Page 7 of A Witch in Notting Hill

Willow

W ell, that was a bust. Not only was I recognized almost immediately, but I was faced with the grim realization that once again, it seemed I’d have to know the spell in order to reverse the spell. Dumbass logic if you asked me.

What I really needed was more time. I needed to be able to comb the shelves without being recognized, needed to pull books out and sit with them for more than a minute or two to figure out what could be useful without having to buy every book in the shop.

Not that I didn’t want to give Coven & Codex my business, but I couldn’t exactly be lugging the entire Reversals, Retractions, and Revocations section around Notting Hill, could I?

So I did what any sane person would do. I sat in a pub across the street all afternoon, staring at the entrance, waiting until five minutes before closing time to make my move.

If I could just slip in after the last customer left, ask nicely to browse while Oliver and his assistant were preparing to close, I might have a chance at finding what I was looking for.

I would also run the risk of exposing myself, but since Oliver hadn’t seemed to recognize me the first time we met, I hoped I was in the clear.

And if he did, well, it was better than fans asking for selfies in the stacks.

Not that I didn’t love selfies with fans. I just didn’t love them when I was trying to reverse a spell, when my manager was a cat, etcetera. Knowing I was an actor was fine. Knowing I was a witch was not .

So, I waited.

The pub across the street was much like the others in Notting Hill: charming, classic, but just a touch more upscale.

I’d been to pubs all over the city throughout the years, but the Notting Hill ones didn’t have the same sticky floors, jaded bartenders, and watery drinks so many of the others were famous for.

This particular one was also literary in theme, with deep bookcases and wing-back chairs lining the back wall and coasters that looked like library cards. It was the perfect place to camp out.

The cider was pleasantly dry but unpleasantly warm, and since apparently all bets were off with how I typically chose to conduct magic in my day-to-day, I figured it wouldn’t hurt if I chilled the cider by just a few degrees. (At least I hoped it wouldn’t hurt... but lately, who could tell?)

With a quick, deep visualization of glaciers, tile bathroom floors, winter mornings on the East Coast, my high school ex-boyfriend, all things good and freezing, I tapped the glass in a pattern my sister and I had practiced endlessly as children to keep our ice cream from melting.

To my relief, frost began to collect on the outside of the glass and nothing exploded in the process.

At the very least, I could still conduct a basic chilling spell, and I was prouder than I should have been. But a win was a win.

After a short, eye-to-eye conversation with Vera, we agreed (or at least I think we agreed) to leave her in the room before I settled in the pub, and I thought (hoped) it was for the best. There was no real reason for me to be schlepping her back and forth, and since we weren’t doing anything particularly exciting that I thought she might want to see, even through her cat eyes, I figured she could relax in the room while I tried to take care of this mess.

If only she could tell me what she was thinking.

Holy shit.

If only she could tell me what she was thinking.

Was I an idiot? (Yes.) Why hadn’t I thought of this before?

If I could at least figure out how to make it so Vera could communicate, I could buy myself more time to sort out the spell.

If she could at least speak, maybe I wouldn’t have to be in such a mad rush and could take my time doing it right.

It was such an obvious idea I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it sooner.

Though with all the chaos of the last few days, I suppose it wasn’t such a surprise that rational thinking had slipped my mind.

So my first stop when I went back to Coven & Codex wouldn’t be Reversals, Retractions, and Revocations. It would be Anthropomorphism.

At 4:56, I signaled the bartender for the tab, mildly alarmed at the total. And then I stood up, and it all made sense. It wasn’t just the inflated price of pints on this side of the city. It was the three I’d managed to drink during my stakeout.

I’d been so wrapped up in my plan that I’d completely lost track of the afternoon as it slipped by in a haze of crisp cider and a bottomless bowl of salted peanuts.

Classic. Now not only was I the chaotic American who’d been drawing a crowd and talking to her cat, but I was also the tipsy American who would crash through the door right before closing time.

Really doing my people justice here on this side of the pond.

Either way, it was now or never.

It took me nearly twice as long as it should have to cross the street, given my vaguely warped depth perception and the unfamiliar traffic patterns, but I made it to the door in one piece with two minutes to spare.

I straightened my dress and shook out my shoulders, then did my best impression of a sober person and pushed open the door.

“Sorry, love, we’re about to—oh,” Oliver said as he turned around and caught my eye. “It’s you.”

Mortifying. “It’s me,” I said, forcing a laugh. “But I’m not here to explode anything. I promise.” I held up my palms to demonstrate my innocence, but he only looked more confused.

“Hardly your fault,” he said. If he only knew. “But we are about to close in a minute or so—”

“Please,” I said, embarrassed by how desperate it sounded. I cleared my throat before I spoke again. “I, uh, I know it’s late. I was just hoping for a minute to browse, maybe while you locked up?”

“You had a minute to browse earlier, no? Reckon I saw you taking selfies in the stacks there.” He stood from the box he was unpacking and brushed his hands off on the back of his jeans, and I was surprised by how long it took him to get to his full height.

I’d seen him a few times already, but I didn’t remember him being this tall.

I did, however, remember him being this handsome.

All long limbs and dark waves, flushed cheeks and the kind of indiscernible green-gray eyes that looked like the sky before a storm.

He wore a simple pale blue button-down and a pair of dark jeans, but somehow he looked like he’d stepped out of a spread in GQ .

And despite the fact I knew I was staring, I couldn’t look away from his hands. Veins stretched across the back, and long fingers with short, square nails held a stack of books I wasn’t sure I could hold with my arms.

It wasn’t until he cleared his throat that I remembered he was waiting for me to respond. I blamed the ciders.

“Sorry about that,” I said. “That’s kind of why I couldn’t browse earlier? It’s stupid, and you don’t care, so I’ll spare us both. But I was hoping to maybe have a minute without anyone else in here?”

He laughed, but I couldn’t tell if it was because he thought something was funny. “Always the Americans, isn’t it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Wanting special treatment and that.”

“This was a mistake,” I said, already resigning myself to failure and turning toward the door. “Sorry to bother you. I’ll just—”

“I’m kidding,” he said. “You can shop. On one condition.” I raised an eyebrow. “Tell me who you are. And what it is you’re looking for in here.”

“That’s two conditions.”

“Semantics.”

“You run a bookshop. You, of all people, should care about semantics.”

“And you shouldn’t if you want me to let you in.” He raised an eyebrow back, and I realized he had a point.

“I’ll answer one question,” I said.

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“Ever heard of a compromise?”

“The British don’t do compromises”

“Pick a question,” I said. “I’m not answering both, but I might be prepared to give you some decent business, so I suggest you find it in yourself to go against your customs for the sake of your shop.”

“What kind of business are we talking?”

“Ah, so that’s how to get you to compromise.”

“One question, five books.”

“Three books.”

“Nothing on sale. And you answer honestly. None of that talking in circles you Americans love so much.”

“Done,” I said, hoping he picked question number two but relieved he didn’t want to do a lot of talking either way.

“What are you looking for?” Thank god.

I was about to confess, but the look in his eyes gave me pause. There was a certain depth behind the gray that hadn’t been there a minute ago. An arrogant, challenging shade that made me dizzy.

“You’re asking because you already know the answer behind door number one, don’t you?”

“Just wanted to hear you say it,” he said over his shoulder as he motioned for me to follow him farther into the store. What the hell? “Willow James, yeah?”

“Have you known this whole time?”

“Not when you made a mess of my Fables and Folklore room, no. But after the selfie incident, my friends may have, er, confirmed your identity. But only because I wanted to be made aware of what was going on in my shop. I didn’t like the way people were looking at you”—he coughed into his fist—“and I wanted to have all the information. Just in case.”

He didn’t seem like the kind of person who ever talked that much at once, and I had a feeling it was only because his back was to me. “Just in case what?”

“In case I had to, I don’t know, intervene.” He waved his hand like it didn’t matter. “Which leaves us with door number two. What are you looking for, Willow James?”

That’s it? He had nothing else to say about who I was?

Usually, when people identified me in public, even if they weren’t fans, they still had more to offer on the subject.

Had I met their favorite actor? Who was I dating?

Did I know who did so-and-so’s hair at the Met Gala? Something . But apparently not Oliver.

Okay, then. Door number two.