Page 8 of Love Spell (Witches of London #3)

Was he really going to let this beat him? Was he going to throw away this big break, maximising the time he had left in London, by letting bullies win?

It was just about when he’d tucked his lucky cactus into the box that he’d changed his mind. He hadn’t come all this way to quit before squeezing every ounce of experience and every cent of commission and profit from London before the sand ran out in his hourglass.

If he left now, where was he going? Back to his mouldy little Airbnb room in Croydon for the next five days while he booked a flight and another room wherever he was going? Just so he could run away?

He could do better.

Except that he probably couldn’t because he’d physically assaulted a coworker in a foreign country.

Jail time seemed unlikely, but free choice about exactly what he did next and when and how also seemed unlikely.

Deportation might be just the start of a long list of headaches, from legal fees to a criminal record to a lifetime ban from the United Kingdom.

Noah gritted his teeth, palms rammed painfully against his eye sockets while he suppressed a scream.

He’d been at his desk, not working for half an hour at least. Everyone was in now. No one had asked him to get coffee. No one was shouting. The voices were murmurs and chortles, either focused on their work or passing along the gossip.

Dave’s voice didn’t feature. Neither did Timo’s. Could they really still be in Timo’s private office? Or had Dave got his wish of proving what critical condition he was in by ringing for an ambulance? Hobbled down there with one arm around Arthur’s shoulders while he gasped out his last requests?

That was how he’d been acting when Timo, Arthur, Ranveer, and Maksim had descended upon the three of them in the kitchen doorway. Chandler thought the whole thing was funny, but Chandler always thought other people’s pain was funny.

Maksim had actually rolled his eyes when he’d understood what happened, muttered, “What a baby,” in that thick accent, and went back to work. No one else was laughing, though.

Noah did think it was a bit much when Dave barfed up his coffee.

Hadn’t he ever been kicked in the balls?

Noah had been pounded until his ribs broke and he’d nearly lost an eye, but had he thrown up?

No. He’d crawled home because you either got yourself home or you froze to death. Maksim had a point.

Maybe Noah could present said point at his police interview.

What would Dave tell Timo? “Just saying good morning to Chandler, grabbing a protein bar, and Noah shows up in the doorway out of nowhere and wham! ” That’d be Dave all over.

Noah didn’t care anymore what Timo thought of him. Dave could say whatever the hell he wanted. But the police? Deportation? A lifetime ban once Dave filed charges?

For what? For one moment of losing his temper? Ultimately, he’d handed the win to Dave on a silver platter. Whatever happened now, it was Noah’s own doing.

Slowly, stiffly, he stood, teeth aching from his clenched jaw, eyes burning and vision spotty from the pressure on his face.

He shook out his hands, worked his jaw, sucked in a breath, straightened suit and tie, rolled his shoulders, and marched down to Timo’s office.

* * *

“Come in,” Timo called in answer to the knock on the door. “Hello, Noah. I hoped you might call on us. Please, have a seat.”

Timo’s palatial, windowed office accommodated not only his twelve screens, all begging for attention with global headlines scrolling ever downwards, chat windows, Bloomberg Surveillance running in a small window to the side, endless rows of flickering green and red numbers, but three extra chairs to host guests.

Temporary guests. Timo had made sure they were wickedly uncomfortable, clean line wooden affairs of the kind that looked nice for modern interior design.

It wasn’t often that those chairs let him down in the form of having to keep company with the likes of Dave for this long.

Dave had, in fact, spent the first ten minutes in here on his knees and doubled over, sure he needed a hospital.

Best to start early making statements that might later be needed in any legal or medical capacity?

If anyone ever rear-ended Dave’s car, he’d probably stagger from the vehicle screaming about the burns and crushed bones.

Funny, Timo was the one who wanted Noah to touch his balls, yet here they were.

Noah did not accept the invitation to sit. Looking at Timo instead of Dave, who still sat rather folded in on himself, glaring at Noah, he said, “I just wanted to talk to Dave.”

“By all means.” Smiling at him, Timo extended a hand to Dave, palm up, as if serving the conversation to Noah.

Noah started to speak, changed his mind, took a chair after all, turning it to face Dave.

“I’m really sorry, Dave.” His tone was stiff, struggling not to be, to make this real.

He was a poor actor, but you had to give the kid points for trying.

“That was completely out of line and unacceptable behaviour for any situation, much less in a workplace. I’m really, really sorry I struck you. ”

Having just come down from a long rant to Timo about what a useless, scheming, homicidal little son of a bitch Noah was, Dave, for once, seemed at a bit of a loss.

“Are you okay?” Noah asked. “I’ve got ibuprofen, and I can run down to Boots to get anything you need.”

Dave mumbled about already having such things in the kitchen as Timo became aware of the hot fluid trickling over his own upper lip.

Honed from years of practice, he was sitting forward in a flash, one bright crimson drop hitting the floor, but never his clothes, and the handkerchief was in place against his nose in two seconds flat.

“Excuse me,” Timo said thickly as he scrambled up, one hand and silk over his nose.

The two men in the designer chairs only glanced at him. Timo’s nosebleeds were hardly headline news.

As he stood with his head in the sink a minute later, breathing through his mouth, he wondered if he should tell Noah that he’d just managed to talk Dave down from threats to file charges. That Dave had, in fact, said he’d let it go if Noah apologised.

Why spoil the day? No matter how much Timo wanted to be the hero in Noah’s eyes — and yes, Timo was the one who’d talked Dave down, not Noah, not Dave’s natural magnanimity, definitely Timo — he wanted even more to give Noah that rush of feeling that he’d saved himself.

It would be enough for Noah to know Timo had calmed Dave down and that Timo was on his side.

He’d never have really let Dave pursue Noah legally, of course.

But he’d not needed to resort to gently pointing this out to Dave since diplomacy had won the day.

Wasn’t it nice when everyone got along? One big happy family, as they said.

Timo needed a happy family right now.

He released the pinch on his nose but it was still flowing.

How much had he slept last night? It had to be an hour or two because he remembered nightmares about seeking Noah in a dark, shrinking space. Barring that, the sleeplessness had left him with plenty of time to search for Noah on Google and every possible social media he could name.

The most interesting had been the Instagram account, inactive for years, but replete with all black-and-white photos before then of New York City and Seattle, then scrolling down and down, Fairbanks, Prudhoe Bay, and unspecified Alaskan wilderness and everyday pictures of the type people posted: dogs, a few wild animals like moose, reflections in summer puddles, a carved pumpkin in snow, a holiday meal, the northern lights.

There was not one photo in 644 that showed Noah, even the profile picture being of a tiny, round cactus in a terracotta pot; the same cactus, presumably, that Noah kept on his work desk.

There was, in fact, not one photo of a human being anywhere in his feed. And, other than the first year or so, when Noah would have been in his mid- or late teens, not one photo in colour.

There was something so unsettling about the feed, Timo had completely forgotten his original ambition of finding a good photo of Noah to jerk off to, though he still couldn’t put his finger on it. Plenty of people didn’t post human photos. Plenty of people were into black and white. So what?

Noah didn’t even keep up the feed anymore, followers in the double digits only, probably just family and old school friends. Then why had Timo spent half the night looking at those pictures, reading every single sparse caption?

Timo gave his face a final rinse, then studied his nose in the mirror.

Impersonal was what they were. Cold, flat, some of them beautiful; he had a good eye for an amateur only taking phone snaps; but devoid of life, of context, of any kind of story or feeling.

If he didn’t care, why had he posted 644 photos across several years?

If he did care, why didn’t he put any soul into what he was sharing?

Timo dried his face with paper towels, dragging himself back to focus on the situation in his office that hopefully had resolved itself. Those two should have moved on by now and Timo could find Noah returned to his own desk and ask if he was okay and what had happened.

Timo didn’t much care what had happened, but he knew how much people loved feeling supported and understood and all that other crap.

Once Noah felt supported and understood, Timo could make sure they were still on to meet at the museum on Saturday. Or, why wait? What about dinner tonight? It wasn’t as if Timo thought of anything else when he wasn’t with Noah, so everything else was really wasted time.

Stepping into his office, Timo found a best-case scenario: Dave gone, Noah still there, waiting for Timo.

Timo smiled at him. “You okay, Noah? You’ve had quite the morning.”

“We need to talk,” Noah said, voice as stiff as his perch on the streamlined chair.

“Of course. What happened with Dave?” Timo sat back on the edge of his desk, again ignoring the screens, gaze only for Noah.

“Not about that.” Noah met his eyes and Timo’s pulse quickened. “About how you’re behaving.”

“Me?”

“I don’t have much time left to work here, but I want that time. I want to make this a success and stay as long as I can.”

“Indeed —”

“I can’t do that if you’re going to keep acting like this.”

“Like what?” Timo was taken aback. Now it wasn’t just attacking your colleagues that was illegal but being friendly?

“Don’t bullshit me. Put it this way: Will you leave me alone to do my job and only talk to me about work-related things for the next seven weeks?”

“Then what?”

“Then what … what?”

“After the seven weeks?”

“Then I’m going back to the States. Maybe more like six.”

“Oh.”

“I did tell you my exact dates at the interview.”

“I understand keeping things professional at work, Noah. That’s absolutely fine.”

“It is? You’ll respect that?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Oh …” Noah sat back, as if having been braced against a heavy burden only to let go. “Thanks.”

“How about dinner?” Timo said.

“Wait — w-wha-what did you say? Fuck. ” Noah shook his head violently, eyes closed. Very clearly and precisely, he repeated, “What did you say?”

“At dinner, after work, we can catch up about other matters. Totally work focused here. Okay?”

“No.”

“Have you been to the new Mongolian place on —?”

“No!” Noah jumped to his feet. “Will you leave me alone, or do I have to leave the office and go back home right now even though I d-d-don’t have a home!”

Timo cocked his head. “You mean, to North America?”

“Yes! We can only have interactions in a professional, work-related capacity, or I’m l-le-leaving right now and never coming b-back. You choose. Just t-tell me which it is.”

Timo swallowed. If Noah only understood how much he meant to Timo, how much Timo wanted his arms around Noah at this very moment, how much it was tearing him apart to hear Noah say Timo was worse than nothing to him, then surely Noah would change his mind.

But how was Timo supposed to explain the simple truth when he was banned from non-work topics and when the truth was, well, really bloody stupid?

Timo cleared his throat before saying, “Work only, of course. You don’t have to go anywhere, Noah.”

“Thank you.” Noah’s jaw twitched. Again, he spoke in a measured, clear, clipped fashion, as if aimed at particularly inept speech-to-text software. “Then I’ll get back to work.”

* * *

Noah was shaking with his own adrenaline come-down by the time he sank into his desk chair. It took him a minute, just breathing, eyes closed, before he could pull everything back out of the box for his desk.

Years of speech and cognitive therapies, essentially conquering his speech disorder by adulthood, and now this?

Yes, they’d told him that stuttering would be with him for life and to be compassionate with himself and remember the exercises, especially in times of stress, but how long had it been since anything like that had happened?

He wouldn’t let it come back. It was a blip. It was his damn boss, not his whole life. He was fine. He’d stood up for himself; he’d got what he wanted, and he wasn’t even facing criminal charges. Better than fine.

Why, then, did he feel like the one who’d been kicked this morning?