Page 38 of Love Spell (Witches of London #3)

There didn’t seem to be anything left in the bottle.

But there were lots of city lights that skipped around and blurred and danced so he looked at them from his vantage on the couch.

Did Noah like to dance? Timo had never asked.

Timo had never danced in his life but he would learn if Noah wanted him to.

And he would be the best. He wouldn’t mind learning the tango.

No, he was getting distracted by the lights.

Then Chandler had called. Back before the pub.

Shit, he’d forgot about that. They’d been waiting for him to come back to work.

Couple of calls and messages from Spencer, then others.

What was going on? He’d just vanished and people wanted him at work.

Finally Chandler had called a few hours ago — could be several hours ago now.

Said he’d been waiting for Timo to get back to work.

“I’m not coming back today,” Timo snapped. Could no one take a hint in this country?

“I thought you’d want to know sooner rather than later that I’m quitting,” Chandler said.

“Fine. Is that all?”

“All? I’m nearly your top earner.”

“Well, call out the fucking brass band. I’m not clinging to your coattails. I don’t even like you, Chandler.”

“Turns out, some people do.” Chandler sounded smug. “I thought you should have the chance to make a counter-offer —”

“I don’t give a shit that other prop shops are courting you. If you care about the Wolf Pack, you stay. If you don’t, you don’t. Knock yourself out.” Timo hung up on him.

Now Chandler and the whole pack swirled in those blurring city lights as well, but they didn’t matter. None of them mattered. Nothing mattered.

One thing mattered. One thing that he never should have loved. One thing that he’d done nothing but hurt for the past weeks. One thing that had proved to Timo for the first time in his life that he, Timo, was the problem.

Which meant he had to let Noah go.

Getting Noah back would make Timo happy. Not Noah.

His phone rang.

It was late. Early-morning late. Timo never put his phone on Do Not Disturb. Then he might miss something.

He answered.

“Yes?” He needed three tries to get the silly thing to pick up and not just keep buzzing in his hand. “Yes?”

It was a recorded junk call from … Japan?

Timo told it exactly what he thought of it in ripe language before wondering how it could have been programmed to think UK numbers at this hour were a viable target?

“You know, never mind,” he told the chattering message.

“Get me through to manager in — place. I must talk to supervisor and explain clocks. World clocks. Greenwich Mean Time. It’s called …

Do you know who I mean? Uh… what I mean?

No, make me a call. Find Noah’s hotel. No …

phones are no more … uh…? Hotel rooms? Private now?

Used to. Hotels used to have room phones, you know?

You won’t remember that, being modern — what’s it?

Technology. Still phone operator? No, no …

Is there still phone operator? Shit. Missing words.

‘Is phone …?’ ‘Are there still …?’ Fuck, your English is better than mine and you’re speaking Japanese.

I struggled with articles, you know. Sentence …

what’s it? Structure. And … you know. Remember all extra stupid, pointless words they add.

The English, I mean. English speakers. They use many tiny, tiny, tiny words instead of saying what they mean with few clear, informal — I mean … information … informative words.”

Suddenly, Timo laughed. The recording had gone dead. Perhaps he was being transferred to a real person, or the call was over, or someone was already listening.

“You know what? It’s an ironic … No. It’s an irony. Or ironic with no article. Why? Because I broke Noah’s speech, bringing back his stammer. So stressed by me, he couldn’t talk smoothly. Guess who gets last laugh? If only he knew. If only …”

Timo hung up. He stood up. That was his first mistake, but he’d never gone in for dinky glass tables or delicate little fixtures. The solid oak coffee table could have been used as a miniature battering ram and it never even flinched when he reached it.

Probably should try to make himself be sick.

How did he end up on his back on the floor?

It was that damn coffee table. Couldn’t trust them.

Knocked the wind out of him and he better not stay on his back.

That was how one ended up drowning in one’s own vomit.

He’d been to school with a boy who’d done that.

At fourteen. Never liked that kid anyway.

Timo rolled onto his elbows before he remembered that he’d been going to ring Noah.

He couldn’t find his phone. By the time he found it, also on the floor, having bounced off the aggressive coffee table, he remembered that he was hurting Noah.

Timo was the problem. How was he ever going to remember something like that?

How was he going to make it stick when it went against all the laws of nature?

The fact remained, if he went after Noah, if he called, followed, chased, wooed, wheedled, insinuated, charmed, bribed, blackmailed, or begged, he was hurting Noah.

Timo dropped the phone with a clunk on the wood floor and curled into a foetal position.

Now his damn nose was bleeding. Whatever. He was on the hardwood. He just lay there and let it bleed. Perhaps he’d get lucky and bleed out.

Why was he still awake? Why was he still screaming inside?

What the fuck did it take to drown his sorrows when a night at the pub and a bottle of vodka hadn’t made a dent? He’d drunk enough to drop dead from alcohol poisoning, but not enough to make him stop thinking about Noah.

The important part was that he’d figured out what he needed to do. The last thing he could offer Noah, the last way he could help, the best thing he could ever do for Noah and what he should have done all along.

If only he could remember the answer by morning.