Page 33 of Under Your Spell

‘I don’t think you’re one to talk about people’s names,’ I say, peeling off the sticker that the machine spits out and stepping forward to slap it on his chest. ‘If anyone needs to wear a name tag, it’s you.’

Theo looks down at my hand, my fingers splayed across his shirt, which is just as soft as I’d imagined. And it’s stretched across a body that is hard and warm. For a second our eyes meet and I think there’s a flash of something in his gaze, something wild and hungry that does strange things to my knees, but in an instant it’s gone. He takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest, and I drop my hand to my side, leaving the label behind on his shirt, the one that says THEO.

‘Not Edward,’ he says quietly, his voice husky.

‘Definitely not Edward,’ I agree. A reminder that is worryingly necessary. I may have liked Edward, but he never existed. I need to stop getting confused by Theo’s nearness. I need to remember that this is a professional situation. I need a really, really cold shower.

There’s a long and extremely awkward pause.

‘Right,’ Theo says, and all the light has gone out of him, leaving behind nothing but a stiff politeness in his face and his voice. ‘Better get on with this writing. That’s why we’re here. I’m sure Serena will be checking in on me soon enough.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I say. ‘I’m going to the shops now, is there anything you need?’

‘No, no,’ he says briskly, already backing away. ‘And you don’t have to… you know… run around after me.’

‘That’s my job.’ I give him a fixed, bright smile. ‘And I think we both know David will come here and murder me very efficiently if I don’t do it well.’

The smile Theo gives me doesn’t reach his eyes as he lifts his hand in a little salute and then he’s gone.

It’s early evening by the time I get back from Newcastle, clutching yet more bags. At least now I’ll be able to email David telling him I have everything Theo could possibly need. And driving Theo’s big, expensive rental car made the whole journey much less of a hardship. I cruised along, listening to a Judy Blume audiobook which satisfied my nostalgia craving perfectly, air conditioning blasting, and not even a little bit afraid that the car would suddenly combust.

I call out a greeting when I let myself in the front door but there’s no response from Theo. Hopefully he’s deep in the creative zone. I unpack the bags and then set about making myself some dinner – spaghetti and a pretty basic veggie sauce, garlic bread warming in the oven. It smells great and my rumbling stomach agrees. I’m a decent cook but I’m very grateful I don’t have to prepare meals for Theo. His private chef has sent over a freezer full of perfectly balanced, organic, sugar-free, dairy-free and gluten-free dinners that just need to be reheated in the oven. The most I have to do is blend the odd kale smoothie while thanking the Lord I don’t have to be the one to drink it.

Speaking of Theo, there’s still no sign of him, but I guess there’s no reason to expect we would eat together or anything. Still, it feels strange with him in the house. Is it impolite to eat without him? Should I offer to put one of his fancy meals in the oven? I dither and decide against it.

David was very clear that Theo needs space when he’s working and shouldn’t be bothered unless he asks for something himself. And when I say ‘very clear’ I mean he brought it up a hundred times and warned against what he called ‘idle chatter’, and suggested that I should try to be neither seen, nor heard. When I told him that made me sound like a Victorian chambermaid, he made a distinct sound of approval.

So I don’t bother Theo. Instead, I press the button to lower the blinds and sit on the sofa with my pasta, ready to watch the next instalment of my favourite teenage vampire drama, Blood/Lust, on Netflix. Four episodes later, I have washed up the dishes and made inroads on a tub of mint choc chip ice cream, but I still haven’t seen or heard Theo.

I tidy up and leave a Post-it note on the fridge, telling him his dinner is in there and how long he needs to heat it for. After a moment’s thought I add, Or there’s leftover pasta and garlic bread if you’d rather. Help yourself. And I draw a smiley face.

I make my way upstairs and pause outside my bedroom door, my eyes skating towards Theo’s room. There’s no sound, no music, no strumming of a guitar, nothing. Perhaps he’s already asleep?

I lie awake for a long time. Something about knowing Theo is not only in the house but on the other side of the wall behind me makes me feel agitated. I stay very still, picturing him lying only inches away, and it has my entire body on high alert. I’m troubled by the fact I don’t seem to be able to turn off my reaction to him. It doesn’t matter that my brain knows perfectly well that he’s not for me, when several of my other body parts seem to vehemently disagree.

Whenever I’m near Theo, all I can think about is getting my hands on him. Or getting his hands on me. What is wrong with me? It’s clearly some residual reaction to our night together. It will get easier, I tell myself, and that’s the thought I am clinging to when I finally do fall asleep.

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning I go downstairs and open the fridge. Theo’s meal is untouched, but the pasta and garlic bread is gone. So is my Post-it note. Otherwise I wouldn’t know he’s even been here.

I sigh.

Small victories. I guess we made it through day one and I’ve kept him alive. Only forty-one more days and one genre-defying, award-winning album to go. Nothing to worry about.

I spend the morning on edge, waiting for Theo to appear, but he doesn’t. I drift around the kitchen, cleaning the already immaculate surfaces. I consult the lists that David sent me but I’ve checked off everything. There’s nothing left to do except clean Theo’s room – tricky when the man is currently inside it.

Perhaps Serena was right and this is going to be an easy job. Maybe I will hardly see him. That can only be a good thing given the starring role Theo Eliott played in the restless hours of graphic sex dreams that I enjoyed last night. My subconscious clearly did not get the memo about professionalism.

I’m sitting at the kitchen counter, staring into space, when I finally hear footsteps thumping down the stairs. As Theo doesn’t appear in the living room I creep out and stick my head around the door to the hallway.

Theo stands with his back to me. He has ear pods in, and whatever he’s listening to is loud enough that I can hear the thump of the bass. He hums along, a low rumble in his throat. He bends over to pull a pair of trainers on and I am treated to a delicious view of his rear end, clad in grey jogging bottoms. There’s that white noise in my brain again.

I panic, slam my eyes shut. I’ve already spent the night fantasizing about him, now I’m objectifying the man, like some sort of pervert lurking in the bushes. Get a grip, Clementine.

‘Shit!’ Theo yells loudly. My eyes spring open to find he’s turned around and is looking down at me. He holds his hand over his heart, pulls an ear pod out. ‘I didn’t know you were there.’

A dozen images flash through my brain in high definition and my blood sizzles.