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If you'd asked Kate Sharma what she thought she'd be doing with her English Lit degree, it wasn't this. Publishing, she'd thought, without having any real idea of what you actually did in publishing. It sounded impressive and she'd had a vague picture in her head of her high heels making a satisfying sound in the corridors of smart, clean offices, becoming a regular at a nice bar with a group of fun co-workers her own age, wowing chairmen or shareholders or board members with her amazing PowerPoint templates. 

Yes, her daydreams involve PowerPoint templates. 

Her real life, on the other hand... She doesn't need impressive presentations to convince the Islington wine mums to buy Colleen Hoover books, most days she comes to work in jeans and a jumper, and her only real coworker is her sister.

Her sister, who she loves to distraction. Her sister, who wrecks her self-esteem with every conversation. Oh, not on purpose; Edwina never even has an unkind word for her. If she knew how Kate compares the two of them in her head, she'd cry, march Kate straight back to therapy, and have homemade chocolate cake waiting for her when she was finished. Which is exactly why Kate will never tell her. But it's getting more and more depressing to see Edwina still bright-eyed and hopeful, only a year out of uni, talking about the travelling she's going to do when she saves up, the career paths she might wander down and how sure she still is that she's going to make something of her life. 

Kate has stopped being sure. Sometimes it feels like her whole life starts and ends at the front door of Danbury Books, with a job she only has because the owner is her stepmum's friend from uni. Yes, technically she's the manager, but it's not like there's much to manage, and she hasn't had a payrise since she was 24. She's 28 now, and it all feels stale and stagnant. 

Guilt washes over her like a tidal wave whenever she's on the verge of complaining, though. On paper, her life sounds pretty good. She lives in a cute flat above the bookshop she works in for a reduced rent with her best friend in the world, it's the stuff that Instagram dreams are made of. And she does, for the most part, like her life. She likes getting to spend so much time with Edwina after ages living apart, she likes getting to talk about literature whenever she stumbles on an intelligent customer, she likes the Turkish bakery on the street corner, she likes the pilates classes she goes to every Tuesday and Friday, she likes her friends, her hobbies, her habits. There just isn't much in her life that she loves. 

It would be a lot easier if she knew what she wanted to do instead, if she had a goal to work towards. Kate is good with goals, with measurable, specific targets. It's flinging herself out into the unknown and seeing what sticks that she finds difficult. But she's old enough to know now that if she wants her life to change, she needs to change it herself. 

So she isn't expecting anything life-changing from this rainy Tuesday morning in March. Isn't expecting anything at all, really, except a steady trickle of customers and a hazelnut latte whenever Edwina makes her way back from their favourite coffee shop. 

When the bell rings, telling her that the front door has opened, Kate only glances back for long enough to see that it isn't her sister and calls out a “good morning!”. Most of her attention is taken up by the Staff Recommendations display, making sure she's got a good balance between stock she wants to shift and books that the staff (her) would actually recommend. The guy mutters a greeting of some sort, but not one that indicates he's up for a chat. That's absolutely fine by her; there's nothing Kate finds more irritating than someone following you around a shop pushing you to buy something. Chances are the man just ducked in to shelter from the rain, and that's fine by her too. It's not like she needs to push too hard for sales; Danbury Books is basically a vanity project for her boss, a multi-hyphenate businesswoman who keeps the bookshop among dozens of actually profitable businesses so it seems like she cares about the arts.

When she gets back behind the counter, Kate takes a better look. Her only customer has his back to her now, scanning the general fiction shelves. He's well-dressed, she observes, but not dressed for the rain. His light jacket is made of some nicely-cut fabric she can't name but Edwina probably could, and even Kate knows enough to know that it must be an expensive one. No umbrella, obviously- young men who care as much about how they're perceived as this guy's bulky shoulders suggest he does wouldn't be seen dead carrying an umbrella. They have their fragile masculinity to protect, after all, rather than their clothing. 

She's so taken up with being judgy that she's still looking when he turns around, book in hand. 

It takes her a second. It's like seeing someone from your hometown on holiday in a different country; you know that you know them, but the context is wrong and your mind refuses to put all the pieces together right away. And seeing Anthony Bridgerton approaching her with a polite smile is way, way weirder than seeing Cressida Cowper from sixth form on a city break in Krakow. 

He belongs on her tv screen, not in her bookshop. Living in London is meant to render you unimpressed by famous people, but it's not just that Anthony Bridgerton is famous. He's also impossibly good-looking, better looking than anyone in real life should be. Normal people don't look like that, don't smile like that. It's a cliché but he looks like he's sprung from the pages of one of the paperbacks in the romance section, carefully crafted by an author trying to appeal to as many straight women as possible. 

And he's also… well, just really fucking famous. Her stepmum would know who he is, an honour usually reserved for 80s pop stars and BBC tv presenters. He's been in Netflix dramas, blockbuster action films, popular comedies. He was the internet's boyfriend a few years ago and she's pretty sure there's still a very sizeable portion of the online population that would be sticking pins in a Kate-shaped voodoo doll if they knew where she was right now. He's properly, actually famous, not just Instagram famous or Islington famous. 

Famous, she realises as he gets closer, with terrible taste in books. 

Controlling her facial expressions has never been Kate's strong suit. When Anthony Bridgerton- Anthony Bridgerton- passes her a copy of Bukowski's Factotum for her to scan, she can feel her lip curl with disdain before she can school it into polite neutrality. Hopefully he was too busy looking at himself in the nearest reflective surface to- 

“Something wrong?” 

Her eyes dart back up to his irritatingly perfect face to find a smile there that can only be described as smug. Not fast enough, Kate pastes her customer service smile onto her own face. 

“Not at all. Cash or card?” 

“Well, hang on a moment.” Anthony Bridgerton (she can't think of him in any other way) holds his hands up in an exaggerated gesture, as if he's on a set or a stage. “Do you disapprove of my choice of reading matter, Miss…?” 

Miss? Is it 1962? Does he think it's still normal to call people by anything other than their first names? And are there hidden cameras somewhere? She can't think why else he'd be prolonging this interaction. Surely men who've been tipped to be the next Bond at least twice aren't usually keen on chatting to shop assistants. Maybe he's getting a kick out of talking to someone normal, she thinks. Maybe he's expecting his daily dose of someone swooning over him. 

“Kate,” she says coldly in response. She's not going to swoon, no matter how perfect his hair is. “Do you need my approval, Mr…?” 

As she lets the question hang there, just like he had, the smile on his face tells her that he knows she knows his name. 

“Anthony. No, I don't suppose I do. And I suppose in the current climate, you can't afford to be turning down sales.” Ouch.

“No,” Kate agrees with a smile so fake it uses muscles in her face that have lain dormant for years. “Not when most people would rather sit at home mindlessly streaming mediocre TV than pick up a book.” 

She's pretty sure that the last time she logged into Netflix, his latest show was in the top ten most watched. His mouth seems to tighten as the hit registers, but he's still making no move to take out his wallet. 

“So, what exactly is your problem with Mr Bukowski?” Anthony Bridgerton asks, one eyebrow raised a little, as if her distaste is funny, as if he's humouring an unreasonable toddler who won't eat her vegetables. 

Answering his question would be a stupid thing to do. There's no good outcome, it's not like he's going to just agree with her and even if he did, that would only mean one less book sold. But she's itching to, and how often do you get to tell a Hollywood heartthrob what you think of them, anyway? Does she need to worry about the consequences when she'll never see him again? 

“Oh, I don't know, the blatant, unrepentant misogyny?” 

To his credit, Anthony Bridgerton stops smiling, but Kate can't stop talking. 

“Even you must know that there's a very specific kind of pseudo-intellectual guy in his twenties who worships Bukowski and Hunter S. Thompson and Jack fucking Kerouac, and that that's as big a red flag as an Andrew Tate tattoo.” 

There's silence for a moment. And then…

“You think I'm in my twenties?” The grin is back on his face but when she doesn't respond in kind, it drops again. “And can I just say, for the record, I do not listen to Andrew Tate.” 

The revulsion in his voice almost makes her smile for real. Almost. 

“Oh, I don't think there's that much overlap between the Bukowski guy and the Tate guy,” she says, the ice in her voice melting a little. “But they're both bad news.” 

“Okay, so what counts as a green flag?” He asks. Kate furrows her brow, confused. “If I'm not allowed to delve into the great American authors, what will you let me buy? I'm assuming no Norman Mailer?” 

Again, Kate's self-control abandons her. But at least, this time, when the involuntary expression of disgust makes Anthony Bridgerton laugh, it doesn't feel so much like he's laughing at her. 

“You can buy whatever you like,” she points out. “But no, I can't say I'd recommend Norman Mailer. Maybe… I don't know, what do you like about Bukowski?” 

His grin turns a little sheepish.

“Ah, well. I haven't exactly… I'm not very familiar with his work. This would have been our first acquaintance, if you hadn't put a stop to it.” 

“So you want something that's going to make you look cool when you put it on Instagram,” Kate deadpans, no longer remotely concerned about offending him. It doesn't seem like she can- everything she's said, he's seemed to find amusing. Maybe he's just really good at hiding his feelings. Someone so permanently in the spotlight must get a lot of practise.

“I don't think anyone's said “cool” and meant it since 2006 but sure, that's the idea,” he admits. “I would have actually read it, though. I'm not a complete fraud.” 

But she's not really listening, because inspiration has struck her. Coming out from behind the counter, she makes her way over to the start of the fiction section, where the short stories live. Her fingers trail along the shelf until she finds what she's looking for and when she does, she can't restrain her triumphant smile as she turns back to Anthony Bridgerton, book in hand. 

“Eve's Hollywood,” he reads aloud from the cover. 

“You wanted a great American writer,” Kate says quickly, in case he thinks she only chose it for the Hollywood connection, like she's fawning over him. “Eve Babitz has all the sex and drugs and rock and roll your pretentious men have, but she's funny too. She doesn't take herself too seriously. If you don't like it, you can come back and get Norman Mailer's whole pervy bibliography.” 

Anthony Bridgerton shrugs. 

“I'm entirely in your hands,” he tells her, and Kate feels her cheeks heat up. He didn't mean that, obviously, but his voice could make anything sound suggestive. 

“I'll take the Bukowski too,” he says, as though he's daring her to object. “I've taken up enough of your valuable time, I might as well take two books.” 

“Yes, I was swamped before you came in. Rushed off my feet.” She glances pointedly to the left and right at the empty shop and Anthony Bridgerton smiles his broadest smile yet. 

When he's paid and she's taken her sweet time putting the books into a paper bag, he turns to leave and Kate feels an unaccountable pang. He can't have been here for fifteen minutes, but there's no denying it's been the most stimulating fifteen minutes she's had in the last fifteen days. Possibly the last fifteen weeks. 

“Thank you, Kate. This has been…” He pauses, leaning against the door, and she can't help but notice how sculpted his arms are. “Enlightening.” 

Enlightening. She'll take it. 

“If you need someone to criticise your taste in anything else, you know where I am.” Oh God, did that sound like she was trying to flirt? It definitely did, and he just gives her one last smile before disappearing back into the rain. No umbrella. 

Kate has no idea how long she just sits behind the counter after that, replaying their encounter like one of his movies. She has no idea how long it is before Edwina stumbles back through the front door, completely drenched and clutching two coffees. 

With her big sister mode activated, Kate is too busy fussing over Edwina's wet clothes and soaking hair to say anything about surprisingly friendly film stars. And by the time Edwina has gone up to the flat to get changed and come back down again, it feels too late. It feels too weird. How would she even bring it up? Just saying it would sound stupid, like she'd made it up. “Oh, by the way, Anthony Bridgerton came into the shop while you were out. I was really rude to him and then he bought two books.” 

She'd have to spend ages convincing her sister that she wasn't joking and then spend ages more dissecting every moment, every word he'd said. One of the things Kate loves most about Edwina is her sincere interest in other people and their lives, but it means that she always wants to hear every little detail. If she repeats them over and over again, they won't be hers anymore. They'll become meaningless with repetition, more like an inside joke than something that actually happened to her. 

She'll keep it private, just for her. It's not like it really matters anyway. She'll never see him again.

Chapter Text

In the three days, two hours and maybe seventeen minutes since Anthony Bridgerton walked out of Danbury Books into the rain like the leading man of a mid-level film noir, Kate hasn't been herself. Apart from anything else, her screen time has rocketed- what else can you expect when you stalk someone's Instagram back to 2014 and read their Wikipedia page more than twenty times? She's usually pretty good about not spending too much time on her phone but that's all gone to shit, to the extent that Edwina's noticed. 

“Are you texting someone?” She'd asked with a huge smile on her face. “You can't put your phone down.” 

In a split second, Kate had to decide what's more pathetic- telling her sister that she's years deep in the social media profiles of an attractive actor she met for ten minutes, or lying that she's texting someone real. The first is true, the second would make Edwina happy but in the end, it seemed safer to plump for neither. 

“I've just gone down a rabbithole about Dorothy Parker,” she'd lied, quickly bringing up the woman in question's Wikipedia page a tab along from Anthony's. “The blacklist years.” 

As she'd known it would, that dulled Edwina's interest pretty quickly. Still, Kate has continued to feel guilty, like she's hiding something. Which she kind of is; an increasingly large, increasingly ridiculous fixation on Anthony Bridgerton. 

It's not just that she fancies him. He is hot, that's an objective fact, but she's seen him in films before and never really looked twice. It's more that… meeting him just felt exciting. Exciting in a way that nothing else in her life really matches up to. Looking at pictures of him on holiday in Monaco in 2017 or playing board games with his family in lockdown is like clinging onto a little bit of that strange spark. That's why she now knows more about him than she does pretty much anyone else on the planet except her mum and her sister. 

She'd already known a bit, of course, just through cultural osmosis. If you live in the UK and watch any TV, go to the cinema, look at your Instagram explore feed, ever pick up a magazine, you probably know something about the Bridgertons. She'd known he was a nepo baby; his dad was pretty famous in the nineties and noughties, usually playing the English guy who gets blown up first in Hollywood action movies or the nice, harmless fiancé who gets left for an American heartthrob in romcoms. And she'd known that Edmund Bridgerton died a while ago, had vaguely remembered the headlines. Now, she knows that he'd gone into anaphylactic shock on set in the US and hadn't received medical attention in time. As a paid-up member of the dead dad club, Kate's heart clangs with sympathy. At least when the worst thing to ever happen to her had happened, nobody from the Daily Mail had been sniffing around to find out all the gory details. 

Anthony's mum is an actress too, in a lot of those gritty ITV dramas, usually wandering around the streets of London with amazing hair getting cheated on and solving murders. According to Kate's one free online Vogue article, she lives in a depressingly gorgeous house in West Kensington (depressing because Kate wouldn't be able to afford a tenth of it even if she lived to be a hundred) and spends her Sundays cooking for her gigantic brood of offspring. 

An ever-increasing percentage of them are also in the spotlight. There's Anthony, obviously, but his brother Benedict is swinging for the Handsome British Leading Man-Character Actor fences too. His profile isn't quite as big yet, but Kate's seen him in a couple of plays before and thought he was good. Surprisingly good, honestly. She never expects anyone whose parents’ names are hyperlinked on Wikipedia to be much cop.

And then there's their sister, Daphne. She'd started out as an actress, but now she's more of a… would “it girl” be the right phrase or is that something else nobody's said since 2006? Regardless, she's the face of a major luxury beauty brand, she has an eye-watering number of social media followers, and her Met Gala dress had basically broken the internet a few years ago. If you said the name Daphne Bridgerton to any group of people in the country, 95% of them would know exactly who you were talking about. 

The ones who didn't might be more likely to have heard of Deborah and Richard Bridgerton, Anthony's grandparents. They spring up frequently in the kind of classic films Kate loves to watch on a Sunday afternoon; Deborah gorgeous in black-and-white, slapping then kissing Peter O'Toole, Richard wryly funny and charmingly serious in David Lean epics and Shakespeare adaptations. As Kate watches a clip of Deborah Bridgerton in an old romantic drama on YouTube, she's reminded of the fact that just one of this woman's film paychecks would have bought this whole building, without adjusting for inflation. The kind of money the whole family must have is unimaginable. Maybe that's why she can't stop thinking about Anthony- he's from a world so unfamiliar to her that it's hard to believe it could ever intersect with hers. That's why she's playing it over and over in her head, why she's devouring every little bit of information about him, she's trying to make sense of it. 

Not that he seems very willing to admit that there's anything strange about having a family with a combined Instagram following of twice the population of London. Kate's read a few different interviews where Anthony Bridgerton has very much brushed off the impact his family's fame has had on him, and it's started to rub her up the wrong way. It's the Bukowski guy speaking, or that's what it feels like, not the one who'd taken her suggestion with a smile. There's an interview with GQ from last year and most of it is fine, mildly interesting, Anthony mildly charming but towards the end…

As soon as I mention his family background, Bridgerton looks irritated. 

“Yeah, I'm not denying it's a thing. People hear my last name and they think certain things, good and bad. It's just weird that people have this preconceived certainty that my parents or my grandparents are calling up casting directors asking them to give me a job. I can categorically say that's never happened. I don't see why anyone would assume anything is easier for me than anyone else, I've had to audition for every big part I've ever got. And am I meant to come into every new job saying “just checking, did you hire me because I'm a Bridgerton or because you think I'm talented?” That sounds like a surefire way to get a really bad reputation, really quickly.” 

I ask if he wants to move on and he waves his hand dismissively. 

“I don't really have anything else to say. I don't understand why it's become the most interesting thing about me recently, that's all. People used to want to talk about my work, can we get back to that?” 

It doesn't make him sound great . Obviously he can't help who his family are, but pretending that it doesn't help seems short-sighted at best, full-blown arrogant posh boy at worst. And when Kate stumbles on a clip of Benedict Bridgerton answering much the same question on a red carpet, Anthony doesn't shine by comparison. 

“Oh, it definitely helps,” Benedict says from her phone with a warm, open smile. “It would be stupid to- it can be difficult, because I want to be aware of it but I also don't want to be coming into rooms acting like I don't think I deserve to be there, that's not helpful for anyone. I just try to stay… aware of it, yeah, and not try to pretend it's a level playing field or I've pulled myself up by my bootstraps when that's obviously not-” 

Kate turns the volume down on her phone, feeling uncomfortable. Not that Anthony Bridgerton would give a flying fuck about how she feels, of course. They've met once, for five minutes that he probably doesn't even remember. But part of the reason that she's still thinking about him is that he'd seemed so… nice is the wrong word. He hadn't been particularly nice. Or particularly normal. But he'd felt real . He'd listened to what she had to say, he'd wanted her opinion, he hadn't brushed her off. Kate doesn't feel like the prickly private school boy in that interview would have been so easy to connect with. 

Not that she's trying to make it into anything more than it was. She hasn't completely cracked up. She hasn't let her dozens of open tabs on her phone browser interfere with her life too much. She's working as normal, going for her morning walk as normal, reading on her lunch break as normal. She hasn't totally subsumed herself in the Bridgertons. But in those moments where she might usually be feeling down on herself, worrying about the future, Kate is filling the gap with Anthony Bridgerton Reads Thirst Tweets. 

Healthy coping mechanism? Probably not. But it's interesting, apart from anything else. This gorgeous man with this huge family, so successful, so tight knit, so different from her own. She has Edwina and she has Mary and that's it. The thought of having seven siblings would be fascinating even if they weren't all probably destined to end up on with a star on the Walk of Fame. It's the novelty; once that wears off, she'll be back to normal. Or, more likely, she'll find something else to obsessively research for a while. 

Afterwards, Kate will wonder if that was true. If she'd been left to her own devices, would she have just moved on and forgotten about him? 

She'll never know. 

Once again, when the shop bell rings to announce an arrival or departure (like a really low-tech airport, Mary always jokes), Kate isn't paying attention. It rings so often on a Saturday that unless she knows the till is unmanned, she tunes it out. Right now, she's replacing some books in true crime, moving a mislaid Helter Skelter back where it belongs and her mind is occupied by thoughts of all those groupies who wrote to Charles Manson in prison, proclaiming their undying love. At least she can be comforted in the knowledge that her Bridgerton thing is not and will never be that bad. The slightly elevated noise levels round the corner barely register. It's only when she can pick out Edwina's voice that something starts to feel off; she can't quite get the words but her sister's tone is strained, Kate can tell it isn't her normal bubbly, happy, every-customer-is-a-potential-best-friend voice. Immediately, she abandons Vincent Bugliosi and swings back round the corner only to see- 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck .

Usually so articulate, even when the only person she's talking to is herself, Kate can't think of any words that aren't expletives. Even if she could, surely none of them would do justice to the sight of her baby sister standing behind the till, talking to Anthony Bridgerton, Benedict Bridgerton, and someone she knows from excessive Instagram stalking is Colin Bridgerton.

And, of course, the sight of three girls in their early twenties hovering by the front door, trying to pretend they aren't taking pictures. But at least they don't all turn and look at her- the same can't be said for the four people talking at the till. 

“Kate!” Edwina says with a too-bright smile. “This gentleman was just asking for you.” 

Her sister is clearly rattled. Edwina has never said “this gentleman” before in her life. It seems to make Anthony perk up, though. 

Why is he here? Why is he flanked by his siblings? Why is he talking to Edwina? Why is he asking for her ? Did a stack of James Ellroy fall on her head back there and knock her out, send her to this fantasy land where Anthony Bridgerton knows who she is and wants to talk to her? 

But she shouldn't think like that. Okay, so she has 378 Instagram followers, not 5.6 million. That doesn't mean he's better than her. Why should he have forgotten their first meeting? She's fun, she's funny, she's memorable, she knows a hell of a lot of about American women's fiction from the 1960s. 

“I finished it,” he announces proudly, and he brings out his copy of Eve's Hollywood from his messenger bag. Sliding back behind the desk, Kate finds it weirdly difficult to meet his eyes, given that she's been looking at them on her phone for days. Or maybe because she's been looking at them on her phone for days. 

“Okay,” she says slowly. “You know it's not a library, right? You don't have to bring them back.” 

Beside her, Edwina takes a sharp breath. Beside Anthony, Benedict laughs out loud. Okay, maybe that was a little too much confidence. 

“Yes, thank you, Miss Sharma,” he says dryly. She did not tell him her last name. Did Eddie, in the moments before she came round? Or… well, how else would he know? “I finished it this morning, as it happens, and I haven't been home since.” 

“And did you enjoy it?” Kate adopts a more conciliatory tone, trying to smooth over her previous rudeness. Too conciliatory, maybe, because he immediately launches into an effusive, if slightly hard to follow, review in which he manages to mention how much he loves the Chateau Marmont three times before his younger brother interrupts. 

“As much as I appreciate you're auditioning for replacement host of Between the Covers, Anthony, you're being very rude,” Colin Bridgerton interrupts. “We all know who Kate is, but you haven't introduced us, and we don't know her lovely friend here.” 

He directs a wide smile at Edwina, who- has she gotten so good with the customers that she can make herself blush on cue, or is that genuine? And why, in the name of all that's holy, do they all know who Kate is? How? There's only one answer, of course, which is that Anthony has told them and that… is something too big and too fucking weird for her brain to hold. 

“Edwina,” her sister says prettily. “Sharma.” 

“It's a family business!” Benedict is clearly delighted by this, despite the fact the the name on the door is equally clearly not Sharma. “We know a little something about that.” 

He smiles at Kate and it's so friendly that she can't help but smile back, despite the tension that's keeping her rigid, despite the fact that she's still reeling, despite the way that it makes Anthony frown. 

“I'm Benedict.” He sticks his hand out to Kate and then Edwina in turn, with a charm that reminds Kate a bit of his famous grandfather. “Anthony you know, and this is Colin.” 

Colin does a little mock bow and the gaggle of girls by the window get louder. They're openly filming, Kate realises, and she shoots them a look that she hopes could melt steel beams. 

“Are you going to buy something?” She says loudly, ignoring Edwina's sharp gasp. It's not something she'd ever usually say to even the most irritating customers but she feels so prickly and exposed, like the other shoe is about to drop any moment and somehow everyone will know she's been cyberstalking Anthony Bridgerton, even these complete strangers. The girls murmur among themselves for a moment before they troop out and Kate doesn't listen to Edwina's murmured remonstration. 

“And are you going to buy something?” This time, she directs the question to Anthony, who raises his eyebrows like he actually is bloody James Bond. 

“Just browsing,” he says silkily, and then he gives Edwina a smile that has Kate digging her nails into the palms of her hands. “Seeing if anything catches my eye.” 

Kate doesn't miss the face that Colin Bridgerton makes at that, but having a comrade in her feeling of nausea doesn't make her feel any less nauseous. 

“Some Philip Roth?” She asks him with a nasty edge to her voice that she can hear, but can't quell. “Or Hunter S. Thompson? Henry Miller? Anyone else who sprinkles a few women on top of the narrative so that the characters they actually care about have someone to fuck?” 

Their eyes meet in the uncomfortable silence, silence that only lasts a couple of seconds but seems to allow Kate a lifetime of racing thoughts, wondering if she should apologise, reminding herself of how much he said he'd liked the Eve Babitz, remembering how excited he'd seemed when he was showing her, wanting to deck him for eyeing up her little sister, trying not to forget that he's Anthony Bridgerton and make a complete fool of herself. 

“I might go and look at the poetry,” Colin starts to say, awkwardly, but his older brother doesn't let him finish. 

“Do you live around here?” His gaze and his question directed at Edwina, the blazing smile is back on Anthony's face. It's as if Kate hadn't spoken at all. 

“Well, you could say that.” Eddie points upstairs. “We live up there.” 

“Oh? You do look like an angel but-”

“There's a flat above the shop,” Kate interrupts him sharply, but she doesn't manage to cover Colin's noise of disgust at his brother's pick-up line. At least she's not the only one with her head screwed on right. Anthony is more than ten years older than Edwina (twelve years and four months, the traitorous voice in her head that has his biography memorised tells her), that's what's making her stomach churn. “Why do you ask?” 

“Our sister Eloise lives a few streets away.” Kate had asked the question, but Anthony gives the answer to Edwina. “She's having a party tonight. You should come.” 

“We came to invite you,” Benedict supplies, and he actually is looking at Kate. The look on his face is faintly apologetic, which she supposes he must be used to. Trailing around with Anthony Bridgerton probably means having to apologise every five minutes.  “Of course, it's last minute, so you're probably busy…” 

“We're not!” Edwina steams in, and Kate can't really blame her, because she knows that Edwina knows that Kate would have shot him down with an immediate no. “Our plans were cancelled, actually, so we'd love that!” 

Their only plans had been to get a Thai takeaway and binge-watch Drag Race, but Edwina is obviously far too socially savvy to admit it. 

As her sister and Benedict discuss the details and swap numbers, half of Kate is wondering if being the second-born child makes you a natural extrovert who doesn't care about giving a complete stranger your contact information or if it's just a coincidence, and half of her is trying desperately not to look at Anthony. It's difficult because she's pretty sure she can feel his eyes on her and the back of her neck is prickling with the urge to be certain, but she can't. Looking at him seems to make her snap open, putting all the parts of herself she tries to keep private on display, including her terrible temper. It seems like if she so much as glances at him, she's at risk of tearing out the pages of every copy of Rabbit, Run and shoving them down his throat. Better not to look at all. Anyway, she could be wrong. He might be staring at Edwina. 

“I can't wait,” Eddie is enthusing, her smile far wider than it should be given the queue piling up behind the Bridgerton brothers. Alright, it's two people and they both look far more interested in what's going on in front of them than in getting to the till, but still . 

“Thank you for the invitation,” Kate says stiffly, looking at Benedict and Colin's faces and the lapel of Anthony's coat. 

Their mission complete, the men pile out with assorted happy farewells, seeming like far more of a mass of bodies than just three men, leaving Kate with the beginnings of a tension headache and a mystified, delighted, baffled sister demanding to know the full story. She tells it in fits and starts, downplaying her excessive online activities, and Eddie is practically dancing a jig by the time she's finished. Maybe if one of the first percentile of good-looking men had been flirting with her instead of her sister, Kate would be dancing too. 

It's annoying, that's all. She's trying to run a bastion of arts and culture, not a speed-dating service. She doesn't work herself to the bone managing the shop just so arrogant, handsome men can use it to lounge around and hit on her sister. Well, maybe she doesn't work herself to the bone at all, but at least to the tendons. 

But then, if they came to the shop today because of the party, they hadn't even known Edwina existed. He hadn't known. So they came to invite her to the party. Because Anthony Bridgerton had mentioned her to his siblings, because he'd remembered her for more than a second after she'd faded from his view. And although he clearly isn't a habitual reader, he'd devoured the book she'd recommended him in three days. 

She's not saying it means anything. She's not saying she wants it to, not when he's so full of himself, not when he'd looked at Edwina like she was prime rib. But when she goes upstairs to grab a cardigan in the middle of her shift, she spends a few minutes mentally cataloguing her going-out tops, trying to decide which would go best with an updo if she doesn't have time to curl her hair. Not that it really matters. It's just a house party. Even if the house is significantly nicer than most of her acquaintances’ houses, it's still just a house party. They can't be that different just because various members of the host's family have covered seven different issues of Vogue between them. 

Or that's what she tells herself, over and over again as she slaps on eyeliner and throws her hair up. By the time the two of them are stepping out of the front door, she almost believes it.