Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3)(36)

Baz turns his face to kiss my chest. “You’re not fat. I like you like this.”

“Is there a way you don’t like me?” I say it like it’s a joke. But I bite my lip.

He looks up through his eyelashes and shakes his head. Christ, he makes me feel warmed through. It’s so good, I can hardly stand it. It makes me want to bash my head into a wall, just for the distraction. Maybe he can tell. He doesn’t kiss me again, and his hand stays motionless.

“Is your aunt still in jail?” I ask.

“No, I bailed her out—didn’t you get my texts?”

“Yeah, sorry, I—”

“Was ghosting me, your boyfriend of eighteen months, hoping I’d get the message and silently fade away?”

I sigh. “It’s like you don’t want me to forget even for a second that you’re merciless.”

Baz tweaks my nipple. “I don’t want you to think this is all a dream.”

“Hey!” I squirm and squeeze his hand. “Hey … I’m sorry. About the texts, specifically.”

“I bailed Fiona out,” he says. “She was trying to steal something from Watford, I still don’t know what.”

“So she could come back to the flat at any minute?”

“Not likely. I think she has a boyfriend.”

“I did read the texts about your stepmum. I’m sorry. How’s your dad holding up?”

Baz rolls his face into my shoulder.

I let go of his hand, so I can touch his hair. It’s dark and thick, and it falls past his shoulders when it’s wet. “That bad? Is there another man?”

He pushes himself up onto an elbow. I shift my wing out of the way.

“You’re not going to like this,” he says.

“Why would I like it?”

Baz pinches the bridge of his nose.

Then he tells me the whole story.





21

PENELOPE

I got a series of texts from Simon in the middle of the night: “pen, call me”

“something weird going on, a magickal thing—you’ll prolly think it’s interesting, could use yr brain. + prolly yr wand”

“call me”

“or baz.”

I saw them when I woke up at nine.

“Simon,” I texted back. “This is exactly what you said you didn’t want to do anymore. And I think you were probably right. Who are we to investigate ‘interesting’ magickal problems? If you really think something is amiss, you should tell my mother.”

Then I shoved my phone off my bed and went back to sleep.

When I wake up again, my room smells like a Greggs. Shepard is sitting next to my bed. He’s hauled in a chair from the kitchen.

“I brought you breakfast,” he says, “even though it’s technically lunchtime.

And even though I’m pretty sure you didn’t eat dinner last night. Did you know there’s a place down the street that sells every sandwich you could imagine? I literally couldn’t choose. An entire wall of sandwiches.”

“Are you talking about Pret?”

“So I brought you this instead. It looks bad, I know. But trust me, it’s delicious—and vegan. I’ve already eaten three.”

I sit up to see what he’s set on my lap. “That’s a sausage roll.”

“It’s like a very mushy pig in a blanket.”

I glare at him. “I’ve eaten a sausage roll before.”

“Oh, good, then you know the drill. I brought you orange juice, too. If I’m going to be bringing all of your meals to you, you should probably give me a heads-up about your allergies, dietary preferences, and religious beliefs.”

I rub my eyes. I still feel just as terrible as I did when I fell asleep. And just as clueless about my life. But significantly hungrier … I can’t believe I’m going to give Shepard the satisfaction of eating this sausage roll he brought me. I take a bite. “Have you been wandering around London again?”

“I considered sitting alone in your living room for another day, but—”

“You can’t just walk around. You’re an illegal immigrant.”

“I really don’t plan on immigrating…”

“You didn’t talk to anyone, did you?”

He tilts his head at me.

Right, that’s a stupid question. I need to get him out of here. I’ve been licking my wounds since Simon left, ignoring Shepard completely. I can only confront a limited number of my mistakes at once—there are too many for me to cope with concurrently. But this has got out of hand.

“Thank you for breakfast, Shepard.”

“Don’t thank me,” he says. “I took money from the kitchen table. I hope that wasn’t your rent. It was either that or steal your gem and try to Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo us some breakfast. I’ll pay you back. Unless it was more fake money.”

“It’s fine,” I say.

“This is such a great neighbourhood. There’s a family of either/orcs living downstairs, have you met them?”

“In this building?”

“Yeah, the young couple? With the schnauzer? I’ll introduce you later.”

“You talked to my neighbours?”