Page 35 of Witch You Would

I don’t think anyone had ever watched me put my mustache on until now. Sam and Ed had seen the before and after, the experimental

attempts with different styles and costume ideas, but they’d never stood in the bathroom with me while I applied the adhesive

and carefully stuck the fake facial hair to my upper lip. Having Penelope peek at me from the doorway felt strangely intimate,

almost more than being balls-deep inside her.

Almost. And I really needed to not think about that right now, because it was distracting as hell.

We were getting ready to hit the karaoke party, which honestly wasn’t my scene, but people would wonder what happened if neither

of us showed up. After so many days of pretending to pretend to flirt with Penelope on the show, it was going to be hard to

keep my hands to myself now that I knew exactly how it felt to have them all over her. My already-decent imagination had acquired

new spank bank material, and it was probably going to keep offering me ideas at inappropriate times until my feelings settled.

I smoothed the mustache down and checked for integrity. Looked okay. Tinted gel was next. Slick it back with a comb, wash off the leftover goop, and . . . done. Add safety glasses and look complete.

“It’s like you’re getting ready for a Halloween party,” Penelope said. “Except you have to do it every day.”

“Only while we’re here,” I said. “Usually it’s once or twice a week for a few hours.”

“Does it bother you?”

The easy lie almost came out: It’s fine. No big deal. I’m used to it. I didn’t want to lie to Penelope, though. Not anymore,

and not about this.

“It kind of does.” I looked at her in the mirror, looking at me. “It’s one thing to be Leandro for a little while and me the

rest of the time. Doing it all day for so long has been stressing me out. What if I slip up? What if I break character?”

Penelope grinned. “What if some girl you like ends up liking the wrong you?”

“I legit wanted to walk into the bay,” I said, leaning on the counter. “It was bad enough when you hated me—Leandro, I mean.”

“I never hated you. I just...”

“You thought he was a flake getting people to do unsafe magic.”

“Pretty much. Bad news, bro: you totally broke character with me.”

Shit.

“Too competent,” Penelope continued. “Too careful. All your accidents were fake, except the spill. I think you reminded me

too much of... you, I guess. What I knew from emails and blog posts, anyway.”

“Well, hopefully I did enough goofy tricks that the editors can make me look appropriately derpy.”

Penelope stepped into the bathroom and wrapped her arms around me from behind. “It’ll be okay. And hey, now that I’m in on the secret, we can work together better, right?”

That did cheer me up. Then my second thoughts about what Isaac had said dropped me back into my own personal pity hole.

I hadn’t finished talking with Sam and Ed, but they had accepted my text apology for disappearing and my brief “she knows

and we’re good” explanation. They were both happy for me, which for Ed meant a chill “That’s so great, dude” and a smiling

sunglasses face emoji, and for Sam meant “FINALLY!!” plus a GIF of two cartoon characters humping doggy-style.

I hadn’t talked things out with Penelope, either, but that seemed slightly less necessary now. The major part was done; we

could figure out logistics once the competition was over. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

We stopped by Penelope’s room so she could fix her face, and ran into Dylan. I shot the shit with him in the hallway waiting

for her—super-nice dude, worried about his mom back home and his bakery job. I told him I hoped he’d get promoted after this,

and he said he hoped he’d beat the rest of us so he could open his own place. Then he could promote himself to boss.

It would be cool if all of us could win, honestly. We all had dreams, and goals, and stuff we’d do with our prizes. Every

single person in the competition was hardworking and skilled, and it seemed a waste of talent to send any of us back to where

we’d started with nothing to show for it but our accumulated day rates and something to put on our CVs. But it was a contest,

and only one team would take the top prize.

The library-slash-lounge had a wall of bookshelves in that same distressed wood as everything else in the hotel.

Cozy reading nooks and living-room-like couch-and-table areas took up most of the middle space.

Against one wall was a stand-up piano; Amy already sat behind it playing a song I didn’t recognize.

Quentin had grabbed the guitar from the lobby and was jamming along, nodding and tapping his foot to the rhythm.

Nobody was singing yet, but I assumed that was because no one wanted to be first.

Penelope and I sat together on a love seat, chatting with Dylan and a couple of the PAs. Her thigh brushed mine sometimes

when she moved, and I had to cross my legs to hide how it affected me. She had changed into a skirt, which, if we were alone,

I could just flip up and—

“You okay, man?” Dylan asked. “You got a funny look on your face.”

Whoops. “My face always looks funny,” I joked. “It’s the mustache.”

He raised his eyebrows in an if you say so expression, then went back to paying attention to the conversation.

Yeah, this was not going to be easy.

Drinks happened, singing happened, and as Amy had requested, Penelope and I danced together. Slower at first, bachata moves,

basic steps and turns. I kept it clean, didn’t pull her too close with my hand that was on her waist, or let it slide down

a little lower like I wanted. She really was a good dancer, and I hoped I wasn’t making a fool of myself. Either with the

dancing, or with the sappy smiles I couldn’t avoid having every time I looked at her.

Then Amy played something faster, somebody whooped and shouted, “Dale!” and Penelope gave me a look that said it was on.

She kicked off her shoes and went full pata sucia, and I went with her.

We spun, I dipped her, we slipped in and out of each other’s arms, and a few times our moves would have been a whole different kind of fun if we’d been naked and somewhere else.

Eventually I tapped out to wash off some sweat and get a drink of water, watching as Penelope kept dancing her ass off.

“Hey,” Quentin said, nudging my arm. “You should ask her out.”

What should I say to that? Pretend nothing was happening?

“Yeah?” That was neutral, right?

“Come on, you two are a perfect pair! We’ve got bets going on how long it will take for you to hook up.”

I couldn’t tell him someone had already won the bet. It still felt weird, though, for people to think Leandro was perfect

for someone when he wasn’t real.

“Penelope deserves better than a hookup,” I said.

Quentin’s eyes got big, and so did his smile. “Oh? Sounds serious.”

Ugh, rule two: don’t break character. I pretended my arm hurt. “I hit my funny bone is all. The serious will stop once I can

feel my humerus again.”

“It’s okay to be serious about some things,” Quentin said. “Especially some people.” And then he wandered toward the piano,

accepting a drink from someone as he went.

It might be okay for me to be serious, but not Leandro. I had to keep things up for another week. And then what?

Oh, shit, then what?

Penelope bounced up, eyes shining. “Dance break over, let’s go!”

I let her pull me into a turn, and then my body took over as I firmly told my brain to shut up and enjoy this while it lasted.

I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, enjoying everyone’s reactions when they saw what I was wearing. Some people

rolled their eyes or shook their heads, but most of them pointed and laughed, which was the idea.

Little Manny came up to me first. “Bro, that is sick. How did you even find it?”

Sam had gone thrift shop hunting for weeks, eventually ordering my outfit online. “Magic,” I said, wiggling my fingers at

his eyes.

Today was our third field trip, to a cruise ship docked at the port. We wouldn’t actually be sailing anywhere, but we’d get

all the perks of being on board: fancy food, unlimited nonalcoholic drinks, live entertainment, and—unless I’d been lied to—a

soft-serve ice cream machine. I was going to eat a truly obscene amount of ice cream.

I’d already warned Penelope about it earlier, in my room. She’d laughed and said we could have a contest, because she was

sure she could eat more than me. I took that as a challenge, and also a double entendre, and pretty soon she was coming on

my mouth.

Mmm. Maybe later we could...

“Oh my god, what are you wearing?” Penelope asked.

I turned around and had to stop my tongue from rolling down my chin like one of those old cartoon wolves. Her dress was that

dark red with a name like burgundy or oxblood, and the swishy skirt stopped a little past her knees. Her shoulders were bare,

her upper arms partly covered with sleeve-like bits that had to be decorative since they weren’t holding anything up. The

front curved and crossed over her chest down to her waist, which had me looking right at her perfect cleavage.

She had asked me a question. I tried to skip back to earlier in my brain-track, but the stream had frozen.

“You look like you’re going to prom,” she said. “In the seventies.”

I found my Leandro grin somewhere and put it on. “What, you don’t like it?”

“It’s so . . . yellow. And the frilly shirt is so . . . frilly.” She shook her head. “And we match. Again. How?”

“It’s honestly a little creepy,” Dylan said. He wore a much more normal light brown suit with a blue tie.

My bow tie was maroon, and the lapels of my jacket had maroon stripes along the edges. Not the same color as Penelope’s dress,

but close.

“Clearly it’s fate, m’lady,” I said, giving her an elaborate bow. “We were destined to be the best-dressed team this show

has ever seen.”

“This is the first time they’ve had teams.”

“I said what I said.”