“And,” Tip said loudly, feeling Steve hadn’t quite grasped the most important point here, “said witch is going a bit gaga, excuse the phrase, and her magic’s about as reliable as the British weather, but nevertheless you expect me to go along and willingly let her cast another spell on me?”

  “Um. It doesn’t sound quite so good when you put it like that, but yes, that’s about the size of it.” Steve shrugged and beamed like he didn’t have a care in the world, which, Tip thought sourly, he probably didn’t.

  “Excellent. Good. Goodbye,” Tip said brightly, flinging open the door and dashing out as fast as his borrowed trousers would let him.

  “What? Wait!”

  “Enjoy the rest of your stay!” Tip called over his shoulder, and hastened his steps as he saw Steve coming after him. Stairs, stairs, where were the—ow.

  Ow.

  Ow.

  Ow, ow, ow.

  Ow.

  Tip sprawled at the foot of the staircase, his borrowed trousers down around his knees (but that was all right, as his borrowed T-shirt easily reached that far) and groaned piteously as he tried to work out which bit to rub first.

  “Tip!” Steve leapt down the stairs with irritating grace and knelt down beside him. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, fine—I always come downstairs this way. Why do you ask?”

  Steve dimpled. “You’re adorable when you’re sarcastic, you know that? Come on, let me help you up.”

  He didn’t help Tip up so much as lift him up and cradle him in annoyingly strong arms. What was worse, Tip found he liked it. “I’m quite capable of walking,” he protested half-heartedly.

  Steve’s breath was warm on Tip’s face as he answered. “Yes, but not without doing yourself an injury, apparently. Look, I’ll take you back to the room—is there anyone you can call to bring you some clothes that’ll fit better?”

  “Janey. My sister.” Who was probably worried sick about him, Tip remembered guiltily.

  “Good. I’ll lend you my phone, and then we can sit down and talk about getting this spell off you. And stop struggling; no one’s going to force you into anything you don’t want to do.”

  It should be illegal for anyone to wear a smile quite that disarming, Tip thought. “Sounds like the triumph of hope over experience to me,” he muttered, but he let himself be carried back to the room.

  * * * *

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Tip winced and held Steve’s phone a little further from his ear as Janey’s strident tones attempted to pierce clean through his left ear drum. “I got…” He paused. Aunty May was in the room, smiling at him beatifically. Would it be impolite to refer to the kidnapping? “There was a bit of a misunderstanding,” he finished weakly.

  Janey groaned. “God, you haven’t been arrested again, have you? I told you—”

  “No! No, I’m in Sandown. In a hotel. I’ve, er, borrowed some clothes, but they don’t fit me very well. Or at all, really. Do you think you could…”

  “Right.” She sighed. “I’ll come on over. You do realize this is a really busy time of day at the café, don’t you?”

  “Janey, it’s always a busy time of day at the café. And you know I wouldn’t call you if I didn’t have to.” Tip felt a bit guilty there. He could have asked Steve to drive him back home, but he had a nasty suspicion Steve would insist on carrying him to and from the car as if he were a wilting heroine in a bad romance novel. And while part of him—all right, most of him but one part in particular—found that a rather appealing scenario, if Janey saw it…well, spending the rest of his life as a tortoise would seem pleasant compared to the mockery Tip would have to endure. Janey might be sensitive about his unfortunate condition, but when it came to his love life, the gloves were off.

  Speaking of his love life, certain parts of Tip had very much appreciated his ride in those well-muscled arms, and he’d begun to see the advantages of remaining with Steve, even if the bloke did have rather worrying ideas about getting Tip de-spelled by a senile sorceress. One thing they didn’t need, though, was a chaperone. “Mrs., er, Aunty May?”

  “Yes, dearie?” She gave him a denture-filled smile.

  Tip tried to arrange his features into the most innocent look he could manage. “I’m sure you don’t want to hang around all morning while we wait for my sister to turn up, do you?”

  Steve caught on quickly. “Yes, Aunty, there’s no need for you to be cooped up with us all day.”

  “Oh, how thoughtful of you, dears. I’ll just have that cup of tea you promised me earlier and then I’ll be off for a bit of sea air.” She bustled around the room filling the kettle, boiling it, discarding the first kettle-full (“because you never really know, do you?”), then refilling, re-boiling, and finally drinking her bloody tea. By the time she’d finished, the tea wasn’t the only thing that was seething, although in Tip’s case it was with frustration.

  As the door finally closed behind her, Tip turned to Steve with a pleasant shivery feeling in his abdomen. “Um,” he said eloquently.

  “Yes?” Steve raised an eyebrow, his smile turning seductive.

  “We, er, earlier…” Tip trailed off as Steve leaned toward him and took his chin in one large, capable hand.

  “Yes?” Steve encouraged him, his other hand snaking around Tip’s waist as his warm breath ghosted over Tip’s lips.

  “We, uh…” Tip lost all capacity for speech as the hand in the small of his back urged him closer, and soft, dry lips descended on his mouth. His body melted against Steve’s, and his cock rose, stiff and needy.

  At which point, with impeccable timing, Janey turned up. She’d made it to the hotel in around twenty minutes. Tip was pretty sure it’d taken Aunty May around three times that. Absolutely bloody typical—just when you wanted someone to be slow, they shredded the speed limits to get to you. Her eyes widened when Steve opened the door. “Wow! Hello, I’m Janey. Tip’s keeper, I mean sister.”

  “Nice to meet you, Janey. I’m Steve.” He smiled and stuck out a hand for her to shake.

  Tip scowled as Janey held onto it way longer than was necessary. “She’s my older sister,” he said with emphasis. “My older, married sister.”

  “I’m sure you’ve always taken very good care of him, Janey,” Steve said, ignoring Tip altogether.

  She sighed. “I do my best, but as you can imagine, it’s not easy. He just seems to have a talent for getting into trouble.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s got other talents. Deep down,” Steve said, his eyes twinkling and his dimples deepening.

  “I am in the room, you know,” Tip muttered sourly. “Did you bring my clothes?” he asked in a louder voice, with a pointed look at the carrier bag dangling, seemingly forgotten, from Janey’s left wrist.

  “Here you go.” She handed him the bag. “You can go in the bathroom to get changed. Steve and I will just talk amongst ourselves, won’t we, Steve?”

  “It’ll be a pleasure,” Steve assured her. “Take all the time you want, Tip.”

  With as much dignity as he could muster whilst holding his borrowed trousers up with one hand, Tip stalked to the bathroom. Bloody typical. Next, she’d be coming out with all the embarrassing stories of his childhood, such as the time the neighbour’s rabbit had burrowed under the fence to jump him in the garden and he’d wet himself in terror.

  * * * *

  He pulled off the borrowed clothes, taking a last lungful of their heady aroma of eau de Steve with an odd mixture of relief and sadness. Okay, he knew he looked bloody ridiculous in them, but he wasn’t yet ready to relinquish the entirely spurious feeling of closeness they gave him to Steve. Probably the nearest he’d be getting to the man—Tip knew he had a certain superficial attraction for some men, but he doubted it’d be enough to carry them over all the setbacks he and Steve had been having.

  He was just pulling his T-shirt over his head when the door opened. “Janey?” he asked from underneath the fabric.

  “No, it’s me,” said Steve’s mellow, mischievous voice.

  Tip swallowed as he struggled to get his shirt down to cover what he was painfully aware was a rather slender, pale chest. There was bugger all he could do about his legs, though, sticking out from his boxer shorts (and why did Janey have to bring the ones with SpongeBob on that she’d given him for Christmas?) like a couple of whitewashed matchsticks.

  “I have seen it all before,” Steve pointed out, a hint of laughter in his voice.

  Tip flushed, not sure what was embarrassing him most: his present semi-nudity, his earlier total nudity, or just the fact that Steve could quite clearly tell how embarrassed he was.

  “And if you’ll recall, I didn’t have any complaints,” Steve added. “In fact, I rather liked the view.”

  Now Tip had another cause for embarrassment, rapidly tenting the front of his boxers. “Um. Is Janey coming in, too?”

  “No, no. She’s gone back to the café,” Steve said, moving closer. “So, like I said, you can take your time getting into those clothes.”

  “Oh!” said Tip, feeling a bit daft for his earlier jealousy. “I thought you meant—” He broke off as Steve’s large, warm hand came to rest on his hip, curving round it possessively. “Never mind.”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t,” Steve rumbled, pulling him in closer. Tip whimpered as his cotton-clad cock pressed against Steve’s muscular thigh. He barely retained enough presence of mind not to hump Steve’s leg like a randy Jack Russell, especially when he felt Steve’s erection boring into his belly like it was drilling for oil. Their lips met in a heated kiss…

  “Stephen? Are you there, dearie?” Aunty May’s voice trilled at them through the closed door. “I’ve spoken to June, and she’s expecting us there in half an hour!”

  As they broke apart, Tip sighed. “You know, it only takes fifteen minutes to get to Arreton from here. Twenty, tops,” he said without a lot of hope.

  “Maybe, but it’d take us at least half an hour to get rid of Aunty May again.” Steve gave a rueful smile and stepped back. “Come on. Let’s get this over with, and then we’ll have as much time as we want together.”

  “Yes, but will you still fancy me after whatever your Aunty June does to me this time?” Tip muttered under his breath as he pulled on his jeans and allowed himself to be led out of the room.

  * * * *

  As they approached Arreton Barns, Tip’s stomach curdled with unreasoning—no, make that entirely reasoning—dread. The low-roofed buildings, with their jolly signs painted in Ye Olde Englishe Spellynge, seemed even more sinister in the bright noonday sunshine than they had in the murky twilight of his nightmares. Hiding in plain sight, wasn’t that what they called it? He had a brief urge to run through the complex shouting “Run! Run while you still can!” to all the unsuspecting tourists who ambled sluggishly from shop to shop.

  He jumped as Steve placed a hand on his arm. “Relax, Tip. We’re just going to talk to her, okay? No spells unless you say so.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Tip wondered why he’d never realized before just how creepy this place was. The Blacksmythe’s Forge displayed gruesome torture implements—Tip didn’t believe for one moment they were really ploughshares—and the windows of the Draggon’s Denne held macabre ceramic likenesses of all manner of unearthly beasts.

  “I’ll catch you up, dears. This place does the loveliest little pottery dragons…” Aunty May’s voice disappeared, along with the rest of her, into a rather twee-looking shop.

  Steve shrugged. “She does like her dragons,” he said distractedly. “I think they remind her of her sister…Ah! Here’s Aunty June’s shop.”

  They stepped into Tye & Dye, Steve with a confident stride and Tip with a sort of anxious scurry. There were no customers inside. Tip found himself darting nervous glances at the floor, expecting to see hordes of small, crawling insects who had, up to now, been enjoying their summer holidays on the Isle of Wight in rather more human form. For all he knew, he’d been committing mass murder with every step.

  Aunty June (or, as Tip had dubbed her in his head, the Wicked Witch of the Wight) looked much as she had the last time he’d seen her. Same iron-grey hair, ruthlessly subdued into a bun at the back of her head. Same incongruously bright tie-dyed clothing. Same sour expression on her face at the sight of Tip. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” she muttered. “I suppose you want me to reverse the curse, eh?”

  “Um, whatever happened to poor old Aunty June, she’s been so worried?” Tip hissed to Steve.

  “Speak up, young man!” she snapped, advancing on Tip menacingly. “If you’ve got something to say, then let’s hear it!”

  Tip tried to take a step back, but found himself restrained by Steve’s arm around his waist. For once, he didn’t find it comforting.

  “Aunty June!” A broad smile on his face, Steve spoke in tones made heartier for the benefit of the hard of thinking. “Lovely to see you again!”

  “Hmmph.” The witch folded her arms. “April’s boy, is it? I always knew she’d go to the bad, hanging around with those mainland types. I told her, if you get yourself in the family way, don’t expect me to help raise the brat.”

  Steve’s tone didn’t falter. If anything, it grew fonder, in a mock-exasperated, old-people-you-can’t-take-them-anywhere sort of way. “I’m April’s grandson, Aunty. Stephen. We talked on the phone, remember? Now, we know you’ve been feeling awful about what happened to Tip—”

  “It’s probably just that she meant to turn me into a slug. And then step on me,” Tip muttered under his breath.

  “—so we’ve brought him along so you and he can have a little talk about reversing the spell you cast.”

  “Um, actually I’m really not sure I want to—” Tip began.

  The witch huffed impatiently. “Well, let’s get on with it, then, I haven’t got all day.” To Tip’s horror, she pushed up her sleeves with dye-stained hands and started to mumble an incantation.

  “Wait!” he yelped, Steve’s tightening arms around him making it come out more squeakily than he’d intended.

  “Er, Aunty?” Steve said, sounding uncertain for the first time since Tip had met him. “I did promise him—” He broke off as the air seemed to crackle, and Tip was torn bodily from his arms by an unseen hand and dumped, hard, on the floor.

  As metaphors for his life went, Tip thought groggily, it wasn’t an inaccurate one. Blinking to clear his vision, he hastily examined his limbs and torso. So far, so human.

  “Tip!” Steve threw himself to his knees and took Tip in his arms. “Are you all right? Aunty June,” he said angrily, turning to face his aunt, “I really think you ought to stop this hair-trigger hexing. What have you done to him now?”

  Aunty June humphed, her arms folded. “There’s gratitude. You come here wanting a curse removed, and now you’re complaining about it.” She stomped off to the back of the shop, muttering as she went about the shortcomings of the younger generation. Tip was fairly sure he could hear something along the lines of “Waste of good magic, if you ask me,” but he tried not to let it get to him.

  “Um, Steve?” Tip asked plaintively. “Can I go home now?” He paused. “I mean, I’m all right to go, aren’t I? I haven’t sprouted antlers or antennae or anything, have I?”

  Steve smiled, and stroked Tip’s hair. “You look as adorable as ever.”

  Tip felt a melting sensation deep inside, and tried to remember that he was actually rather annoyed with Steve for bringing him here to be hexed. He opened his mouth to speak—and then jumped as the shop bell rang. Aunty May bustled in, her arms full of brightly wrapped packages. “Oh,” she said cheerily, “have I missed anything?”

  * * * *

  Leaving Aunty May, who inexplicably wanted to spend some time with her sister, back in the shop, Tip and Steve headed back to the car park in an awkward silence. Now that Steve had finally realized Tip wasn’t best pleased with him, he was keeping his distance. Tip was dismayed to discover that was much worse than the annoyance itself.

  Once they’d climbed into the car, Steve looked at Tip. “So, er, where to?”

  Tip sighed. Suddenly he felt very, very tired. “I think I’d like to go home. To the café—I’ve got a room in the farmhouse. You know, Janey and Mike’s place.”

  As Steve nodded sadly, Tip discovered a whole new seam of self-loathing in the worked-out mine of his soul. “Or,” he found himself blurting out, “we could go for lunch together somewhere? I haven’t had a proper meal in days.” Right on cue, his stomach rumbled. Tip made a mental note to reward it with tiramisu. And steak. And chocolate, and sausages, and everything, in fact, except for bloody lettuce.

  Steve brightened instantly, and Tip found his own mood joyfully following suit. “Excellent idea! Can you recommend anywhere?”

  “What, on the wages Janey pays me?” Tip grinned. “The closest I get to a meal out is the specials at the café when they’re getting to their sell-by date.”

  “Well, there’s a place near here I’ve heard good things about—the Pointer Inn—although apparently it can be hard to get a table if you don’t book ahead. Still, no harm in trying, is there?”

  In Tip’s experience, there could be plenty of harm in trying, if your definition of harm included embarrassment so acute that spontaneous combustion from shame became a real possibility. He’d reckoned, however, without the power of Steve’s smile, which could apparently reduce restaurant staff to jelly and produce empty tables as if by magic.

  Tip frowned at his leather-bound menu. If it was magic, he wanted nothing to do with it.

  “Having trouble choosing?” Steve asked, turning the full wattage of that devastating smile in Tip’s direction.

  “I’ll just have what you’re having,” Tip said dreamily, barely registering his own words.

  Sanity returned fifteen minutes later, as Tip toyed with a starter that was almost bigger than he was, and tried not to think about the main course. “So, when this place was recommended to you, did they praise the food’s quality or its quantity?” he asked cynically.