Page 46 of A Witch in Notting Hill

“Thank you,” I said. Mad as I was she was the one to tip off the press in the first place, I was glad she was making it right.

“You’re really going to walk away?”

“I’m not sure I have much of a choice,” I said. “I need to put myself first. My magic, my personal life, everything I’ve been missing out on.”

“And what about Oliver? What does this mean for you two?”

“I hope I’m about to find out.”

Oliver’s flat door was unlocked when I arrived, and he’d instructed me to just let myself in. Lush kitchen smells wafted down the staircase, making me all the more eager to see what the night had in store.

I had no idea where any of this was going or what any of it meant, and even as I climbed the stairs I still hadn’t the slightest clue what to say.

All I knew was I owed him an apology, and if there was even a chance he might believe magic was real, I needed to know.

The solstice was tomorrow, and I was running out of time.

“Willow?” he called at the sound of my footsteps. “That you?”

“Who else would it be?” I asked. “Did you invite someone else for tea?”

“Thought Kit Hayes might like a cuppa.” I froze halfway up the stairs, relieved when I heard the sound of his laugh. “Too soon?”

“Entirely.”

When I made it up the stairs and rounded the corner into the kitchen, I froze for the second time.

Oliver had a dish towel slung over his shoulder, one hand on his hip, and the other stirring a pot of what looked to be a curry on the stove.

He wore a navy sweater and a pair of dark jeans, both of which made his eyes seem even clearer than usual when he turned to look at me.

A dark curl hung in the center of his forehead, and I briefly forgot the reason I was here.

Frankly, it would have been a miracle if I could have remembered my own name.

“Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling painfully awkward and unsure of what to do with myself.

“Hi,” he returned. “Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable.” He brushed off his hands on the towel and pulled out a kitchen chair, gesturing for me to sit.

I handed off the bottle of wine I’d brought—it felt weird showing up empty-handed, especially since I was beginning to learn tea actually meant dinner—and he accepted with a wary smile.

We were both uncertain, but we were trying.

His flat was exactly what I’d have expected, had I allowed myself to daydream about it.

Warm, cozy. Sophisticated. Dark wood furniture and a small selection of vintage-looking art.

Books piled on every surface, windowsills included.

Heavy throw blankets draped over the back of the couch, a tattered ottoman, a TV that looked like it was collecting dust. He mentioned he didn’t spend much time here and that most of his time was spent in the shop, but aside from the television, it looked pleasantly lived-in.

I wondered how much had been left over from his uncle Arthur.

“I hope vindaloo is okay,” he said, returning his attention briefly to the stove. “I remembered a while ago you said you’d been eating a lot of Indian takeaway, so I figured I’d hedge my bets.”

“You hedged right,” I said. He turned down the heat and popped the cork on the wine, pouring us two generous glasses.

“It’s a good job we’ve got something stronger than tea,” he said. “Reckon we’ll need it.”

I hummed in agreement for lack of a better response, taking a long swig after hesitantly clinking our glasses together.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” I said eventually, enamored by the ease with which he moved around the kitchen.

“Every day’s a school day,” he said, and smiled. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Willow.”

“Care to share with the class?”

“You still want to learn?” He raised a thick eyebrow, and I felt the pull of guilt in my stomach.

I sighed, taking another swig and trying to control my breathing.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “For how I treated you that night. For how I’ve treated you this whole time, honestly.

The mixed signals, the meltdown over the paparazzi, kicking you out in the middle of the night.

That wasn’t fair, and I... I’m sorry. ”

It came out faster and more frantic than I’d intended, but it was out there, and that was what mattered. I watched as he took a deep, measured breath, dragged out another kitchen chair with his foot, and dropped down into it without breaking eye contact.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry, too. For causing a scene. And for being judgmental about the magic. I was also unfair, and I apologize.”

“Thanks,” I echoed. Relieved as I was neither of us was holding a grudge, I couldn’t ignore that something still felt vaguely sad about this conversation. Like it was a goodbye in addition to being an apology. Which, in a sense, I supposed it might have been.

We both knew the solstice was tomorrow, and if I was able to effectively reverse the spell, I’d have no real reason to stay in London.

And besides, just because we had one night together where nothing went awry—magic wise, anyway—it didn’t mean we’d be so lucky again.

I knew how much of a risk this was. What I didn’t know was if it would be worth it.

Before either of us said another word, he reached out slowly, gently, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

“I know it might not have been the right thing to do,” he whispered, “but I don’t regret it for a second, Willow.

” He ran his thumb and index finger down my jaw, tilting my chin so I was looking directly at him.

We were quickly picking up where we left off, and I wasn’t sure I could keep up.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. It was just that I came here to apologize, to see if he’d changed his tune on the magic. Not to fall back into bed, no matter how tempting it was.

And believe me, it was tempting. The warmth of his flat, the dish towel over his shoulder, his large, rough hand cupping my face. The ticking of his watch near my ear an ominous countdown. To the solstice or to our mutual destruction, I couldn’t be sure.

“Oliver,” I whispered, searching for the right words. Afraid to talk too loud and ruin the moment.

His kitchen was the eye of a hurricane. Outside this moment, there were 101 things for me to worry about.

Vera. The spell. My career. Figuring out how to get back in touch with my magic.

How to get back in touch with myself . And I knew none of that would be made easier by sleeping with Oliver again.

“We can’t,” I said, even quieter than before. I rested my hand on his wrist, planning to return it to his lap, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. My protest lived only in the two words. The lights flickered, but neither of us blinked.

“Because of the press?” he asked. “Because last I checked, love, they aren’t exactly in the flat with us.”

I laughed, feeling my face heat like it always did when he called me “love.” That accent would be the death of me.

“Because of me ,” I said. “I need to get my head on straight, and being with you does the opposite. I need to focus on my magic, figuring out what I want, finishing the spell, and then there’s the fact that being with you makes my magic go haywire, and now is not the time for my magic to go haywire. ”

“Speaking of which”—he smiled, and I held my breath—“I think I might have some ideas why that’s happening.”

“You... what?” For the second time tonight, someone was saying words to me, in plain English, slowly and carefully, and I could not understand a word.

“I went through Uncle Arthur’s ledger, which was really more of a diary, and I think I might know what’s really happening with your magic.”

If I thought my head was spinning before, it was nothing compared to now. He was thinking about my magic? He had ideas about my magic?

“Oliver, I’m going to need you to slow down,” I said, trying to wrap my head around what was happening here. It felt huge. Monumental. And if I was going to remember it properly, I wanted to at the very least understand it. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

He nodded, slow and meaningful. “I am.”

Two words that might very well have changed the course of my entire life.

“If you think you know what’s going on with my magic, does that mean—”

“I believe in your magic, Willow.” I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare back at him, lips parted, eyes wide, skin burning under his touch. “And I’ve been wrong this whole time to doubt it.”

“What changed your mind?” I whispered.

“I just had to change my perception of magic in the first place,” he said. “Uncle Arthur helped me with that. I had to realize it was a belief system just like any other, and I didn’t need tangible proof for it to be true. And that really the magic is in people all along, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean,” he said, leaning in so close I could feel his breath on my lips, “is that I’ve known magic is real since the first time I saw you.”