Page 4 of Love Spell (Witches of London #3)

He wouldn’t spend that kind of money on a room even for a three-night luxury holiday.

He needed to save every cent right now. Even ￡100 a night was too much.

So, London hotels were out. Not that many were available either, with random weekends and bank holidays booked out.

He’d looked up to ￡200 per night and still found nothing.

He’d have to break it up — a hotel for a week or two, an Airbnb for a few days, then another hotel.

Sounded hellish, but he would sleep under his desk before spending through the nose just to stay in London until late October. Angela wanted to help, but her flat was already crammed with two roommates and Noah was on the couch while the girls wanted the use of their TV and living room.

Really, sleeping under his desk wasn’t a terrible idea. Instead of invading her place again, just stuff his bags into the coat closet and curl up here.

He’d slept in old trappers’ cabins on freezing wood floors in a sleeping bag with nothing but a caribou hide under him as a boy because his dad found such wholesome adventures stimulating.

He could handle a temperature-controlled office for a night or two.

None of the team had to know. He’d just make a point of being up and at his desk by the time they got in.

Being the first one in could only be a good thing in Timmy’s eyes. Shit. Timofei, Timofei, Timofei.

Noah loved the Russian classics. This, with an interest in his own family heritage tracing back to Eastern Europe and southwest Russia, had instilled a fascination with the culture into him.

Too bad about their politics and leaders and wars and state of the world, yes, but Noah couldn’t help his own interest shaped on the epics that he still devoured, or had up until this job.

When he’d first asked his new colleagues, purely making conversation, if Timo was Russian, Dave had gone on about much Timo loved to reminisce about the Motherland, and advised questions Noah should ask about his hometown and childhood to get Timo talking.

“He’ll love you for it. You should hear him go on even when no one asks,” Dave said seriously. “Timmy’s always hard on new guys, but that’s the best way to make him warm up to you — I guarantee it.”

Just as gravely, Noah had thanked Dave for the tips. Then he’d carefully avoided mentioning any outside country, home countries, childhood, or even languages anywhere near Timo.

When Dave asked a few days later, with Arthur lurking behind, whether Noah had found a chance to talk to Timo about Russia, Noah had smiled and told Dave he’d been right, and thanks again for the help. He left the two looking from each other to Noah as he walked away.

Noah was new. Not stupid. The sooner everyone figured that out, the better.

“Noah?”

Noah looked up from the elongated oval meeting-room table to Timo’s eyes. He was smiling at Noah, again creeping Noah out.

Noah had just been asked to do something, to which there was only one possible answer with the whole room looking at him.

“Yes, absolutely,” Noah said.

“Brilliant.” Timo rubbed his hands together. “Back to work and I’ll see you all later.”

There was a hurried pushing back of chairs, Noah taken aback to discover the meeting was over.

He mentally scrolled on rapid rewind to review what he’d missed.

Timo hadn’t asked him to do something. He’d invited them somewhere.

Another male-bonding club or bike ride or conference or dinner.

They all seemed to be big on this kind of thing, the louder and higher energy the better.

Besides that, Timo was endlessly networking with industry insiders and trading buddies before, during, or after work.

Why weren’t they all utterly exhausted — knackered as they said here — after their work days? Noah had cottoned on pretty early in his own education that the industry attracted extroverts. The whole culture was wildly male-dominated, macho, competitive, and didn’t know the meaning of downtime.

It was the actual work that intrigued Noah, the trading, the math and fast thinking, the adrenaline rush of getting better and better, not only watching fortunes rise and fall, but playing a hand in the whole high-stakes game.

He was an outsider looking in, not only as the new guy, nor as a foreigner in London, but as a personality.

And he liked it that way. He’d been playing a role all his life, being who he needed to be to survive.

Next step was one better, not mere survival, but thriving.

Getting this experience on his résumé was exactly how he wanted to start.

Going out for drinks with the team after work, when he was supposed to be packing up his life at Angela’s and promised he’d be cleared out tonight, was, apparently, the price one paid for greatness.

Stupid to say yes without realising what had been asked. Then again, he couldn’t have said no. He might have got away with it if he’d had a really good excuse. An excuse like “I’m basically moving tonight, even if that only involves a few bags.”

But there was no way he was going to start talking about his personal problems at work and become the butt of even more gossip and teasing, like being back in high school all over again.

He didn’t mind the American jokes so much.

Hell, he didn’t have a high opinion of the States either.

But the baby-talk was starting to grate on his nerves.

The last thing he needed was for the likes of Dave and Arthur to find out he’d lost his flat and been living on a friend’s couch.

Having had to work, taking gap years, he wasn’t even that young, just turning 26 before finishing college, but it was incredible how young a person could be made to feel by a few well-chosen comments about bottles and nappies by grown men who were so mature they said such things.

One more matter Noah couldn’t bring up in all this team-building, back-slapping company: how much he hated beer.

Give him a cocktail, hard cider, bourbon on the rocks, even a glass of wine, but one glass was plenty for him, and one beer was one too many.

The drinking was part of the culture. He had to be bounced along in their wake just to be a good sport, to fit in, to make the grade and feel that team spirit.

There were about a dozen traders and a PA in the office.

Only seven to the party tonight. A few guys had managed to escape.

More likely a few guys legitimately couldn’t be here.

Still, escape was all Noah could think of between wondering how to get rid of the foul liquid without actually having to taste it.

Could he switch glasses with someone? Pass two back and forth without notice so the man on his left or right steadily drained the level in both?

Might get away with that if they were already drunk.

Just give it to someone and find a different drink. Not everything had to be a drama. Some people didn’t like beer. So what?

Fit in. Fit in above all. Play your part.

Noah shut his eyes, held his breath, lifted the glass.

“So how’ve you been settling in?”

He jumped, sloshed foam over the rim and down his fingers.

“Settling in?” Noah couldn’t help the impulse to shy away when he opened his eyes to discover his boss had just plopped down on the magically empty barstool beside him. Not only right there in his face, when he had the rest of his team to argue with and talk shop, but smiling again. Like a hyena.

“At work, the new job,” Timo went on encouragingly, flashing white teeth. “How are you doing? Do you need anything?”

Need anything? What was going on? Was Timo high? Was this a setup? Had Dave told Timo something about Noah, real or invented, in a bid to get back at Noah for dodging the Russia bullet with the boss?

Noah was good at seeing patterns. For the life of him, though, he couldn’t figure out this one.

He leaned away. “Yeah, it’s good. Everything’s good.

” From what Noah had observed of him all spring, Timo had an attention span about as long as a fingernail clipping for non-career-building social situations.

Work and his other driving passions like marathons took all his interest, leaving none for details like the wellbeing of juniors.

Smile and nod and Timo would move on to something else as quickly as a diving kingfisher.

“Are the other guys giving you a hard time?” Timo asked and Noah shivered. “I know how it is when you’re an outsider.”

Noah started very slowly to edge off his barstool away from Timo, as if sheer slowness could keep his actions from being noticed.

“Your team is great,” Noah said. “Everyone’s been really great.”

“I’m glad.” Move over, Cheshire Cat. “And how’s London? Been to any live shows? Music? Good meals? What do you do when you’re not at work?”

Half crouching away from him, oozing off the stool, beer pushed back on the bar, Noah weighed his options.

It was clear now: Timo had changed his meds, maybe a new prescription, or maybe stopped taking whatever it was that he was supposed to be on.

Obviously, there was nothing Noah could do about that.

He couldn’t even ask Timo about it because they weren’t friends or in any possible way the kind of people on prescription-regulation-discussing terms. Whatever was happening, with him launching into a kind of manic phase, for example, Noah just had to be compassionate of his struggles and understanding of his challenges — and very far away.

“Excuse me. I … uh… bathroom.” They said toilet here, not bathroom or restroom, but Noah could never get used to that. A toilet was a toilet. A bathroom was a room that housed a toilet. Although that wasn’t as confusing as torches being flashlights.

Noah all but ran for the back hallway, mind spinning with possible escapes.

He couldn’t literally climb out a window, could he?

Calm down, Cerveny, enough melodrama. No, he’d already set the scene, hadn’t he?

Stay out of sight for several minutes, then return to the bar and say he was feeling ill and was going home.

Simple as that. Then Timo could switch his charm on some other victim.

He washed the stinking beer off his hand, then leaned against the wall behind the door, scrolling on his phone yet again in case he’s missed any cheap Airbnb rooms or flats not too far from work that just happened to be available for the next two months straight.

The door opened, prompting Noah to spring back in horror at sight of the suited figure. What the —?

No, it wasn’t Timo. Only Arthur, ambling casually to a urinal.

“Hiya.”

Great. Now he was going to stand here with Arthur?

Noah pocketed his phone and slowly moved for the door handle.

“Not so temporary after all, eh?” Arthur said to the ceiling.

Noah never understood some men’s propensity for conversation while taking a piss.

It had taken him years just to be able to force himself to pee while sharing a space like this with anyone else.

Air travel was hell when you had to hold it from door to door.

He still hated airport bathrooms more than anywhere else on Earth, those long rows, rush and stress and stink, possibly adding unfamiliar customs to the mix.

He’d rather have walked away, but, considering what waited on the other side of that door, chatting with a coworker who was currently holding his own dick … sure. No big deal.

“What do you mean?” Noah asked.

“You know.” Arthur, who usually played straight man to Dave’s joker, actually cracked a smile. “Timo taking an interest in you all of a sudden. Think no one else noticed?”

“Wait, you know what that’s about?” Noah turned back to him.

“Sure I do. He’s impressed with the work you’ve been doing fresh out of uni. Your visa’s up in a few months, right?”

“Less than two, actually.”

Arthur zipped his fly. “Well, there you go. Running out of time and he’s suddenly taking an interest? Classic Timo. He wants to get to know you better, see if he thinks you’re worth keeping around and sponsoring for a proper work visa.”

“Does he?” Noah stared while Arthur washed his hands.

So it was genuine? Timo wasn’t altered but interested?

Would he really sponsor Noah? Could he? Could it be possible that Noah wouldn’t have to make that flight choice and pound the pavement for interviews and start all over again?

It didn’t have to be forever. Even an extra year in London would be incredible.

And Timo really thought his work was good?

The man with standards so high the moon must be scraping the bottom?

Noah hadn’t even known Timo noticed him around the office beyond the occasional reprimand or order.

So all this time — “Wait a minute …” Noah folded his arms in front of his chest, facing Arthur while he yanked off a paper towel. “Dave put you up to this. Very funny.”

“Eh?”

“Please.” Noah snorted. “He must think I’m as dumb as a box of rocks.”

Arthur frowned at him. “What are you on about?”

“Telling me Timo thinks I’m great so I make a fool of myself and you all have a good laugh?” Noah jerked open the door with unnecessary force. “I wish somebody would apprise Dave of the fact that he’s not actually funny.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.

” Arthur shook his head sadly as he followed Noah out into the dimly lit hall.

“But it’d be a shame to waste the chance to get on Timo’s good side when you can just because you think …

what? That Dave wants you to get along with the boss? Is that a crime?”

Noah wanted to grab his head in both hands but resisted. Someone, somewhere, was playing him. He just knew it. But that didn’t mean it was Arthur. It might very well be Timo.

No matter who or what, Arthur had a point. When one paused to consider what were the best and worst things that could happen when someone like Timo abruptly decided you were a person of interest, best-case scenarios must wildly outweigh worst-case ones.

Arthur walked away. Noah followed as if through tar pits.

Go back, make his excuses, and flee? Go back to put all his cards on the table, even admit to Timo that he was terrified to leave London because he had nowhere to go and a work sponsor here would be life-changing?

Go back and play along, chat about college and work and London, playing it cool?

Or a fourth choice — he might still find a window to climb out of.