Page 37 of Love Spell (Witches of London #3)

Timo didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do, trapped in an emotional stalemate with no chance of winning, unsure even how to score.

He’d never done well with tears, though now he wished for them, for the clear social cues they would provide, instead of simply sitting here with Noah on the sofa through Noah’s robotic delivery of his story.

He couldn’t “There, there” and hug someone who sat numbly, staring at the coffee table, an arm’s reach away, hunched and tense as an injured wild animal. Yet Timo’s own impotence was a mockery, his inability to do anything or say anything to help appalling.

He couldn’t say he understood because he didn’t.

Hate crimes were something Timo had taken for granted in Russia.

When he’d been attacked, he’d attacked back.

He’d almost killed a man by kicking his feet out from under him at the top of a flight of concrete stairs into the underground one night when the man pulled a knife on Timo and the man Timo was flirting with.

Either you kicked faster than they swung, or you got knifed. Simple as that.

Timo hadn’t hidden because of oppression and violence; he’d fought back, he’d bought rainbow lapel pins and donated to human rights causes long before he could technically afford to do so.

Then again, he’d also left Russia — “escaped” being more what it felt like.

Was that really fighting? Or was it just an angrier form of hiding?

He couldn’t say it was all over now and Noah was safe and he didn’t have to live in the past, because of course Noah had to live in the past. Everyone did.

If Noah didn’t have a past, he wouldn’t be Noah.

If Timo hadn’t come from Russia he wouldn’t be Timo.

Love or hate it, they were their pasts and saying it didn’t matter now or not to dwell on it would be even more insensitive than saying he understood.

He couldn’t say he was sorry, even though he was; sorry for what happened to Noah, sorry for how Noah had handled it, sorry there was never any justice done and those three men were still walking around in the world, probably working on the pipeline and drinking their wages.

But he couldn’t say sorry because Noah didn’t need sorry.

He needed help and protecting and encouragement and strength to live his own life with someone he loved without being scared, and, helplessly watching him talk himself out, rigid, dry-eyed, Timo had no clue how to offer any of that, how to be any of the things Noah needed.

So they sat in silence after Noah talked. Sat in the bright, open-plan living room, the glass streaked with autumn rain, too high up to hear the London traffic, hushed as a tomb.

Finally, Timo admitted the truth by saying, “What can I do to help? What do you need?”

Then, for some reason, Noah did cry, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut, chin on his chest. Which was a little better because Timo could wrap his arms around Noah, who leaned into him, but mostly it was a whole lot worse.

* * *

Noah lay on his back staring at the ceiling in his hotel room that night.

He thought about the upcoming flight. About how much it and the hotel were costing him, but he’d be fine.

He could get a room in Brooklyn, find work he enjoyed, live on what he now had in savings for several months without needing to panic about rushing into anything out of desperation.

Should he visit his mom and Sarah for the holidays?

Flight to Fairbanks in December? Never. What about Thanksgiving?

He might manage Thanksgiving, but it would be another big expense right now.

He’d not seen them in three … no … was it four years?

Screw it, he’d go at Thanksgiving. They’d be over the moon and suddenly, for the first time in a long time, he wanted to see them.

A mental image of Timo arriving in Fairbanks with Noah flickered through his thoughts before he could jerk them in another direction. That was senseless. It was over with Timo.

Timo had actually apologised about the public announcement. He’d really meant it and Noah didn’t take that lightly. Timo had even listened. He’d wanted to help, wanted to make everything right. The trouble was that Noah knew better by now.

They were wildly opposite characters and, while opposites may attract, there had to be some common ground, some sense behind the connection.

What he had with Timo was a witch’s spell and a burning desire to start a new life in a new country that had momentarily blinded Noah into following along with that spell, to getting swept up in the fantasy that was Timo and forgetting that what they were talking about was not a weekend in Paris and a temporary place to live but a serious legal and life contract.

How many more major clashes and upsets would they battle through in the next months before finally falling apart?

How long before the spell wore off, before Timo woke up one day and wondered what the hell he was doing with Noah?

Or Noah woke up and asked himself how much staying overseas was really worth?

No, of course he had to leave. His time was up anyway. This was for the best. He just had to keep telling himself that to believe it. Until then? While he still felt like this? Like he had to keep making himself think of New York and Thanksgiving and his trip back in order to stop thinking of Timo?

How could he know on one hand that he and Timo were wrong for each other and Noah had no choice but to leave, while on the other regretting being alone more than anything that had happened lately? What was wrong with him?

* * *

It had been years since Timo drank to get drunk. For that matter, it had been years since he’d been really drunk. Not snickering about finding himself on the wrong floor of a hotel searching for his room drunk, but so drunk he couldn’t remember having ended up in a hotel at all.

He thought he’d done well with Noah. He’d not said anything insensitive, as far as he was aware. He’d been a good listener. He’d apologised for the morning. All good, right? Start over fresh. No press interviews, no more public announcements, whatever pace Noah was comfortable with was golden.

Yet it hadn’t been enough. Turned out, Noah wasn’t sharing his story so they could start over and try again with better understanding.

He told his story as an explanation for why he was done with Timo, why he’d already rung the attorney to tell her to forget about the paperwork, why he was flying back to the States this week even though he had two weeks left.

Timo wasn’t used to people breaking up with him. Mutual split, or Timo leaving for better things, restless, always striving, always seeking, always straining for the next mile marker and finish line. But had anyone ever simply broken up with him and left?

No one would do that. Yet someone had.

Someone who had every reason to leave.

Timo could see the reasons reflected at the bottom of the bottle, one after another presenting themselves with each swallow.

He’d started at a pub. He didn’t drink alone. But the noise and faceless company was irritating when Timo wasn’t a part of it. Timo loved noise as long as he was involved, preferably at the centre. Other people having a good time while he sat at the bar was simply galling.

He’d thought about calling Ranveer since Ranveer was the smartest person he knew and might offer advice. He’d thought about calling Rhys since Rhys probably wouldn’t hang up on him and would at least pretend to care.

He’d thought most about calling his mother, but he would need a medium for that.

Which made him think about Noah and Noah’s interest in astrology and belief in that whole magic spell nonsense — but everything made him think of Noah.

Noah probably believed in mediums. Noah was probably the kind of person who would go to a psychic and change careers or move based on what they said.

Well, he was changing careers and moving now. Perhaps Timo was magical.

It had all started with that bloody spell.

No, of course not. But what if it had?

Timo went home, even though he knew better, even though he’d quit a long time ago and he knew his limits. He still went home and drank alone. Exactly like the opposite of a winner.

Why had he gone in there in the first place? He hated pub culture, which focused on sedentary behaviour revolving around beer and watching other people play sports.

Get out and do something, goddammit.

If you really had nothing better to do than scream at a TV and slosh beer down a stranger’s back, then go home and slosh your own sofa.

Those guys wouldn’t know what hit them if they tried this shit. They’d probably never tasted neat vodka in their lives. If it didn’t have foam on the top they didn’t know it was drinkable.

Every problem, every bump, every argument, it was all on Timo, wasn’t it?

He could see it in the scenes skittering between liquid and glass at the bottom.

Noah had nearly broken his nose one night in response to Timo’s actions. If that wasn’t a warning that Timo needed to stop and take a long hard look at his own actions, what was?

Yet, had he?

Hell no.

Considering what Noah had been through, Timo was shocked by his level of restraint. Perhaps if he had broken Timo’s nose Timo would have taken being rejected a bit more seriously rather than considering the whole thing a game to win from the start.

If it was all a game, Noah was another token to push around the board.

Noah was right to escape Timo. So bloody right.

Just what that asshole had said, wasn’t it? Noah was the most unsuitable person possible for Timo. Noah had figured this out a long time ago.