by Adele Abbott
“All-Men?” He laughed. “They should be prosecuted under the Trade Description Act. None of them would last five minutes in the ring with me.”
“You’re a boxer, then?”
It was a stupid question. He hadn’t got his broken nose and cauliflower ears from an origami class.
“I could have been a contender.”
Someone had been watching too many movies.
What to do? Suffer another hour in Hunk by myself? Mad had already shot off. Or get soaked to the skin?
“Jill!”
A car had pulled up in front of the club.
“Jill, come on! I’ll give you a lift.”
It was Drake.
“Looks like your luck’s in,” the boxer said, as I hurried to the car.
“Jump in!”
I dived into the passenger seat.
“Horrible weather.” Drake smiled.
“Where did you come from?” I was mighty pleased to see him, but couldn’t work out how he’d turned up out of the blue like that.
“I’ve been at a business function; it overran a little.”
“It must have done.”
“It’s lucky I spotted you as I was driving past.”
“What was the function? It must have been good to keep you out this late.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t. I’d been trying to get away for the last two hours.”
By the time Drake pulled up outside my block of flats, the rain had stopped.
“Thanks for the lift. You saved me from a soaking.”
“Do you want me to walk you in?”
“No, I’ll be fine from here. Thanks again.”
I waved him off and then made my way inside. What a spot of luck that he happened to be passing.
It was only when I got inside my flat that a thought occurred to me: How had Drake known where I lived?
What’s next for your favourite P.I. and witch superstar, Jill Gooder?
What craziness does Winky have in store?
Find out in the next book:
Witch Is When Stuff Got Serious
(Witch P.I. Mysteries #11)
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