Page 10 of Love Spell (Witches of London #3)

A barrage of shouts answered him, mixing together and speaking over one another so only half were decipherable.

“Beach!”

“Highlands!”

“Monte Carlo!”

“Mykonos!”

“Barbados!”

“Everyone shut up!” Timo vaulted onto his desk with one hand, the ceiling being high enough for him to stand up there without difficulty. He grinned, still holding the neck of a bottle. “Distance limit of …”

Everyone settled as they looked up at him, finally listening.

“Three hundred miles from London or closer. No flights because I’m bringing a mountain bike.”

There was a yell from bike enthusiasts in the group, like Arthur and Haoyu, and a groan from the less athletically inclined, like Ranveer and Chandler.

Timo pointed to the men one at a time. “Maksim?”

“Mountains.”

“Ranveer?”

“Beach.”

“Haoyu?”

“Mountains.”

“Chandler?”

“Mykonos.”

“Shut up. Noah?”

“Uh… Paris?”

“Out of range,” Timo snapped.

“No it’s not.”

“Spencer, enlighten us! Driving — not as the crow flies.”

Spencer scrambled with his phone. “Two hundred and eighty miles by car.”

“New rule! Two hundred and fifty mile max .” Timo tipped out a few refills into shot glasses that were eagerly held up to him.

“Fine. Then mountains, I guess,” Noah had always wanted to see the Cotswolds, but in a room like this that felt like admitting he wanted to play miniature golf at a petting zoo.

“Arthur?”

Maksim cut in, yelling at Timo, “Just say where we are going, dickhead. You already know.” Maksim, who’d been with the same Russian company that first sent Timo over to work in London many years ago, and had joined him when he’d set up shop, could get away with calling Timo anything he liked.

“He’s right,” Dave chipped in. “You knew before you started asking!”

“But a good manager seeks the opinions of his team,” Timo told them happily.

“Can a good contractor get another refill?” More glasses were raised.

“That settles it.” Timo emptied the second bottle.

“We’re going to Wales. Eryri Peak Resort and Spa, in the mountains, beach half-hour drive away, trails for the bikers, spa and Michelin-star dining for the sloths.

We leave Friday. Back Sunday night. Five-hour drive, unless you know how to drive; then it’s three and a half. ”

More laughter.

“I’ll drive.” Timo jabbed the empty bottle around the room from his towering perch. “Who else? We need … everyone coming? Two or three more cars? Spencer, confirm who all’s celebrating this fine milestone and make the booking. Who wants to share a room with Chandler?”

General hisses and boos and stomping feet.

“Sorry, sorry, I meant; who wants to share with Maksim?”

No one thought that was so funny, edging away from the six-foot-six, unsmiling Maksim, accompanied by much muttered swearing.

Among this grumbling, Dave stage whispered to Arthur, “We all know who the boss wants to share with.”

“Thanks for the reminder, Dave.” Timo was still grinning. “Spencer, don’t forget to ring Dave’s mother for an invite and book us the bridal suite. Next time someone calls me a motherfucker, I want to have earned it.”

That brought down the house; Dave’s face brick red, Arthur howling and pounding him on the back, final traces of amber liquid sloshing from several shot glasses.

Everyone was still laughing, a few men volunteering to drive, when Timo jumped down from his desk, nimble as a fox. He threw the bottle in the air with a spin and caught it as he stepped through a gap to Noah, who remained just inside the doorway.

“Do you really want to go to Paris?” Timo’s smile had gone supernova, hair golden, red and yellow tie a flame, his own high spirits blooming in palpable waves of jovial self-confidence until his nearness made Noah’s skin tingle.

The man had so much damn presence it was as if everyone else in the world had their dimmer switch engaged.

He could have been a household name if he’d made his way to Los Angeles instead of London all those years ago — even if the Russian accent meant he was typecast as a villain. Every story needed an antagonist.

It took Noah a beat to answer while Timo flicked the bottle into the air again. “Who doesn’t? I’d love to see all the European capitals. I’ve been into history since I was a kid, starting with knights, then Greek mythology.”

“That so? How many have you reached so far?”

“Does England still count as Europe?”

“No.”

“Uh… zero.”

Timo cocked his head. “If you ever want to grow your portfolio, you’ll let me know? But we’re not starting with Paris. Come on the grand tour with me and we start in Rome.”

They stood, staring into one another’s eyes, as the other men still talked around them, discussing cars and bike racks while Spencer tried to pin down the exact number and who wanted a full spa package or room only.

Noah should have been irritated that Timo was talking to him about travelling together.

He’d been doing just as Noah asked, to the point of being a dick about it — chatting with others about Tube congestion or best sushi places nearby, then abruptly asking Noah how his numbers were looking for the day.

Now, bobbing in the wake of his thrill to discover his rivals faced not just reputational ruin but prison time, Timo didn’t even seem to notice he’d made a misstep.

Or was he hoping Noah wouldn’t notice? Just a risk he was willing to run in the heat of the moment?

As a trader, Timo lived and breathed risk.

If he couldn’t think of anything witty to say, Noah should have disengaged, shrugged and turned to Spencer to say he didn’t care about the spa, only the room and meals.

Instead, he couldn’t tear his own gaze from the ice-blue one fixed on him.

Timo had the fashion sense to wear grey rather than black suits to avoid making his Nordic complexion look bleached, but he favoured warm tones for his ties.

A shame. If he matched a tie to his eyes, an Arctic or Alice blue, they would pop like searchlights.

By the time Noah realised what he was doing, it was far too late to shrug and turn away as if he’d not noticed anything; as if he didn’t care; as if he didn’t feel the air crackle between them like frostbite.

“Why Rome?” he said stupidly.

Timo took a step closer, eyes fixed on Noah’s, voice dropping impossibly low against the babble, yet Noah still heard clearly, as if able to hear nothing else. “Ask me when we get there.”

Noah shivered, stepped back, hit the doorframe. “I need to, uh — Spencer?” Noah looked around.

Spencer was there as if by magic, taking rapid notes on his phone. “Noah? Spa?”

“No.”

“Yes,” Timo said.

Spencer glanced at him, then back to Noah. “Meals?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Timo said.

Again, Spencer looked between them. “I’ll just put you down for everything and you can use whatever you want. No worries. Bringing anyone?”

“Bringing …?”

“Partner? Only if you’re sharing. Not an extra room.”

“Oh. No. Thanks, Spencer.” Noah hurried for his own desk, heart in his throat, breathing like he’d just run up the stairs.

It didn’t dawn on him until he’d dropped gratefully into his chair that he could have simply said no, he wasn’t going. Too late now.