Zeb leans forward. “I’m so sorry,” he says very charmingly to the woman. “Could I just borrow Jesse for a minute?”

He then forces me to listen to a conversation he’s having with an old man about stocks and shares. I muse rather sadly on the fact that I wasn’t able to spin my architect story. It would have been a hell of a lot more interesting than what the city closed at today, which I’m pretty sure has nothing to do with when they all clocked off and went to the pub.

Towards the end of dessert, which is basically one mouthful of peach juice and a bit of cream smeared on the plate, Nina leans forward again. Her expression doesn’t bode well.

“I was very sad to see your eye.”

“My eye?” I stare at her and then realise that she’s gesturing at the remnants of my black eye. “Oh, thank you,” I offer.

“I have the number of the domestic-abuse hotline if you’d like it,” she says in a very sweet but carrying voice.

“Mother,” Patrick says in a loud voice, but she just smiles at me, widening it to include Zeb.

A startled silence falls over the table. I stare at her. What a fucking horrible bitch. “Oh, there’s no need,” I say loudly. “Zeb didn’t punch me, if that’s what you’re thinking. That is what you’re trying to imply, isn’t it?”

“Jesse,” Zeb mutters. I smile at him before reaching over and pressing my lips to his. It’s a soft kiss, and, to my regret, I have to pull back immediately before I really have time to register the soft plushness of those lips under mine. I turn back to Nina.

“They can get you help,” she says smugly, raising her glass to take a sip of wine.

I wait until she’s taken a sip. “No need,” I say cheerfully. “Well, not unless they employ an exorcist or the Most Haunted team. A dead woman did this when she hit me in the face with her shoe.”

To my satisfaction, that sort of kills the conversation around us for the rest of the meal.

Chapter Five

Jesse

After dessert, people start to drift away from the table. To my relief, Zeb grabs my hand and steers me out of the dining room and away from the witch. I offer her a casual wave over my shoulder while she looks thoughtfully after me as if calculating how many hours it’ll take to disembowel me.

“Phew,” I say. “Another five minutes and I’m sure she’d have brought out her flying monkeys.”

He shakes his head and picks up his pace. I follow obediently instead of pulling my arm out of my socket, and we’re practically moving at a jog as we hit reception.

Patrick appears in front of us. “Zeb, have you got a minute?”