Page 95 of The Little Shop of Curiosities Cursed Object 1, The Music Box

At least, I assume it’s her forcing these memories on me. I don’t really have a clue why this is happening, and my brain is too tired and foggy to continue trying to puzzle it out. I’m running on automatic pilot now.

I roll over slowly and wince. My bladder is really not going to let me wallow in exhausted misery for long, so I drag myself out of bed and stumble into the bathroom like I’m drunk.

What I wouldn’t give for eight hours of blissful, uninterrupted, and dreamless sleep.

I pee, wash my hands, and brush my teeth, in that order, before dragging the duvet off my bed and heading into the living room.

It’s decorated with evergreens for Yule, which my dads came down to London to celebrate with me. Hence the new bright red pyjamas that are decorated with little sprigs of holly and mistletoe and clash terribly with my hair.

I’m beginning to wonder if one or possibly both of my dads are colour-blind or if they just do this on purpose.

Flopping onto the sofa, I pull the duvet over me and reach for the TV remote. Maybe some mindless TV will bore me into a deep sleep.

One can only hope.

Thankfully, I don’t have to work. I finished up my last orders a few days before Yule and won’t open again until the new year. Today is the day after Boxing Day… I think. I’ve lost track.

Sam and I have spoken every day since he’s been up north with his mum. In a way, it’s been nice to build a friendship without any pressure, although I’m pretty certain we’re veering into the more-than-friends category. Even if we haven’t done anything more than share some incredible kisses.

His mum’s recovery seems to be going well. She looks happy. Sam sent me a picture of the two of them on Christmas Day along with a picture of his mum and Trev laughing as they pulled a cracker.

It had been a lovely glimpse into their lives, and I couldn’t help but wish I’d been there with Sam.

I miss him.

It’s been so long that I’m beginning to wonder if he’s going to come back at all. Which is selfish, I know. His mum needs him and he needs to make sure she’s okay. But I can’t help that little voice at the back of my mind that keeps telling me he’s going to decide he doesn’t want to leave Leeds after all.

After all these months, his PI business is all but dead in the water, and it would take a lot of time to build it back up again. He also mentioned that he’s only got a few months left on the lease for his bedsit. It makes no sense to continue to pay rent on a property he’s not living in, and if he’s got nowhere to live and no business to come back to, why would he come back at all?

It’s not like he’d come back for me. Okay, yes, we’ve become friends, but it’s not like I’ve been exactly honest with him. I may talk about my magic, my childhood, my dads, but I still haven’t told him about my mother, about the circumstances of my adoption and my ties to the Crawshanks family. I haven’t told him about the nightmares. He knows I’m struggling with my sleep and often have bad dreams, but I haven’t elaborated, and the more time that passes, the harder it is to tell him the truth.

What if he decides he doesn’t want to be friends anymore?

I hate my brain right now.

I want to sleep so bad I might just lie here and cry for a while. I’m just contemplating doing exactly that when the bell for the front door downstairs rings.

I’m intent on ignoring whoever it is and hoping they’ll go away, but the bell keeps ringing and ringing. If I wasn’t so exhausted and my magic wasn’t on the fritz because of said exhaustion, I’d give serious consideration to turning the enthusiastic bell-ringer into a toad. If I actually knew how to do that. I should look that up soon.

“Urgh,” I growl in annoyance. Can’t I just wallow in peace? “Fine!” I yell, even though they won’t be able to hear me. I drag myself off the sofa, still wrapped up in my duvet like a burrito, and head downstairs. It better not be Tristan and Danny. I do like them, but only in small doses when I’m feeling this way.

Although now that I think about it, Tristan had messaged that they were going to some hotel in Yorkshire.

What’s so bloody special about Yorkshire? Not only is it really cold, but they call cakes, buns…

I reach the door and open it, preparing my best glare.

“Whatever it is, I don’t want–”

I stop mid-sentence, and all my thoughts scramble as my gaze falls on Sam standing on my doorstep, looking perfect and sexy as hell. I look like I’ve been scraped off the bottom of someone’s broomstick.

“Hello, Prickles, I missed you too.”

“You’re in Yorkshire,” I blurt out.

“Well, clearly I’m not.” He grins.

“Buns are cakes and your rent is a lease.” I frown. “Wait, what just came out of my mouth?”