his hand as he scrolled through his phone, curating the perfect road trip playlist and keeping Minho on track with directions.

He had a certain kind of grace I wasn’t sure even existed in America, and I wondered if I’d find myself looking for it when I got home.

Which I already knew I shouldn’t be.

My wondering was abruptly interrupted, however, by flashing dashboard lights and wipers on high speed. Both of which I knew were not a malfunction of the car.

“What’s going on?” Oliver asked, clicking around aimlessly while Minho tried to get the wipers to turn off.

“I’ve no idea,” he said. “Should I pull over?”

Get it together, Willow. Stop staring at his damn wrists and focus on something else before the car dies completely and we’re left stranded on the side of the highway.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I said, immediately regretting it when Oliver and Lola both looked at me like I’d said I’m sure it’s Beyoncé instead. “I mean, it’s just wipers and lights, and look, they’re already slowing down.”

Lola looked back at the dashboard, but Oliver kept his eyes trained on me, one brow raised. I wished it was the other way around. All I could do was shrug, but he seemed satisfied as the wipers came to a slow stop and the lights stayed on.

“See? Totally fine,” I said, trying to keep my voice from wobbling.

“Min, I swear, if this car breaks down, I’ll scream at the top of my lungs,” Lola said.

“It’s not going to break down, you cow. That was just a blip.”

A blip. Exactly. And if I could help it, there wouldn’t be another blip. We would be blip-free. Which meant I had to concentrate on anything other than how good Oliver looked with his elbow resting on the window frame and his hand in his hair.

We pulled up to the ferry port just before things could get any worse. Or rather, just in time for things to get worse.

No one told me we were taking a ferry, which meant I didn’t tell anyone I got horribly seasick. Without Dramamine in my system, I was doomed.

“Nice day for a ferry ride,” Minho said, pulling onto the platform. “Will be good to get out and stretch our legs a bit.”

We’d only just driven onto the boat, which was still sitting in the port, and I already felt my stomach churning.

The full English that had saved me this morning was now my worst enemy.

I wound my hair back into a bun to get it off my neck, willing the ferry to move for some airflow and for the ride to be one step closer to over.

“You okay?” Lola asked, craning her neck to catch my eye.

“Fine, fine,” I said. There was no way I was going to add seasickness to my list of ways I was inconveniencing them. “I’m just going to get out to, uh, get some air.” I had no idea if being on the top deck was going to make this better or worse, but either way, I couldn’t be around them.

“I’ll come,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt.

“No, no. I’m fine, really. You stay. I’ll be right back.”

I practically ran from the car, hoping she wouldn’t follow, taking gulping breaths of salty air as I made my way to the top.

The ferry finally pulled away from the harbor, and I leaned my forehead on my arms, which were folded on the railing, continuing to breathe slowly and deeply, hoping to keep the nausea at bay.

“Keep your eyes on the horizon,” came a voice from over my shoulder. I couldn’t look up, but I knew it was Oliver. “I’m serious. It helps.” I lifted my head slowly, dragging my eyes to the spot where the sea met the sky. “Good girl.”

The last thing I needed was to hear those words out of his mouth at this moment.

The butterflies in my stomach warred with the nausea, and the sensation was overwhelming.

I swallowed hard, trying to tamp it down.

Good girl. In that accent? Did he even know the effect that had on people? What a reckless, irresponsible man.

“Fancy a ginger ale? Might help. Happy to go down to the bar for ya.”

“This is mortifying enough,” I mumbled. “I’ll be fine. But thank you.”

“Nothing mortifying about a bit of seasickness. Happens to the best of us.”

“How’d you know?”

“Other than the way you legged it out of the car?” He laughed. “Your face had gone white as a ghost. None of the usual flush to your cheeks.”

He noticed the usual flush on my cheeks? And thought to bring it up now, while my head was hanging over the side of the damn boat? Maybe I’d be better off if I jumped. Just right into the sea and sank to the bottom. I couldn’t be embarrassed at the bottom of the sea.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly, grabbing me by the elbow.

“What? Where?” I was terrified to leave the edge of the ferry but didn’t seem to have much of a choice.

“Just trust me.”

I didn’t say anything else, mostly because I couldn’t for fear I’d throw up, but instead stumbled behind him as he pulled me by the arm to a secluded corner of the lower deck, with a half-wall instead of a railing, lined with a few wooden stools.

“Helps to be closer to the water,” he said.

“Even if it seems like it would do the opposite. And if you alternate between sitting and standing, your body will feel the movement of the boat a little less. And the wall is better than the rails. Feels more like you’re on solid ground and less like you’re out to sea, doesn’t it? ”

“How do you know all this?” I asked, sliding onto a stool and trying to breathe.

“My granduncle used to love the ferry, so we’d take rides all the time when I was a kid. I used to get quite seasick, and this always helped.”

I kept my eyes on the horizon, willing my stomach to settle and trying to distract myself. I wondered about his granduncle. He talked about him in the past tense, with a sort of nostalgia I knew all too well, and I couldn’t help but figure we had something tragic in common.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “Hang tight.”

Seeing as I couldn’t move a muscle without feeling like my stomach was turning itself inside out, I didn’t have much of a choice.

He returned a few minutes later with a ginger ale and a damp towel.

“Take slow, small sips,” he said, handing me the soda.

I obeyed, my hand shaking as I brought the can to my lips.

As I drank, he pushed my baby hairs off the back of my neck with a gentle sweep of his fingers, then held the cool towel against my skin. The sensation bordered on erotic.

“How does that feel?”

All I could do was nod.

The pressure of his hand on the back of my neck, the cool towel, the intimacy of his care, it was almost too much. When I finally tore my eyes from the horizon to risk a glance at him, I was surprised to find he was already looking at me.

“You’re okay,” he said. “Keep looking straight. We’ll be there before you know it.”

I did exactly as he said, and he was right.