Page 6 of A Witch in Notting Hill

Oliver

S unday slipped by in the rhythm of every other day of my life: work, run, read, repeat. There were errands, sure, and dinner plans with my friends, but the rest of my time revolved around an easy, predictable schedule. One that made sense to me and had little room for chaos.

So when that gorgeous, peculiar American walked back into my shop two days later, the impending chaos turned my stomach over.

What was she doing back here? Was it possible I might have what she’s looking for?

It couldn’t be. She didn’t seem like the type.

Quirky, maybe. But not witchy . When she’d first come in I’d suspected it was just for a browse, not a purpose.

Though what the hell did I know? I’d spoken to her for all of five minutes. For all I knew, she could have thought herself to be the Grand High Witch of North America. And if that was the case, I would need even more distance than I’d thought.

I tried and failed not to study her as she moved through the shop.

Same low baseball cap, same basket held tight to her side, this time both paired with oversize sunglasses and a linen dress that hung loosely from her curves.

She trailed her manicured fingers over the volumes stacked in Ceremonies and Customs, squinting at the spines, strolled distractedly through the aisles of Elements and Crystals, stalled briefly in Divinations, before ducking around a tight corner and stopping in Reversals, Retractions, and Revocations.

It was never a good sign when anyone stopped in Reversals, Retractions, and Revocations. It meant they’d mucked something up, didn’t want to take ownership, so instead blamed powers that didn’t exist, then demanded answers from Coven & Codex to fix their problems.

Still, I watched. Captivated.

She pulled book after book from the shelves, Undone followed by Turn Back Time: The Art of Reversing Spells , flipping through them in vain before gently sliding them back into their respective places. What the hell was she looking for?

I only had another second to wonder before two young women crowded her from both sides of the aisle, phones in hand and crazed smiles painted on their nervous faces. Did they know her?

I took a few steps closer, if only to mitigate anything suspicious that might be going on in the shop.

I wasn’t close enough to hear their conversation, but I was close enough to see the woman’s soft, placating smile as the three of them posed for a selfie.

For what purpose, I hadn’t the foggiest idea.

Just as they seemingly thanked her and shuffled away, heads bent, giggling over the photo, a few more customers began to make their way toward the back of the shop. What was I missing?

Fortunately, no one else approached her, only stood on the periphery and whispered while nodding in her direction, like she was some kind of museum exhibit.

She pulled the hat lower over her eyes and slipped into the Celtic section, taking refuge behind a fairy tree while she waited for the small crowd to dissipate.

Deciding it was finally time for me to follow suit and look away, I slipped my phone from my back pocket to text Minho and Lola: the only two people I’d ever tell about an intriguing woman in my shop, even if I might regret it in the same breath.

Me: Something’s going on in the shop today. Second time this American woman has been in this week, and two girls stopped to take a photo. Small crowd formed.

They both replied almost instantly. Minho worked in a cushy corner office as an architect and had his texts linked to his computer, and Lola worked from home as a video game designer, so the two were usually accessible during the day. Which was often a blessing and a curse.

Lola: Is she a celeb??

Minho: Must be. What’s she look like?

Me: Hard to tell. Baseball cap and sunglasses on.

Minho: Definitely famous.

Lola: Anything else?

Undone, curly hair that makes me want to run my hands through it. A body with curves I will get on my knees for a chance to see without the oversize clothes.

Me: Long auburn hair. Short, curvy

Lola: Can you sneak a pic?

Me: No, because I’m not a creep.

Minho: Says who?

Me: Never mind.

Minho: Relax, I’m only taking the piss. CCTV footage?

Me: Is that better or worse?

Lola: Definitely better. Everyone at least knows they’re on CCTV.

Minho: She has a point.

Me: Fine. Give me a few.

Really, I needed more than a few. A few to weigh the morality of the situation, and a few more to make a decision.

Lola was right. Everyone did technically know they were always on CCTV footage.

But was taking a picture of said footage and sending it to the group chat to identify a customer unethical?

Though I couldn’t expect them to identify her from my description alone, and it wasn’t like they could just camp out in the shop until she eventually did or did not come back, so what choice did I have?

With a glance over my shoulder to confirm she was once again safe from an audience and also not looking anywhere near my computer screen, I switched to the camera view and snapped the clearest picture I could find.

Within seconds of sending it to my friends, my phone was ringing with an incoming call from Lola.

Me: Did we not just establish I’m very obviously working and cannot answer because there are customers in here?

Lola: That was before we established Willow fucking James is in your shop!!!

Willow James. Willow James.

Minho: Bloody hell. The actor? The one from French 75? And that sad film Lo is obsessed with?

Lola: Red Garden! And The Truth About Holly!

That Willow James? Was this Willow James?

The more film titles Minho and Lola volleyed back and forth, the faster my head spun.

It couldn’t be. This shy, clumsy woman in my shop was the same woman apparently racing to the top of Hollywood’s A-list?

I recognized her name more from the tabloids and Lola’s unnecessary recaps of award shows than from any of the films she’d been in, but I’d seen enough to know her voice, apparently.

And to know she was a pretty big deal. And to know there was no denying the truth. It was the same Willow James.

And I supposed it would explain the hat, the sunglasses, the shapeless clothes. A disguise.

What it didn’t explain, however, was the basket.

Or what the hell she was doing here.

I looked up from my phone just in time to see her slip through the doorway, bells chiming in her wake, their sound feeling like the only indication she was ever really here. And while I knew it was against everything in my best interest, I couldn’t stop myself from hoping she came back.