Page 91 of A Witch in Notting Hill

“That rustle in the leaves—”

“I know.”

“I should have done something.”Why didn’t I do something? How could I have been the one to let this happen?

Before I could spiral any further, we heard the same rustling again. Only this time it wasn’t from the video on Willow’s phone. It was from outside the window.

“That couldn’t—”

“There’s no way—”

“They’re here?” I jumped out of bed to push back the curtain just enough that I could see outside, and I regretted it immediately. “Don’t move,” I said.

“Of course they followed us,” she groaned, flopping back onto the bed. “Please don’t go out there.”

“Why not? Someone needs to tell them to get the hell out of your garden.”

“Yeah, and if it’s you, your face will be all over the tabloids tomorrow. Next to my face.”

“Nervous that other bloke will see?” I teased, though I wasn’t entire sure I was joking. Could that have been the real reason she didn’t want anyone to see us together?

“What bloke?” she asked, scrolling her phone again, undoubtedly reading something unpleasant judging by the look on her face.

“That bloke you were seeing . . .”

“Oh, right, er, that bloke.” When she looked up at me, I saw the truth written all over her face.

“There never was a bloke, was there?” Everything was unraveling. Coming apart one string at a time to the chorus of paparazzi outside. And it was too late to stop it.

“Does that matter right now?” she asked, gesturing outside. “We’ve got paparazzi outside the house, Oliver. We’re trapped in here until they leave.”

“Perfect,” I said. “That’ll give you plenty of time to tell me why you lied about the guy.”

She heaved a frustrated sigh, and I wondered if she was frustrated that she’d lied in the first place or frustrated I’d found her out.

“Does it even matter at all?” she said. “It definitely didn’t stop us from doing whatever we wanted, obviously.” She gestured to the unmade bed and the pile of most of our clothes still on thefloor. “Even though that was the whole point of the lie in the first place.”

“The whole point of the lie was what? To keep us apart?”

“Yes,” she groaned, “and while I’d love to explain myself, I’d love it even more if the paparazzi wasn’t outside my door.”

Before either of us could say another word, there was a pounding on the door. Loud, persistent, more than one set of knuckles.

“Willow! Come out and give us a statement, love!”

“Miss James, just a few questions!”

“Are they serious?” I asked. “They’re at the door?”

“Who’s the bloke, Willow?”

“We’d love to see the both of ya!”

“They are definitely serious,” she said. “This is what they do.”

“And you have to live like this?”

“I’m sure now you can understand my need for privacy.”