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Chapter Text

 “Target acquired,” Penelope Featherington spoke softly, not breaking her line of sight with the man leaning on the bar. 

She swerved a group of drunk party guests with practiced ease, stepping lightly in her remarkably comfortable custom heels.

“Just over 6 foot, I’d say,” she muttered. “Blonde. A smattering of facial hair, can’t tell if that’s a shadow or if he’s going for a light beard, to be honest. Dressed quite casually. Must not have got the memo about the swanky dress code.”

She smiled. “I suspect that brown cardigan is genuinely vintage grandfather.” 

She paused as her target hooked one ankle around a bar stool and urged it closer, then slid into the seat. Beneath his grey slacks she could see he was wearing green cartoonish socks, featuring birds of some kind. She couldn’t tell species from this distance. Interesting choice.

“Looks like he’s getting comfortable. Not in a hurry to leave.”

Penelope frowned as the man rustled in the the small green rucksack beside him.

“Who brings a rucksack to a party?” she hissed, watching closely as he flicked open the satchel’s cover. “Super suspicious.”

The man extracted a battered spiral notebook and a pen. Oblivious to the music and chatter around him, he bent to earnestly scribble.

“Old school, eh,” said Pen quietly, watching as the man chewed on the end of his biro. “Eww. Maybe needs a simpler approach.”

She stood straighter, tossing her curly ginger locks back, and gave her hips a little wriggle as she tugged down her elegant black skirt.

“Go time, girls,” she whispered. 

She strode to the bar, which was quiet save for Mr Blonde, and sidled next to his stool. She raised her hand to gesture to the barman.

“G & T, please, no ice.”

Penelope turned to the man who had looked up at her voice, the tip of his pen still poised over the page. Directness would probably work best.

“Hello,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Pen.”

The man blinked at her slowly, as if he’d not expected to be noticed, never mind interrupted. As if being a rumpled-looking stranger sitting quietly in a corner amid the opulence of an exclusive Bridgerton birthday bash was normal. 

“Oh,” he said, glancing down at his biro and then, inexplicably, holding it out towards her. “Be my guest.”

Pen frowned. Was he not English? His soft accent had sounded vaguely southern.

“Sorry?” she said.

“Sorry?” the man echoed, still holding his hand aloft. “You’re welcome to borrow it.”

Pen eyed him warily, wondering if she’d misjudged the situation. 

“You asked for my pen,” the man said,

“Why would I want your pen?” 

“I don’t know,” the blonde man shrugged, his broad shoulders loose. “I thought maybe you wanted to write something down?”

“I usually use the notes app on my phone,” Pen said.

“Oh,” the man said, withdrawing his hand, “Why did you ask for a pen then?”

“I didn’t,” she said.

It was his turn to frown. “Am I in some kind of Kafka-esque comedy?” he said. “Or am I being Punk’d?”

He bent to the side slightly to peer past Penelope, whose lip was unwittingly twitching at the aged reference.

“Although I don’t see a camera.”

He sounded serious. 

Penelope was thoroughly confused now. Who was this man? How did he know the Bridgertons? And if he did know the famous and very rich family, why was he sitting alone in the corner of Eloise’s party?

“Why would I punk you by asking to borrow your manky pen?” she said. “No offence,” she added quickly, at his contracting eyebrows. “I saw you chewing.”

“Old bad habit, I’m afraid.”

“And people on Punk’d were usually celebrities. Or minor celebrities, weren’t they?”

“Are they?” he said, “I’ve never seen the show.”

“But you thought you might be on it?”

The man gave her a surprisingly pleasant smile. 

“Stranger things have happened, Horatio,” he said.

Pen felt herself force out a fake giggle at that. 

“Ah,” she said, nodding her thanks to the barman as he passed her drink. “Now we’ve regressed from Kafka to Shakespeare.”

"You understood the reference,” the man smiled again, this time showing a small dimple in the cleft of one cheek. 

“Do people normally not?” she asked, “Mustn't they just find you quite peculiar?”

“I have no doubt people find me peculiar,” he said, “but I am rather used to it. It doesn’t bother me in the least.”

Penelope could feel a little zing of attraction in her chest. Perhaps this wouldn’t be such a dud of a night after all. Earlier in the evening she had been questioning her hope to hook up at Eloise’s party, but well, if the universe was here providing, who was she to argue? Pen knew her technique of psyching herself up by pretending to be a secret agent on a mission might seem bizarre to some. But as a girl who grew up lacking confidence, she treasured the bag of tricks she’d learned since leaving home.

“I think maybe we should start again,” she said, leaning towards him slightly. The man’s eyes dipped, as she knew they would inevitably, to the scoop of her silver neckline. She took a slow, deliberate sip of her drink, while her secret weapons did their work.

Although not so secret, Featherington, she thought to herself. The girls do tend to make their presence known, no matter how classy an outfit you choose. 

She pushed the thought away. Maybe she could go for the full tits and comedy combo, she’d often found that to be a winner.

“I wasn’t asking for a pen,” she said, “My name is Pen.”

“Oh,” the man said. His eye sparked with interest. “Well that seems obvious now that you’ve said it.”

“Most things do,” she said, smiling widely, deliberately pausing, then -

“My sister’s name is Ink,” she said.

The man stared at her as if she’d slapped him with a fish. 

“Sorry?” he said.

Pen let the moment hang for a moment, then slid her hand across the bar, to casually touch the edge of his notebook with her fingertips.

“That was a stationery joke,” she said, “Pen and Ink.”

“Oh,” he said, “I see. That’s quite clever.”

Pen tried to hide a wince. It was never really a good sign when a man said he was amused rather than laughing, was it? 

“My name’s Alfie,” he said, “you’ll have to give me a few minutes to think of a pun for that though.” 

“Challenge accepted,” she said, “is it short for Alfonso or Alfred?”

“Alfred,” he said.

“Oh pity,” Pen clucked her tongue, “I know a few Alfonso jokes. Ooo,” she said as inspiration struck, “Hang on, motors are running, I think we could go down the Alfred and Batman route.”

She tapped his notebook with her forefinger. 

“Are you sketching plans for a weapon of some kind? A bat-shaped drinking glass that turns into a grenade? Or a rocket launcher?”

Alfie’s face retuned to its puzzled state. “How would a glass be bat-shaped?” 

Pen sighed, then tried to swallow it. She could work with this. She’d certainly done worse.

“Are you a butler, at least? Please make a girl’s night and say yes. You would slay in a tux.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he said. “I’m an academic actually.”

Multiple pieces of the puzzle rapidly clicked together in Pen’s mind.

“Ah,” she said, “you’re a friend of Phillip’s.”

“Yes,” he said, “we work together. Well, down the hall, different departments that are broadly adjacent to being together.”

That explained the rumpled clothes, the notebook, the sitting alone at a party, and, she had to admit, the general tone of oddity. Eloise’s botanist boyfriend was lovely but filled the stereotype of a daggy academic to a tee. Still, she thought, trying to bolster her resolve, that didn’t put Alfie off limits. He was cute, in a Harry Styles-meets-ageing-librarian kind of way. And Pen had a soft spot for people who hid at parties. Before she’d started work at her firm, she’d tended to the quiet side herself, until her job had forced her to work harder on developing her own bravado. Wallflowers and the world of advertising did not mix.

“And you?” he asked.

“Friend of Eloise,” she said. “Very old friend. As in, have known her forever, not as in I’m visiting from the Paleolithic era.”

“Oh not that old, surely,” he said. “Neolithic?”

Pen chuckled, a genuine laugh this time. 

“To be honest, as far as eras go, I’m still trying to decide between Reputation and Lover.”

Alfie’s face remained blank. 

“Too contemporary a reference?” she said. “Should we stick to the last century?” 

“And what is Pen short for, may I ask?” he said. “Peninsula? Penultimate?” 

“No,” she said, “nothing so exotic. It’s Penelope. Like in the classics, you know, the Thunderbirds.”

She half expected him to make an Odyssey joke, but he straightened slightly, a bright glint definitely in his gaze.

Her fingers were blatantly caressing the notebook now, and she shifted the angle of her chest slightly. Subtlety was a dying art. Perhaps he was a Thunderbirds fanboy? Stranger things had happened to her in her 23 years.

“That’s a lovely name,” he said. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

“You’re not a writer are you, by any chance?”

Pen shook her head, bemused by the random question. 

“Not unless advertising slogans and dirty limericks count,” she said, wondering when - or if - he’d pick up what she was putting down.

“My girlfriend’s favourite author is called Penelope,” he said. 

Pen froze. Perhaps not. 

“What?” she said.

Alfie didn’t seem to notice, his face genuinely animated.

“Yes, she’s obsessed with a novel of hers. It’s her first and only so far,” he said. “I mean, the first this writer has written, not the first Cress has read. And it’s a romance, of course.”

He said the last phrase with an unfortunate lilt that heavily implied that this was a lesser kind of reading.

“What do you mean, ‘of course’,” Pen said, a little more sharply than she’d intended. It was hardly the most important revelation of the moment but the words niggled at her all the same. 

“Oh you know,” Alfie shrugged lightly. “Women like that stuff, don’t they?”

Pen glared at him.

“Do they?” she said.

“Aren’t most romance readers, and writers, women?” he said.

Pen desperately wanted to argue, but unfortunately couldn’t recall any stats that refuted his comment right then.

“It’s not whether it’s true or not,” she said, “but more the way you said it. ‘That stuff.’ Like romance is trash and of course women like it, because anything we love must be a lower form of literature than,” she gestured wildly with her hand, note book caressing well forgotten, “Kafka or Shakespeare or other proper writers.”

Alfie looked confused. “I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Pen allowed, “but I think your last comment was heavy leaning in that direction.”

“I wasn’t aware I was leaning in any direction,” he said mildly. “I was just saying Cress really loves this new author. And we hardly know anything about her.”

He shifted slightly on his barstool, while Pen tried to nudge her hostile “crush the patriarchy” face, as El lovingly called it, back into something more sociable. 

“She lives in London, her bio says. Her stories are inspired by real travel, and her female characters are ballsy as all hell.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Am I allowed to say ballsy for a female?” he said.

“Shoot your shot,” Pen said, resigned now to needing to find a graceful way to back out of this entire conversation. 

“She’s not even on the socials.”

He pronounced the word in a way that strongly suggested he’d heard his girlfriend say it, not that he understood the reference. 

“And I keep thinking how wonderful it would be if I ever met her. I’d ask her to sign the book, naturally. It would blow Cress’s mind.”

Several competing thoughts jostled for dominance in Pen’s own mind. She picked one at random.

“So every time you meet a woman called Penelope, you check whether she’s an author, just in case she, of all the women in London, happens to be the author of that book - the, what’s it called?”

Alfie nodded. “A suitcase full of love. And yes, I do,” he said. 

“Huh,” Pen said.

“I do appreciate the odds aren’t favourable,” Alfie said. “I am a scientist, we all do basic statistics training. But the payoff would be extremely worth it. I can’t over-emphasise how chuffed Cress would be.”

“That’s kind of romantic,” Pen said, offering the second of her random thoughts. 

“Thank you,” he said, “I think.”

“No, I’m serious,” she said, and she was. “That would be a really lovely thing to do for someone. It’s thoughtful.”

Alfie gave a little smile of pleasure. “I take any chance I can get to make her happy.”

Pen’s heart suddenly lurched with unexpected envy. She wanted someone to care for her that much. Someone who would defy logic in order to make her “chuffed”. Or at least be mocked while trying. She glanced at her fingers, quickly tightening and releasing them, trying to stuff down the unwanted pang of feeling. She was not lonely! She was a successful, happy, modern woman, who happened to be single. Her relationship status was not her defining characteristic. 

Liar, a voice that sounded very much like young, idealistic Penelope, whispered in her mind.

She thought with another ache of the face of the only boy she’d really fancied herself in love with. She thought he’d been the sweetest boy she’d ever met. Unfortunately, the admiration had been entirely one-sided.

Oh no, she sternly told herself, we are not going there, Featherington. You’re only thinking about him because you’re at a party with his family. Where you’ve readied yourself to stay cool in case you saw him. Even if he hasn’t been around for weeks.

She shook her head and forced her focus back to the bar. 

“Does that mean though,” she asked, “that you’ve taken the book from your girlfriend and you’re carrying it around with you everywhere, on this Penelope quest of yours? Like, everywhere you go? Even now?”

“I wouldn’t call it a quest,” he said, “it’s more opportunistic than that. But yes, I do have a copy on me at all times. Not hers. A brand new one.” 

He turned to his rucksack, lifted the flap and fossicked for a moment before pulling out a small cardboard item.

“I keep it wrapped up carefully,” he said, his tone now slightly sheepish, as if of all things that was the oddest part of his behaviour tonight, “to protect the cover. Wouldn’t want to get dog eared corners.”

“Lord no,” Pen said.

He tugged off the cardboard sleeve and held out the paperback within. 

Pen glanced half-heartedly at the cover. The hook-up train had once again passed her station. She really did not care about this man, or his partner, or her reading habits.

The book looked like, to her untrained eyes, a typical modern romance. A drawing of a woman, walking next to a set of wheeled luggage, adorned the front. Just behind her, his gaze wistfully on her retreating back, stood a dark-haired man, presumably the dashingly-handsome-yet-unavailable-for-some-reason love interest, watching her leave. Pen was wondering idly if there was a wild last minute dash through a manic Heathrow terminal by either of them, when her eyes snagged on the author’s name. She let out a short huff of laughter.

“Hey,” she said, genuinely amused. “That looks like my name.”

Alfie frowned at her as though she was daft. 

“Well, yes,” he said, “she’s Penelope too.”

“No,” Pen shook her head, grinning at him. She pointed at the surname. “Penelope Featherstone. That is weirdly almost exactly my surname.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” she said, “Wow. That’s so bizarre. I’m Featherington, Penelope Featherington.”

Alfie shifted his frown down at the books cover.

“It’s not really the same,” he said. “She’s FeatherSTONE.” 

Pen stopped giggling, unsure if he was serious.

“Uh, yes,” she said slowly. “But you have to admit I’m very close. Featherington is only one syllable away. Well, two. Depends from which direction you approach. Hey,” she said as an idea struck her. “Would you like me to sign the book for you?”

Alfie looked up at her, his gaze wary. “Why?”

Pen blinked. “I mean, as a kind of joke, for your girlfriend. What are the odds really, that you’ll ever find the real Ms Featherstone? How many Penelope’s have you met since this book came out?”

Alfie frowned again, and withdrew the book, a little faster than Pen thought was warranted by her suggestion. As if she might grab the book, and his gross chewed pen, and scribble her name without his permission. 

“Three, and I’d rather not,” he said, pushing the book back into its covering, and his satchel. 

Pen sighed. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best, she might not find it funny.”  If she’s at all like you, she added silently. 

“Well, Alfie, it’s been… interesting meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime. At another Phillip thing perhaps.” 

“Sure,” Alfie said, sounding very much like he wasn’t bothered either way. 

“I’ll be sure to check the darkest corners for you,” she said. 

“The-?” Alfie looked confused. 

“Never mind. Lovely to meet you.”

An evil thought struck her then and she desperately wanted to toss the departing grenade in his direction. Pen quickly swigged the last of her drink and slipped it onto the bar. No, she could resist the urge. As well as confidence, her job was teaching her maturity. 23 year old Pen could hold her tongue as well as she could wield it.

“Maybe you could lecture me some more on what I think of women,” Alfie said.

Oh, fuck him.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” she said with as friendly a smile as she could muster, “that her name might not be Penelope at all?”

His own smirk slipped immediately. “What?”

“Your author. She might be Asma. Or Lizzy. Or Caroline.”

“I don’t-” he trailed off. 

She batted her eyelashes at him. “Oh Alfonso,” she said, “Surely even science academics have heard of a nom de plume. You might need to start asking all the women you meet if they are Penelope Featherstone.”

She turned away, eager to find if not Eloise, one of their other friends, so she could debrief about her failed mission. And maybe get a little encouragement to try again. With a new target, obviously. 

Her brain, less than helpfully, had conjured a quirky jingle and was enthusiastically singing it in a loop.

Toot toot, the hook-up train, it’s leaving from the station.

Toot toot, the hook-up train, girls let’s get on board.

Lost in the ridiculous thoughts, she strode away from the bar without looking where she was headed, and within metres had promptly collided with a very solid form.

“Oof,” she said, as the man chuckled and held her steady with a warm hand at each elbow. “Sorry, I wasn’t- .”

She looked up and the words fled, as she stared into the familiar face of her best friend’s brother. Although, Eloise came from a ridiculously large family of eight and had four brothers. This one was-

“Colin,” she said. Of fucking course it was.

“Hullo, Pen,” he said smoothly, with a smile. 

Dimples popped on both of his cheeks. Goddamn overachiever, she thought.

“Just the person I’ve been searching for.” 

***

Chapter Text

“Of all of the gin joints, in all of the towns in all of the world, you walked into mine.” 

Pen took a deliberate step backwards, tugging her elbows from Colin’s palms.

“Good to see you too Pen,” he said, shooting her another dimple-infested smile. “Although if anything, this is Eloise’s gin joint, not yours.”

Pen shrugged. “Potato, potahtoh.”

She resisted the urge to tell him he looked well. Colin always looked well. It was practically his defining characteristic. His hair was slightly longer than she remembered last seeing it, and the occasional dark curl was drifting forwards on his forehead in a way that made her palms itch to smooth them back.

No, Featherington, she sternly told her brain. That is the urge to slap that smug face. 

Years had passed since she’d even considered Colin a friend, but those old neural daydream pathways seemed to die hard. The fact that Colin had a tendency to turn up clad in bespoke tailored suits looking like the evolved Pokémon version of the teenager she’d once found so fetching didn’t help matters. She’d never been into Pokémon, but wondered idly if there were rating scores for chiselment of the jaw, or well-sculpted cheekbones? Perhaps she was actually thinking of Top Trumps now. Could there be a bespoke card pack comparing each man you met, with a category of “bone structure”?

“You were looking for me?” she said, before her rogue brain could continue to rank Colin’s attributes.

“I was.”

He rocked lightly on his heels.

“I didn’t know you were in the country.”

She did of course, because Instagram exists, and hate-following was a thing, but Colin didn’t need to know that. 

“I’m not out of it much these days. I was in Australia for three weeks, but I’ve been back for two.”

“Oh, how lovely for you. You didn’t get bitten by any crocodiles or spiders, by any chance?”

Colin grinned. “No. I did see plenty of those deadly redbacks though. They mostly live in people’s yards, not in their homes. It’s remarkable how casual people are with them. A good whack with the sole of a shoe solves it.”

Even as he spoke, Pen could imagine the satisfying thwacking sound that would make. There was a time she would have pushed him for details, fished to hear what else he had seen. That was pre-confident Pen too. 

“Gosh that’s fascinating. So, why were you looking for me? Is there a Bridgerton scavenger hunt afoot? Did they challenge you to collect a stunning petite redhead? If they did, Eloise might have dibs.”

Colin smiled again, but there was something slightly off about his usual assured demeanor. 

 “No - I - well, I was hoping we could talk. I haven’t seen you in a while, and - we have some catching up to do.”

Pen frowned. Unexpected. 

“Do we?”

Colin licked his lips. Pen could see he was pulsing his fingers lightly against his upper thigh - a sure sign he was uneasy about something.

“I need a favour,” he said bluntly. “First though, can I buy you a drink?”

She smiled despite herself. “It’s an open bar, Colin. Your family has already bought my drinks. Quite literally. I saw Anthony waving his gold card earlier.”

“Let me rephrase that then. Can I fetch you a drink? Still drinking gin?”

“No,” she lied, with a sideways glance over to the bar, where Alfie was once again bent over his notebook, avidly doodling. “No, thank you.”

“Really. I was going to grab a beer.”

“I’m fine. I just finished one. I’m letting it digest”.  Her eyes flashed again, unwittingly and unhelpfully, over to Alfie, who, she could see, was back to chomping on the tip of the biro.

Colin cocked his head to look past her, and smirked. “Friend of yours?”

“Uh, no. A friend of Phillip’s, actually.”

“Ah,” he smiled. “That does explain the cardigan. And the notebook. Also the socks.” 

Pen was tempted to introduce the pair. It would be amusing to lead Colin around to asking about books and see if she could lure Alfie into discussing romance novels again. She couldn’t imagine the two would have anything in common, and it would amuse her greatly to see them lock horns.

“Did you say you wanted something?”

“Yes, the favour. It’s… actually it’s going to take a bit of explaining.”

As he spoke a light flush scattered across his (high scoring) cheekbones. 

“Go on,” she said. “This is rapidly becoming the second most interesting conversation of the evening.”

“Only the second?” As if by instinct, he glanced across at Alfie again. “What was the first?”

Pen’s eyes narrowed. “Never you mind. Your favour?”

“Not here. Can we - can we go somewhere quieter? It’s private. Also a little embarrassing.”

“Now I am utterly intrigued.”

He motioned behind him to the doors that led to a courtyard, and they stepped outside together.

***

After a short stroll, Colin led Pen to a snug outdoor setting that was discreetly tucked away in a corner and screened by some well-positioned topiary. 

Pen scowled at the chair, nudging an orange cushion with her knee before moving to gingerly sit. 

“I hope the staff have thoroughly scrubbed this seat,” she said.

Colin flopped into the corner seat beside her, quickly making himself comfortable on the garish cushions. 

“Have you become a germaphobe?”

“No. It’s just,” she gestured broadly to the secluded spot, “people clearly come out here when they’re too particular for pub toilet sex.”

Colin snorted. “Really? That’s an interesting place for your mind to immediately turn.”

“Just because I’m not getting any doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it.”

Colin flushed again. “You’re not… seeing anyone then?”

“It’s a temporary dry spell.” 

“Huh. Is that why you were chatting up that odd-looking chap at the bar? Phillip's mate?” He nudged Pen’s shoulder with his own. “On the prowl, Pen?”

“What is wrong with you? And also no, and that topic is off limits.”

She ignored the fact that his arm was still resting against her shoulder. 

“Are you well, Pen?” he said softly.

“What do you want, Colin?”

“I really don’t know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning.”

Colin began flicking the fingers of his left hand against his thumb in rapid succession. “Yeah.”

Pen paused for a second, before adding more quietly, “It’s a very good place to start.”

Colin chuckled, stretching out his legs, and then settling back onto the bolster.

“Okay. So you know how I said I haven’t been travelling much. My travel writing has pretty much dried up as well.”

“Yes, I know,” she said unthinkingly. 

Colin hadn’t published any articles since the last he’d written in late 2022, on the post-Covid recovery of coastal resorts;18 months ago now.

“Eloise told me,” she added hurriedly. It would not do to appear to be keeping too close tabs on his activities.  Not when she was such an expert at low-level covert surveillance.

“I suppose the real beginning was the Covid lockdowns. I was in London, you know, just happened to be home visiting mum and I got stuck there.”

Pen nodded. She was lucky to have been flat sharing with Eloise at the time, as they both switched their study to online, they at least had each other for company. 

“It was the best of times, and the worst of times, yada yada,” she said.

Colin nodded. “We did better than many of course. But I ended up staying in England longer than I’d intended, even after that first lockdown lifted. And then the second one, and well, between it all I spent quite a lot of time indoors with a hell of a lot of spare time. But I think you know all that.”

She did. Any time Eloise was face-timing her mother Violet, or younger siblings Greg or Hyacinth, Pen took care to sidestep being caught in any conversation where she might have to chat with Colin. Over the last 7 years she’d segued neatly from Colin-obsessed to Colin-avoider. Their encounters were now entirely casual, infrequent, and surface level only. Luckily, if there was one thing Pen excelled at these days, it was superficial banter.

“Is this where you’re going to announce your change of career to sourdough baking champion?”

“No, not quite.”

“Pity.”

“Although my loaves were developing a pretty good crust by the end there. Mum has an amazing oven.”

Pen had a sudden visceral scent memory of huddling in the Mayfair house’s enormous kitchen with El one Christmas break, baking gingerbread. They’d decided to make decorations for the tree that year, but most of them were gobbled up by the Bridgerton siblings, a good many by Colin himself, before they’d even strung them onto ribbons.

“I know,” she said softly. “I remember.”

Her gaze was downcast, but she could feel Colin’s eyes on her face. After a moment of stillness, he continued.

“I used the time to write. It wasn’t deliberate, at first, just a good way for me to get out of mum’s hair and spend some productive time alone.”

“It’s so hard to get ‘me time’ in a mansion, one finds.” She looked up and caught his eye. “Sorry, go on.” 

“It became a routine. I got up and I wrote, I’d go for a run then I’d write. And, I dunno, the pages piled up. Before I knew it, I had a manuscript. I shopped it around, and I guess I got lucky. I got picked up, and I got a deal with a publisher.”

Pen straightened, immediately alert.

“Really? You wrote a book? You published a book? Colin, that’s brilliant!”

His face flushed more fully now. It was such an unfamiliar sight to see Colin flustered she felt an involuntary flutter in her stomach. 

“It was just a small print run, but, yes, I got published.”

She smacked her palm lightly against his shoulder. “Why did nobody tell me this? Even Eloise never said a word.”

“I didn’t tell my family.”

The uncomfortable look was back on his face, his eyes flickering as he avoided holding her gaze.

“What?” she said, “Why? Why would you keep that from them, Colin? Your mum would be mightily impressed. Can you imagine her at book club? ‘My son, Colin, you know him, the one who’s a published author, he says…’.”

Colin grimaced. “I suppose you’d think so, but I… I don’t know. At the start I really didn’t think anyone would want to read it. And it felt personal. Like, the writing was a part of me, my thoughts and feelings out there, loose in the world. And I didn’t know if it was any good or if anyone would even care. I was blown away when I got the book deal.”

Pen couldn’t recall a time she’d ever heard such raw vulnerability is his voice. It made her heart ache a little, an echo of the way he always had. Even as a younger boy Colin had always been the most sensitive, the most feeling of his siblings. His charm made it easy to forget that he carried insecurities held tightly to his chest; that he sometimes cared so much what everyone else thought. She shook away the sympathetic impulse. Colin was not the soft teddy bear she’d once thought him to be.

“And you didn’t tell anyone? Not even your brothers? Not even Anthony?”

Colin glowered. 

“Especially not Anthony. Unless it’s news that I’ve gone back to study or am taking up a business offer I don’t think Anthony cares to hear much about my career.”

“That can’t be true.”

“I think I would know, Pen.”

She fell silent. Colin’s relationship with his oldest brother, the closest figure he’d had to a father since his own dad had died when Colin was 12, was a touchy one. 

“So,” she said, “How is this tale of startling literary success building to a favour? Do you need some help with extra marketing? I mean, that’s usually part of the publishing deal isn’t it? I don’t know much about the industry but I'm guessing it’s a small push for new authors. Travel books are likely a whole different ball game.”

Colin cleared his throat, again not meeting her eyes.

“I didn’t write a travel book.”

“Oh. You didn’t?”

“No.”

“Okay. I assumed, with your background…”

“I wrote a novel.”

Now that startled her.

“A novel?”

Colin’s face brightened then. “Yes. It’s a kind of story, Pen, fictional, with made up people and events. Like a movie, but written in words, and printed onto pages.”

She slapped his shoulder harder this time. 

“Ha ha, funny man. I know what novels are. I’m just surprised, I didn’t know you were interested in… made up people and events.”

“Neither did I. But it turns out I rather enjoy made up people and events. Especially those that I’ve made up.”

“Okay,” she said, “And the favour?”

“I’m coming to that.”

“With the swiftness of a snail.”

“I’m trying to give you context.”

“Sorry. Go on, Turbo. Please.”

Colin leaned his elbows on his knees, and shuffled himself a little forward as he spoke.

“So the other piece of context is that I used a talent agent to help with the deal. You know, someone with industry connections who does all the business side of things-”

“I’m familiar with the concept of an agent, yes.”

He paused again, seeming timid for some reason. “Do you remember Bernard Fife? My friend from school?”

Pen snorted. “Bernie Fife? Oh god yes. Ever so fondly.”

“He’s my agent.”

“Okay.” 

They both fell into silence. Pen could recall with perfect clarity the last time she saw Bernie Fife - Colin’s 18th birthday. A night she had tried exceptionally hard to forget. Bernie’s face, smirking down the long table at her. His voice, sniggering into Joe Wilding’s ear. He’ll put it somewhere very special.

She cleared her throat.

“Okay, so… I’m trying to reassemble the fragments of this story bomb of yours here, Colin, and it’s leading me to think you’ve hit some kind of snag and it’s related to Bernie being your agent.” 

“Yes, indirectly, but yes.”

“Alas, from there my psychic powers are failing me.”

“Bernie convinced me that I should write under a pseudonym. He said it was really common, particularly in this genre where most people don’t use their real names.”

Pen could feel the strangest prickling sensation down her spine.  Something started to tick over in her mind, as if somebody had set a Rube Goldberg machine in motion and she was watching each element cascade through her brain.

Colin went on. “And legally, there are no issues with that, it’s all above board. Apparently sometimes publishers don’t even know the real names of authors. As long as the contract is correct and the agent has legal authority and the right people get paid, well…”

He hauled in a deep breath, and continued. “Only somehow Fife blundered. And everyone at the publisher thinks I actually am my pen name. The marketing team do, I mean.”

Pen could see he was genuinely upset, but knew she was lacking something critical.

“Okay,” she said slowly, “But I don’t see why that’s a giant drama. You can fix that, can’t you?”

Colin looked directly at her then, taking another gulping breath, then jerking his head and staring back at his hands.

“Yes I could, but… the thing is, the first run of the book sold really well. It got picked up by some Tiktok readers who spurred the sales along. And they’re doing another print run. And alongside that they want me to do some social media, and a magazine interview. It would be just this one-off push, apparently.”

“I still don’t see how that’s a problem,” Pen said. “Colin, don’t let this give you a big head, or, god forbid, consider that I personally find you attractive in any way, but you have the perfect face for this kind of thing. Both for some sultry social shots and a nice mag layout. You’d kill it.”

Colin still wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Honestly,” she said. “You’d be staggered to know how much some ladies love a parasocial moment with a minor celeb.”

“Only Bernie said… he said it would be much better, in fact, if people did think I was...”

The marble running through Pen’s brain clicked into the final channel. She could feel the last domino tumble was close. She stared at Colin, and he gazed back now, noiseless, until the words rushed out.

“I have an appointment on Monday. In three days, Pen, with a journalist. She’s expecting to talk to a woman.”

“Colin! Why didn’t you correct them!”

“I wanted to!” he exclaimed. “Only Bernie said… he said we’ve not done anything illegal, or fraudulent.  And I’d just need to get through this little marketing push and then once it seems to be going well, they might offer me another deal and then I could meet with them and come clean and it will be no harm done. But if I tell them now, they might pull the second print run, and I’d have stuffed it up for nothing. I know this is strange and sounds really lame the way I'm explaining it, but I swear it sounded a hell of a lot more convincing when he was speaking.”

Pen fell silent, contemplating.

“Colin…”, she said slowly. “What genre of book did you say you wrote?”

“I didn’t say.”

“A thriller? A murder mystery?” she eyed him closely. “Hmm. Let me guess… could it be that you wrote a romance novel?”

His voice was translucently soft. “Yes.”

“And Fife told you most romance authors, and readers, are women.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good lord!”

She pushed up from the cushions abruptly.

“Penelope,” he said quickly, his chin snapping up, “I swear, if you’re going to make fun of me…”

Pen spun wordlessly and strode away, taking a quick circuit of the patio.

***

In the time she came back to perch on the couch next to him, Colin hadn’t moved, apparently cemented in place. He watched her anxiously. Pen couldn't help wondering if the barman had slipped something hallucinogenic into her gin. This evening did not feel real.

“Colin. Please. I am having a fucking out-of-body experience right now. And I’m practically sober so we can’t even blame the booze. I am living what is turning out to be the strangest evening in my last ten years of life. Maybe even my whole life.”

“Because I wrote a romance story?” His handsome face twisted into a scowl. “You think that’s so unbelievable? Geez Pen, I'm flattered.”

His lower lip jutted out, and she unthinkingly stroked his forearm in an instinctive soothing gesture.

“No, Colin. You writing a romance… well, it’s a little out of left field but truly it makes perfect sense to me. You’ve always been a sensitive kind of guy. You’re in touch with your feelings apparently, and,” she let go of his arm and wiggled her fingers, “all that stuff”.

“All that stuff,” he echoed.

Pen turned towards him, her body fully facing him so he couldn’t avoid her eyes.

“Just tell me this. Please. Was it- and I’m going to ask you to be completely honest with me here, as in, honest in the way you clearly were not with your employer. When Bernie Fife made his big pitch to you about the necessity for a pen name, not just any pen name mind you, a female pen name, was it challenging to think of one?”

Colin stared at her dumbly. He still looked frozen in place, his palms flat, fingers clenching on his knees.

“In fact Colin, did you struggle so much that you ended up choosing a pen name, a name that sounds very much like the name of a girl your sister is best friends with? Someone who was a childhood friend of yours as well?”

“I don’t-” his jaw dropped in clear disbelief. 

“Colin,” she reached out her small hand and covered one of his, “are you Penelope Featherstone?”

His eyes widened almost comically. 

“How did you know that name?”

“Holy fuck balls Colin, you are!”

“How did you know, Pen? Do you… do you know my book?”

Pen squeezed Colin’s hand unthinkingly at the nervous stutter. He was staring at her as though she had been caught reading his secret diary.

“You are not going to believe this Colin, but I have seen your book. I mean literally seen it, with these exquisite eyeballs of mine. Quite recently in fact. The girl with the trolley suitcase, Mister tall and handsome following behind her…”

Colin swallowed hard.

“You-you read it?”

“Oh, no I didn’t mean that. I’ve only seen the cover. This is wild, Colin. I’m going to need you to pinch me.”

“I don’t want to pinch you, Pen.”

She pressed his hand again. 

“Colin! I met your biggest fan! Tonight! Here, at the party.”

She gestured back towards the bar.

“What?”

“Yes! Well, actually he wasn’t your biggest fan. His girlfriend is. He got all bizzaro excited about the fact my name is Penelope, because he’s apparently on some kind of mission to find this author. Although, when I say ‘mission’, he’s going about it in a hugely bumbling and unscientific way, which is ironic actually because-”

“Wait, Pen, please, slow down.”

Colin flipped their hands over so that his was on top, and gently massaged her fingers with his much larger ones.

She took a breath before ploughing on. 

“He’s looking for the author of his girlfriend’s favourite book. Your book, Colin. The guy at the bar! Mr Cardigan-and-cartoon socks. Phillip’s friend. He showed me your book.”

Colin flushed with obvious pleasure this time.

“Wait, he had the book with him?”

“Yes! He takes it everywhere, like some kind of talisman. Although he would not let me sign it.”

“Oh well… wait, why would you sign it?”

Good question, she thought. 

“Er… it was a joke. Because my name is Penelope Featherington. And the author, rather you, are Featherstone. Blimey Colin, you were stumped, weren’t you?”

“I’m really confused, is what I am,” he admitted.

Pen couldn’t blame him. Her own mind was buzzing with adrenaline. She shifted in her seat, snatching at his fingers again as if to pull him along with her.

“What are the bloody odds of this happening on the same night? Wait - I know someone who can quote us the odds. He can!” 

She waved excitedly in the direction of the bar. This time she did start yanking on his hand. 

“C’mon Colin, we’ve got to go say hi to Alfonso, it will blow his mind to meet you.”

She paused as she imagined Alfie’s likely reaction to her reappearance, claiming she’d found his mystery author.

“No, Pen, I-”

“Although, to be honest, he might think I’m just messing with him,” she admitted, as she rose. “You might have to do something to prove that you’re the real Penelope. You can do that, right? Prove your identity. Is there something only the real author would know? Some piece of character backstory?”

Colin peered up at her, shaking his head.

“Wait Pen, I don’t want to meet a fan. I don’t want people to know it was me. Not yet.”

“Why not? Colin, you wrote a book that people really like. Well, one person. And there must be loads more, if they’re printing again. Why are you hiding it, like it’s something to be ashamed of?”

His face was awash with a mix of emotions. Anxiety, awkwardness, and something else she couldn’t quite place.

“Do you know what Virginia Woolf wrote, in A Room of One’s Own?” she asked suddenly. “She was explaining how Jane Austen wrote Pride and Prejudice in secret because nobody wanted women to write. She’d hide the manuscripts or cover them with blotting paper. Any time someone came into the room she’d shove the pages under something else. She didn’t want servants or visitors to know. Woolf said she thought it wasn’t a novel one should be ashamed to be caught writing.”

Colin gave her a crooked smile. “I’ve not written Pride and Prejudice, Pen.”

“Well don’t take it personally. It’s already been done.”

He shook his head, tugging on her wrist to pull her back beside him. She allowed him to, and sank back down.

“Pen, I don’t want to be Jane Austen, I just want to get through this week. Then this month, and then see if I can really make a real go of this. I have another piece I’ve been working on, and if I can just get some traction with this second print run, I'm certain I can pitch them a series.”

He was still holding her wrist, and she allowed the skin contact to linger.

“Pen,” he said softly, “I really want to do this. I want to be good at this.”

Something in his soft tone tugged at her heart. She slowly pried her wrist from his fingers.

“So your favour was…. I wasn’t far off with helping with the marketing, was I?”

“No. Would you? Pretend to be me? Just for one interview?” 

Pen sighed.

“Colin, that is all kinds of crazy.”

“No,” he said, “it would be really simple. I can give you a copy of the book to read as prep this weekend, and we can talk about what they might ask you. And the rest… well, to be honest, you’re the quickest person on her feet I’ve ever met. You could knock a few questions about writing out of the park without breaking a sweat.” 

Despite herself she felt a shiver at the compliment.

“You think I’m quick?”

His dark blue eyes really were mesmerizing.

“I think you’re quicksilver, Pen,” he said.

She despised the way that just those five words made her feel extremely warm. Or perhaps it was the undercurrent of his voice, suffused with genuine feeling.

“And you really don’t have anyone else you can ask? Don’t you know a lot of girls?”

He frowned at that. “Why would I know a lot of girls? I mean, I know some girls. Women. No one I’d trust to ask this of though.”

She snorted, “Oh, so it’s about trust. You are trying to butter me up.”

“Pen, please, I know this situation is bonkers, but if you help me, I will be so, so very grateful.”

Pen knew it was an outrageous favour to ask. The whole situation was absurd, really. It would be so easy for Colin to make one phone call and clear up this whole mess. She opened her mouth to say so. But instead -

“What would I get out of it? Theoretically.”

His eyes flickered with hope, and he wriggled an inch closer to her on the seat.

“The satisfaction of helping out an old friend in need?”

“Really?” she said, one eyebrow arched. “That's what you’re going with for this negotiation? You really are letting your ‘I dropped out of business school’ show there, Colin.”

“Oof. Low blow, Pen. Sure you’re not channeling Ant tonight?”

“Eloise and I are old friends, Colin. You and I are…. I don’t know what we are. We’re people who used to know each other. You’re a brother of an old friend, maximum.”

If that hurt in any way his face didn’t show it.

“Surely I’m more than that,” he said.

“If this was the 19th century, you could behave as though we had been formally introduced.”

“An acquaintance?” It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “Gosh, I’m honoured. Are we are on nodding terms, at least?”

“I can’t help noticing that for someone who’s asking me a favour, you’re being a bit of a bitch.”

Colin chuckled. “Fair call. What if I paid you? For your time?”

“I have a job, Colin. You can’t buy me like a Baker Street irregular with your shiny coin.”

“I see you’re still big on dropping in the casual literary references. How did that go down with your clever new friend in there?”

“You are skating extremely close to a ‘Fuck you, Colin’ right now. I think maybe I do need that drink after all.”

Pen shifted as if to leave, although she knew she was more cross with herself that part of her was enjoying their banter than she was with Colin himself. 

He caught her hand again in his much larger one. 

“No - Pen wait, please. Tell me what you want. What can I give you?”

Pen gave her overactive imagination a very strong shove to silence it. Lord, what 16 year old Pen would have given to hear those words. Albeit, perhaps, in a different context.

“I feel that they are two very different questions.”

“There must be something. I’m strong. I can carry furniture.”

She eyed his biceps critically. Hmm. Top Trumps strength category? Stop it, brain.

“I’m not moving house anytime soon.”

“I’m good with a camera. Do you need a headshot for anything?”

“You need a shot in the head. Is that the same thing?”

He exhaled.

“Actually,” Pen started. A nascent idea was forming. 

“What?”

She shifted so that they were not touching.

“My sister is getting married next month.”

“Philippa?”

“No, Pru. Pip is already married.”

“Oh, I missed that.”

“You didn’t get the Featherington family newsletter in Australia?”

“I must have dropped off the mailing list.”

She hummed. “Anyway, to nobody’s surprise, Pru is the world’s most zilla of the Bridezillas. It’s exhausting. And my mother is - I don’t know. What do they call mothers-of-the-bride when they’re obnoxious? Mama-zillas?”

“I think they’re known collectively as Portia’s.”

She smiled at that.

“Touché. Anyway. I don’t have a date for the wedding.”

His eyes gleamed.

“You want a date? With me?”

“No,” she clarified swiftly. “I do not want a date with you, Colin, I want to find a plus one.” 

“What’s the difference?”

“One implies a slight romantic interest of some kind. The other is someone who can sit between me and the family member who is being the most annoying at the time. Maybe score some free food.”

“You want a fake date,” he said. “That’s a solid romance trope, by the way.”

“No. I want a buffer.”

“Like Switzerland?”

“More like the Neutral Zone. Or a Klingon shield. Someone to stand in front of me at this family event and absorb some of the radiation before it hits me.”

“Hmm,” he said. “We’re talking more like a Holi-date scenario. Keep the family diverted and off your back.”

“Wow, Colin, you have really drunk the romance koolaid haven’t you?”

“Luckily for you, I have nothing on for the rest of the month.”

For a second Pen froze, horrified. Then she guffawed. 

“Oh God no, Colin. I really didn’t mean you.”

His face fell. “What?”

“I thought you might know someone. A mate of yours I could go with.”

“Oh.”

He stared at his knees for a moment longer, than lifted his chin. 

“Why not me, Pen? I could do it.”

“How many hours do you have? I have a list.”

He shuffled on the seat for a moment, obviously discomforted, before pushing on. 

“Look, I get it Pen, I’m not a complete idiot. I can tell I’m not your favourite person these days. But we could help each other out.”

When she was silent he went on. 

“I know your mum.  I know how she needles you. I can get in the way. I am an excellent pincushion.”

“Or, I could grab my own bottle of bubbles and pop in my Loops for the evening.”

“I’m good at weddings. I scrub up nicely. I know all the fancy dances. People like my charm.”

Despite herself, Pen could feel herself starting to smile. She’d almost forgotten that hanging out with Colin could actually be fun. If she remembered to get out of her head and not expect anything from him.

“Or maybe I could hire an escort,” she said.

“I come cheap. Just half an hour of your time on a Zoom call.”

“Where did Kristen Chenowith pick up her blokes from? I could try there.”

“I would absolutely take good care of you if someone slips you laxatives, Pen.”

Pen laughed. Colin fumbled for one of her hands and clasped it gently between both of his. God, he was so warm. She could feel a tingle ascending her arms from where their skin was touching. He moved his hands slightly, caressing the hand he’d trapped between.

“I’m always committed to the bit,” he said with a soft smile, “You know me, Pen. I will watch wedding comedies in preparation. I will don my very best suit. I will even pretend to enjoy your company to sweeten the deal.”

Pen froze. Her own smile plummeted, along with her stomach. Suddenly this was no longer fun. 

“I think,” she heard her voice stutter. “I think that might be overkill.” 

She tugged hard on her hand, pulling it from his grip.

Colin’s lower lip dropped slightly at the obvious change in mood. “Oh no, Pen.”

“You know what? I’m thinking no.”

Her voice sounded icy even to her own ears. 

“This is your mess, Colin. You lied. Or your agent lied. You can be an adult now, and go clean it up.”

Colin shook his head.

“Pen - I didn’t mean it like that.”

She stood, putting physical distance between them.

“This may sound crazy to you, Bridgerton, but I have people in my life who enjoy my company. People who aren’t embarrassed by me.”

“Pen, I was never…”

“How about I give you some advice instead? I don’t know much about the publishing world. But I do work in advertising. And they both need a sellable commodity. You’re a commodity, Colin. You’re a young, good-looking guy, who’s written a romance book that, for some reason, women seem to really like. You have literal fans who are stalking London establishments, waiting for a chance to meet you and snag your autograph. Weird, badly dressed fans, but still fans.”

Colin didn’t say anything.

“Call your publisher. Ditch your damn agent if you can’t get him to behave. Fess up to the mix-up, and go promote yourself. People will lap it up. They always do.”

She stalked away, wanting nothing but distance between herself and Colin Bridgerton.

Chapter Text

Seven years ago

“Oh my god,” Colin said. “That is the best present ever. It’s so thoughtful. Thank you so much!”

Colin beamed across the table, his smile so warm that Pen could feel the soft flush of heat clambering up her own cheeks. She’d been squirrelled away in her bedroom most nights, working on her gift for Colin for the past 3 weeks, and she honestly couldn't remember the last time anticipation had coiled so tightly inside her like a freshly wound spring. From the seat next to her, Anthony Bridgerton chuckled. 

“I didn’t think to see you so excited to receive a train ticket, brother,” he said. 

His tone was depreciating, but Penelope could see a twitch at one corner of his mouth, and knew he was quietly pleased. 

“You do realise you have to share space with the general public?” Anthony said. “But I’m glad you like it.”

Colin flexed his fingers over the travel card then impulsively drew it to his lips and gave the surface a swift wet kiss. Pen tried not to let her gaze linger on his plump lower lip as it smacked against the plastic. 

Get a grip, Featherington. You cannot be jealous of a travel pass.

“Like it? This Eurail pass is my newest love!” he said, throwing Anthony another grin. “I’ll go absolutely everywhere with you. Seriously, thank you, Ant.”

“It’s generously charged,” Anthony said. “Just to make sure you come back again, mind. Not so that you keep going indefinitely.”

Colin quickly pecked the card again before tucking it into his shirt pocket. While the friends clustered along the table next to him rolled their eyes at his antics, Pen couldn’t help but smile along. Bernie Fife could sneer (and usually did, along with most of Colin’s other school friends), but she knew Colin was not really reacting to the Eurail pass itself, but what it represented: Anthony’s eventual, if grudging, blessing to the trip his younger brother had been obsessively planning since he was 14. Now, finally 18, it was 2 weeks from reality. 

Colin had of course travelled already - school trips, and family holidays - which on the Bridgerton budget were more luxe than most people his age had experienced. But his solo trip was a long held dream, a chance to explore new cultures at his own pace. And as much as he was pretending goofy nonchalance now, she’d been on the end of too many excitable late night chats with Colin about his plans not to know how much this trip actually meant to him.

Tonight Pen was also trying desperately to be nonchalant about how 18 year old Colin was starting to truly look like a man. And about the small glass of wine Violet had allowed the younger girls, which Pen was now sipping slowly, savouring, as though she was a wine drinker normally. No big deal on either count, right?

Colin’s 18th was a compromise: he’d wanted a party with his mates, and Anthony and Violet wanted a posh family dinner. Reluctant to do both, Colin agreed to a late afternoon garden party that would cruise into an evening of pizzas and beers, while the family and adults eventually peeled off to allow the younger ones to relax. 

She and Eloise had shimmied themselves into their party outfits, both keen to be seen as older than their 16 years. Pen was quietly pleased with the way she filled out the sparkling black sleeveless top she’d chosen. And her darker makeup and winged eyeliner was a new, older look she was trying out. Not that Pen really expected Colin, or his doofus friends, to notice her that way.

It wasn’t that she truly hated his friends. Although, she thought, as she glanced down the table to where Joe Wilding and Murray Mackenzie were not so subtly leering at Daphne Bridgerton - at 17 possibly the most stunning looking girl Pen had ever seen in real life - at times their boorishness was almost too painful for words. While she honestly could admit she didn't know how the boys behaved when they were alone together, she couldn’t quite see how Colin, sweet and earnest guy that he was, really fit in with them.

She glanced further into the yard where Benedict and his boyfriend Patrick were still leading Francesca and little Gregory in a game of frisbee, along with a handful of Colin’s other friends. Everyone else had well passed the energetic stage of the afternoon, and had gladly taken the opportunity to flop around the outdoor seating. It was strangely warm for this time of year, and Colin’s beautiful, familiar face was flushed in the early evening light, whether from the excitement of the day, or the beers he was progressing through, Pen couldn’t tell.

Her musing was cut short as Violet cleared her throat to speak. 

“Well my dear, as keen as you are to flee across the channel, you must humour us a little longer and open a few more gifts.”

She gestured to the dwindling pile of presents Colin was yet to open. Pen could see her own, a shoe box that she’d tightly covered in soft blue tissue paper. Part of her had hoped Colin would save the gift to open later, alone, or perhaps even with the two of them. 

“Please,” said Eloise, from her chair at Pen’s other side. “Some of us are ageing as we speak.”

“Quite,” Anthony said, his large palm hovering momentarily over the gifts, before dropping to thumb over the small card attached to Pen’s gift. “Ah,” he said, “this one is from the lovely Penelope.”

He winked at Pen as he passed it across the table. She smiled, pretending not to see the grimace that Bernie and Joe exchanged at the sound of her name. Jerks. The present wasn’t for them, why should she care if they liked it? Or her.

“Probably not another travel card,” Colin said cheerfully, as he hefted the box, settling it down on the tablecloth in front of him.

Pen could feel her palms growing warm, the sound of her blood swooshing in her ears. She forced herself to shoot a casual - god she hoped it was casual - grin at Eloise, as Colin prised off the wrapping. 

“It’s shoes,” Joe said, as the brand name was revealed. “Just what you need bro, for all that walking around Paris.”

“Or it’s a box, genius,” Daphne said. “Being used again, with something else inside it.”

“Hope they’re nicer that those vans you’re always wearing,” Bernie said.

Colin poked out his tongue. “Mate, you are clearly jealous of my style.” 

Despite her stern self-talk, Pen could feel the apples of her cheeks start to redden again. She knew all the brands Colin wore, and his current shoe size, and could have chosen some shoes that he’d really like. Probably some clothes too. That was normal for your best friend’s brother, right? 

“I, for one, do not wish to think about Colin’s feet,” Eloise said, with a generous swig of her wine. Unlike Pen who’d been taking bird-like sips, her friend had been surreptitiously refilling her glass for the past hour and was growing flushed for reasons other than apprehension and lust. 

“Or any other part of Colin’s body, for that matter,” she added.

Daphne smirked at Penelope. Pen shot her a brief smile before turning away. She swallowed awkwardly as Colin slid his thumb under the shoe box lid and flipped it open. As closely as she was watching his face, she couldn’t read his expression. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t smile. 

“Oh,” he said softly. He stared for a moment longer at the box’s contents, as silence hung around the quiet patio. 

“Well, come on,” Anthony said, after what felt to Pen like five minutes, but had likely only been a few more seconds. “What is it?”

“Is it Gwyneth Paltrow’s head?” Murray asked.

Colin didn’t respond, but reached into the box. His finger scooped up the object inside, then he gently transferred it to his other palm, and held it up so that others could see it. 

“What is it, dear?” Violet said, as most heads at the table craned to peer more closely. 

“It’s a bird,” Colin said, his voice still quiet. “A paper bird.”

Pen still couldn’t read his face, which made no sense. She thought she’d become so good at understanding Colin, particularly after all the months she’d spent recently as her teenage hormones truly kicked in on Colin-watch, trying to surreptitiously catalogue all his expressions. This was one she’d never seen. She had the bizarrest feeling that suddenly the young man in front of her had, on his 18th birthday, morphed into a stranger.

“A hummingbird,” she said. She bit her lower lip, unsure why that distinction was the point she needed to make right now. 

In his palm Colin cradled the paper sculpture. The dome-shaped surrounds of its outer shell were a little larger than the span of his fingers, and within that broader supporting sphere there was a delicate frame, within which the smaller shape of the bird nestled. The outer shell of the piece was made from recycled maps, crisp and shiny from where they’d been protected within an old unused atlas, and the centre itself from faded cream and brown sheet music. The contrast in colours only served to make the hummingbird within look even more fragile. 

Its wings were fully outstretched, showing each feather had been painstakingly sliced at tiny intervals to create its ruffled texture. Within its small head, the pointed beak was slightly ajar, as if it had been caught singing. The delicate head leaned to its right, as if it peered with curiosity out of its cocoon to the world outside. 

Pen suddenly wished that Benedict was with them at the table. He adored things people made with their hands and would have raved about her gift immediately. She wondered if everyone else could hear her heart pounding. Why wasn’t Colin saying anything? He had only looked up from the bird to quickly glance at Pen, before staring back at it. She could see that his eyes were flicking to the side now, clearly clocking the none too subtle looks his friends were exchanging. 

She’s been sure he would love it. Maybe not enough to gush in front of his friends - she wasn’t blind to the weird mood created by the family-friends jumble at the party - but he didn’t even look slightly pleased. With stomach-dropping clarity, she recognised the expression. Colin looked - oh god, he looked embarrassed.

It was Hyacinth’s ever-excitable voice that broke the silence.

“Penelope, that is freaking gorgeous,” she said. “I had no idea you were still doing those paper thingies.” She held her orange juice aloft in a kind of salute. “Well done, you. I’m going to need a picture. Mum,” she added, “This is why I absolutely need my own phone. As well as, you know, communicating with the outside world.”

“The outside world can wait a little longer for you, dearest,” Violet tilted her head towards Pen, reminding her oddly of the small bird itself. “Did you make that yourself, Penelope?” 

At Pen’s stilted nod she said, “That’s astonishing. Look at all that detail. It must have taken you hours, honey.”

Pen tried not to notice that it was only the youngest person in the room, and the ever-polite mother, who’d admired her gift. Was it a childish gift? Did Colin think she was a child? Or even worse, had she clearly spent hours making a handmade gift for someone who would have genuinely preferred some casual holiday cash? And not whatever kind of weird crafting declaration of obsession this was? 

Fucking hell! She had made a boyfriend sweater! And Colin wasn’t even her boyfriend. And she didn’t knit. Could she be more pathetic?

Amid this noise fry of thoughts she somehow found her voice. 

“Colin and I saw an exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery last term holidays. It was all about paper as a medium and it had these famous cutouts on tour-” she trailed off as Bernie audibly snorted. Murray coughed, and Joe tittered then cleared his throat. 

“Oh, it’s origami,” Joe said. “Very cool.”

Pen wanted to say that it most certainly was not origami, it was cut paper art thank you very much, which was a totally different practice to traditional paper folding. But she didn’t. They’d had a great time at the gallery that day, she knew it wasn’t just her imagination that Colin had liked the show. Hadn’t he? They’d stayed for ages in the coffee shop afterwards, chatting. Why would he humour her if he wasn’t enjoying himself?

“It started with Matisse and then went on to 3D sculpture. And anyway, I got this how-to book from the gift shop and-”.

Pen stopped, unable to force any other words out past her rapidly tightening throat. Her face was flaming now, she was sure of it. She realised how bizarre her train of thought must appear to Colin. 

I thought you liked this art show we went to, so I decided to take many, many hours out of my pathetic life to make you something crappy just to show you that I remember every second we spend together. Now please pretend to like it. To like me. 

She had never felt younger, or stupider, than she did at that moment. She couldn’t bear to look either at Eloise or at Daphne, sure that their bewildered and sympathetic faces, respectively, would be too much to take. 

Colin jolted in his seat. Anthony was plainly glaring at him, and if the facial gesture wasn’t enough, the kick he’d clearly just pounded into his brother’s shin certainly spoke volumes. 

“It’s beautiful,” Colin said finally, giving Pen one of his signature smooth Colin smiles. 

The fake smile, she thought. The one he did in public, to teachers, and other adults. When he had to. She felt bile rising into her mouth.

“Thank you, Pen. I’ll have to find somewhere really special to put it.” 

Pen wasn’t sure if she heard precisely, but Bernie leaned over to Joe and stage whispered in his ear, “He’ll put it somewhere very special.”

What did that even mean? It wasn’t bad enough they were jerks, they had to be dumb jerks. As if proving her point, Murray, somewhat inexplicably, made a little tweeting noise. 

Colin ignored them, tossing over the top of the shoebox so that it created a small platform, then rested the sculpture on the top. He knocked over an empty beer bottle as he nudged the box forwards. 

“Let’s make it the centrepiece,” Anthony said, rolling the offending bottle out of the way and tugging the box towards the table’s centre. “And for god’s sake, don’t spill beer on it. Or on the tablecloth.”

“I wouldn’t,” Colin muttered. 

Penelope swallowed the rest of her wine in one gulp.

***

Present day

As she’d returned to the party, Pen intended to make her excuses and call it a night. Eloise, however, had other ideas. She’d swooped on Pen like a falcon, dragging her onto the dance floor. It only took three songs to give her mood a boost. By an hour later, she felt she’d shaken off the encounter with Colin, and was fully able to join in the toasts to Eloise with genuine good cheer.

Eloise was waving off all the kind words, when Phillip, his arm around her waist, tugged her closer and placed a kiss on the side of her temple.

“Stop being so modest, woman, and let us praise you properly,” he said.

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Woman?” she said.

Phil to his credit, stood his ground. A necessary characteristic for someone partnering Eloise, Pen knew.

“Are you not a woman?” he said archly.

“I am,” she said. “But as you well know, my issue is more likely to be about our tendency to use the essentialist category in a way that is helpful to no one.”

Phillip merely grinned at her.

“I care very much about being helpful,” he said. He cleared his throat and started reciting, “Ain’t I a woman?”

“No,” Eloise said quickly, patting him on the chest. “No, babe. I appreciate the historical feminist reference, well done you, but that’s starting to stray into some potentially racist territory.”

Phil looked mortified. Anthony stepped forward. 

“Okay,” he said, “That might be a cue for my turn.”

Eloise eyed him dubiously. “Interesting segue, brother. Does that mean you’re going to be inappropriate instead?”

“Hush, you,” he said. “let me say something nice about my little sister.”

Pen couldn’t help grinning as she looked around at the cluster of friends and family who stood together, clutching their drinks. She’d always adored the warmth of the Bridgerton family, and, probably due to their family size, the banter always felt oversized too. 

“My sister, Eloise,” Anthony said, “has always had a mind of her own. That is a compliment,” he added, as Ben whooped and Eloise scowled. “Genuinely. She’s always seemed to know who she is, and what she wants.”

Pen happened to be looking in Violet’s direction, and saw that Colin, who stood beside her, dropped his eyes to the floor. A flicker of something crossed his face that he quickly masked.

“That is very true,” Eloise said. “When I was 6, I was certain I would be chosen as the next red Power Ranger.” 

Pen chuckled. She remembered well that when she’d met Eloise, only a few years later, she’d still been obsessed with sword play.

“It’s a determination and strength of character one can only admire, even if one is sometimes at the receiving end of the…” Anthony paused and fished for the right words, “… the skirmish.”

“Sometimes,” Ben stage-whispered.

“Her work ethic is incredible,” Anthony continued. “She does nothing by halves.  Her drive as she worked through university, toppling a few crusty academics in her wake, was legendary. And now, in her early years as a lawyer, she is continuing to show that discipline and clarity of purpose in a way that I hear is creating some ripples, and potential poaching offers.”

Eloise blushed lightly but looked pleased at the kind words. “We Red Rangers are always in demand,” she said.

Anthony chuckled, his face shining with clear pride. “Certainly no one could accuse my sister of drifting her way through life, and it’s a beautiful thing to see. Happy birthday, sister. Long may you continue to drive and thrive.”

He raised his glass, and the group echoed his cheers.

Pen’s eyes wandered back to Colin. He’d continued to stare at the floor throughout the toast, his shoulders tense. Pen watched as he lifted his eyes, noticed her gaze, then turned to his mother.  He whispered something into her ear that had Violet stumble with laughter. Colin wrapped his arm around her shoulder, then gave it a squeeze. 

As the conversation ebbed and flowed, Pen heard Phillip asking Colin how his work was going. 

“It’s going well,” he said vaguely. “I’ve been busy.”

“If anyone needs holiday recommendations, Colin is certainly the one to ask,” Anthony said.

Phil looked confused. “Why’s that?” he said.

Anthony shrugged. “I just meant Colin’s still our resident travel writer. He knows all the hip places to go. Exotic cultures done respectfully at bargain prices, best sexy resort bars for a romantic weekend getaway, and all that.”

Pen eyed Colin curiously, wondering how he’d respond. Did Anthony really not know that Colin hadn’t been travel writing for almost two years now? And why was he making it sound like all Colin did was review cliched hotel packages? His work had always been more varied and interesting. 

“I can certainly give you tips,” Colin said mildly to Phil. “But if it’s a couples weekend you’re after, I suspect El would have her own ideas what she’d like.”

“I do,” Eloise said immediately. “A small town somewhere with an enormous two storey second-hand bookshop. A comfy room where we can stay in our pyjamas all day. And room service, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Colin smiled at her.

“A quiet weekend,” Anthony said with a chuckle. “Lovely. At least you won’t send us too many stories, then.” 

Colin’s face didn’t move but something shifted in his eyes. Moments later, Pen saw him slip quietly out of the group, towards the patio.

***

Seven years ago

“I thought this was supposed to be a birthday scotch, not an excuse to scold me. But here we are again, you treating me like I’m a child. Despite the fact that I am literally and legally not a child as of today.”

The door of the study was more than halfway ajar, and Pen could hear their voices ringing down the corridor before she even reached the doorway. Colin sounded like he often did when he spoke with Anthony - on edge, and more than a little defensive. 

“Oh now come on Col, no one said anything like that.”

“Well, Anthony, sometimes you don’t do full frontal criticism. Sometimes you come at me sideways.”

“Hey, hey,” Pen could imagine that Benedict was waving his hands in the air as he spoke, as he often did to cut the tension between his two brothers. 

“Let’s take it down a notch. Yeah?” 

“He’s just heavily implied that I can’t be trusted,” Colin said.

Pen’s steps slowed as she neared the door. Colin sounded irritated, bordering on petulant, but it seemed far from a serious argument. The brothers often fell into this pattern of bickering when alone. She could only assume that Anthony was talking, yet again, about the risks of his holiday to Colin. And Colin, at this point, was well over it. 

“I’m asking you to be careful, Colin,” Anthony said, “That’s all. Just be careful.” 

“I don’t know exactly when I wasn’t careful.”

Pen stopped altogether as she reached the doorway, intending to push the heavy oak door all the way open so they could see her.

“When Penelope Featherington was upset,” Anthony said. “That’s when.”

She froze in place, her hands hovering in mid air. 

Colin didn’t reply.

“Was she? When?” Ben said. “What did I miss? I was only gone for presents. How can there be drama over presents?”

Pen knew she should move, but there was something irresistible about hearing her name that glued her bare feet to the plush carpet. She lowered her hands to her sides, fingers forming into fists.

“Penelope gave Colin a very thoughtful handmade gift.”

“Did she?” Ben said. “Intriguing.”

“She did. And Colin here was less than enthusiastic in response.”

“I said thank you. I said it was beautiful!” Colin protested. 

“That sounds reasonable,” Ben said. 

“Only after I kicked you.”

“Oof,” Ben said. “That’s not so good.”

“Before that you were gawping at it like she’d given you a raw fish in a box.”

“That’s called sushi,” Ben said. “I’m guessing it wasn’t sushi.”

“You are not being helpful, Benedict,” Anthony said. 

“Not sushi. It was a bird,” Colin said. “Not a real one. A paper sculpture. A 3D one.”

“Oh, I like those!” Ben said. “And Pat has a thing for the little ones you can turn into mobiles and hang from the ceiling. Mind you, Pat also likes a bit of taxidermy, so a real bird in a box is not out of the question at some future event.”

“Everyone knows sushi is raw fish,” Colin said. “And I probably don’t need to know that about your boyfriend, thanks.”

“Where’s the present now?”

“It’s still down on the patio table.”

“I’d love to take a look.”

“Can we focus please,” Anthony said.

“I don’t know what I should be focusing on,” Colin snapped.

Pen leaned forward, until she was fully occupying the doorway. She could see Colin now, standing with his back to her, his shoulders tight. Ben was obviously somewhere to the left of the room as she couldn’t see him at all. Anthony stood beside the old wooden desk, taking a sip from a crystal glass, before sighing and putting it back down, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. 

“You should focus on the fact that sweet girl, for some reason, seems to adore you. I honestly thought she might cry.”

Pen froze again, feeling as though she’d somehow stumbled headlong into her worst nightmare.

“She does not,” Colin said shortly. “We’re friends.”

“I’m sorry, are you blind?” Anthony said, his voice hardening as it rose in volume. “You’re about to bugger off for the whole of summer, to enjoy yourself doing god knows what with gods know who. I don’t want you doing something stupid to Penelope, with Penelope, if she gains the courage to throw herself at you before you leave.”

Pen was mortified. She could back away now, and pretend she wasn’t hearing this. But Violet had sent her up to fetch the boys. She had a horrified feeling if she took a step away now the ageing floor would groan beneath her anyway. 

“You would break her heart,” Anthony said. “Then our mother would kill you. And I-” he broke off, shaking his head in frustration, “I would have to bring you back to life so I could kill you too. Not to mentioned what Eloise would do if she saw you messing around with her best friend.”

“Why are you so sure I would break her heart?”

Anthony glared at him. “Really, Colin?”

Ben slowly let out air in a whistle between his tongue and teeth. “Thrice dead, brother. Doesn’t look good for you.”

“You are literally about to leave the country for months of fucking your way around the continent, and you're asking me why I think you should be careful with Penelope?”

“That’s what you think my trip is?”

“Of course that’s what it is.”

“Anthony-”, Ben said.

“No one is messing around with anyone!” Colin burst out hotly, his tone rising to meet Anthony’s. 

“I was just embarrassed, is all. She gave me that dumb present and it was clearly overkill. And you were all staring at it and staring at me like it was something special, like it meant something, just because we went to one show at one fucking gallery! We went to a movie one weekend too. Am I suppose to anticipate she’s going to make me a bloody home movie for Christmas now?” 

Despite her determination to continue with her best impression of a statue, Penelope could feel a small gasp escaping her. At that precise moment, Anthony’s eyes flickered over to the doorway, and met hers. 

“Colin,” he said, more gently than Pen had expected.

“Pen is a beautiful girl. Gorgeous, actually,” Colin continued, oblivious to his brother’s pained face. “But I’m sorry that you can’t understand the concept of having friends who are girls, Anthony. Not everybody wants to shag every single girl they know. Or everything that moves,” he added, glaring at Ben.

Penelope took a firm step forward, pushing the door further open. Colin finally seemed to notice that Anthony was staring in her direction, and turned. If she hadn’t felt like something was twisting her gut into rope she might have found the expression on his face amusing. She’d never seen someone’s face genuinely look like it sagged. His jaw slackened, his eyes widened. His lips moved, soundlessly.

Honestly, if it hadn’t been for the heartbreak, she might have laughed. Raw fish indeed, she thought.

“That sounds rather exhausting, to be honest,” she said, surprised that the words came out smoothly. “Or like a lot of fun.”

Although he was still obscured by the door, she could see the reflection of Benedict’s horrified face in the wall mirror. 

“Holy fuck,” he mouthed at Anthony. “Penelope?”

“Your mum said it’s time for cake,” she said, feeling more steel in her voice now, as Colin continued to stare at her helplessly. “If that’s not too childish for you. Or too much overkill. Now you’re such an adult, and all.”

She watched Ben pull a face, wincing in the mirror. Anthony’s expression was unreadable, but there seemed to be something like admiration in his brown eyes. 

She didn’t look at Colin again before turning and striding away. She was halfway to the stairs when she heard Anthony’s berating voice pick up again.

“Very well done, Colin,” he said. “Now are you proud of yourself?”

***

Present day

“Col?”

He’d returned to the lurid orange outdoor settee, and was sitting in a hunched position, elbows on knees, his fingers tangled in his hair.

“Hey,” she said softly. 

He dropped his hands to his knees.

“Oh, hey Pen.”

He didn’t look up. The evening breeze had picked up, and she shivered as she watched him. His eyes were glistening. She ran through versions of what she could say. 

He didn’t mean it like that. No one thinks you’re a disappointment. It’s okay to be drifting. 

“I just needed some air.”

Colin sniffed. He ran a palm over his eyes. She could see him steeling himself to put on a brave face. To force a smile, as he’d just done with Violet. She hated how he felt that there was something wrong with him, that he had to mask his feelings, or pretend to be someone he wasn’t to fit in. The irony of what he’d asked her to do earlier wasn’t lost on her.

Pen had a memory then of the two of them, standing side by side in the art gallery, in front of a maquette of Matisse’s Fall of Icarus. Unlike the final print, the cutout of the human body was white, rather than black, and bare on the body except for at its chest where a jagged red flame was pinned in place. 

They’d both stood and stared at the picture in silence. 

“Is that him dying?” Pen had asked eventually.

Colin had shaken his head, and swallowed hard, seeming to find it difficult to speak.

“He’s screaming into a storm. Or maybe into the heavens. I think his heart is breaking,” he had said quietly, “because his dream is dying.”

“The rehearsal dinner is a Thursday night,” she said. “It’s in three weeks’ time. Two days before the wedding.”

Colin’s head snapped up, his face unreadable.

“What?” he said.

Pen stepped closer to him.

“So technically, I’m asking for two non-date buffer occasions. Wedding dinner and rehearsal dinner.”

Colin blinked at her.

“Pen?”

“One interview, for two dinners Colin. Find me a friend and if you can’t, it can be you. And I’ll help you with your socials. We’ll set up a proper author profile for you. We can focus on the work, not on you. That way when you come clean, you can keep using it.”

His eyes glowed. “You’ll help me?”

She sighed. As strange as it seemed, there was something inevitable about how the evening had gone.

“What changed your mind?”

Because Anthony was a dick to you, again. Because I see your heart. Because I can. 

Instead of answering Colin, she reached out her right hand towards him.

“You want to shake my hand?” he said.

“We’re nodding acquaintances, Colin. Making a bizarre deal that has no chance of blowing up in our faces. It’s traditional.”

He clasped her hand in his much larger one. 

“Hello,” she said, “ l don’t believe we’ve met.”

His lips curved into a smile, his eyes confused, as he raised his other hand to take hers in a double handed shake. “We haven't?’”

“My name is Penelope. Penelope Featherstone.”

Chapter Text

Colin felt he had a spring in his step this morning. A terrible cliche, to be true, but there was something in the air that made him want to bounce his heels as he walked the final steps up to Pen’s flat. He’d stopped quickly for coffees on the way, then ended up scooping up a bag of pastries just in case Pen hadn’t eaten. She was never much of a morning person.

He didn’t know if it was the anticipation of the interview, or the fact she’d actually agreed to help him out of this pickle that was buoying his mood. To be honest, he didn’t feel too much like interrogating himself on that score. It probably wouldn’t help matters to pick apart whether he was buzzing at the fact he’d finally, finally shared his biggest secret with someone, or that he’d shared it with Pen in particular.

Penelope Featherington. Eloise’s whip smart, hilarious, gorgeous best friend. Who once upon a time had also been his good friend.

They’d texted frequently over the weekend. She’d asked him questions about his writing, like what made him get started with romance, did he have any writing routines, and his particular favourite: did he have a preferred brand of thesaurus? It made him smile that only Pen would be likely to remember that he used to love a battered printed copy (still Roget’s, in dictionary form, he’d told her) rather than looking up words online.

He had been pleasantly surprised at how easily the messages between them had flowed. In their infrequent interactions over the last few years Pen had differed from the Pen he’d known as a teenager. She’d been more distant and pricklier; preferring verbal sparring to any in-depth conversations. 

Once they were much closer. As a friend of Eloise’s since childhood Pen had often been in the Bridgerton house, and as they both aged she and Colin discovered they had much in common, including their love for words and writing, and developed a friendship of their own. So many of his teenage memories had Pen in them in some way: Pen camping with his siblings in Cornwall one summer; Pen hanging out in art galleries with him over their school holidays; Pen playing (and beating) him at pool.

Colin also didn’t care to dwell on how that relationship had ended when he was 18. How Pen had iced him out, essentially dumping him as a friend overnight after overhearing him tell his brothers he didn’t want to sleep with her. As an adult he’d had his fair share of meaningless flings (although likely far fewer than people tended to assume) but it still burned him to think that Pen, sweet, clever, kind Pen, had only wanted him like that, when he’d valued her friendship so much. And when she knew they wouldn’t be hooking up, when she couldn’t have him that way, had clearly not cared for him at all. 

Colin had been the kind of kid that other boys called soft. And it had never been a compliment. Soft-hearted. Soft touch. Soft-cock. Pen had seemed to like his soft edges, had never made him feel he was lacking, or strange. There were some nights he felt the physical ache of missing his dad. How he never got to ask him Is it okay that i’m like this? It wasn’t the kind of thing he could ever ask Ant or Ben. 

Colin couldn’t imagine that this favour, and his attendance at Prudence’s wedding in return, would truly mend the friendship he’d missed so much. But perhaps they could come to some sort of detente, a more peaceful state that might see them sniping less at the family events they both attended. 

His phone buzzed multiple times as he approached Pen’s door and he swiped at the screen with his spare hand.

Pen: I forgot to ask, what should I wear?

Pen: I know it’s Zoom so obviously pjs for bottom half, but should I be dressy up top? Do authors wear blazers? Should I iron a shirt?

Pen: Oh god. I don’t know where my iron is. My work clothes are all wrinkle-free. Suppose I could steam something.

Pen: I don’t know where my steamer is.

Colin: Stop spiralling about clothes and let me in.

“Oh, thank Christ,” Pen said, clutching at the coffee as soon as he stepped inside. “I had a cafetière one already but I need a real one to calm me down.”

“Coffee calms you down?” he said.

“Of course,” she said. “It tells my morning brain that we’re all systems normal. Not being in the office on a Monday could throw off my body clock.”

Colin eyed her, trying not to be too obvious as his gaze flickered over her stripey pyjama bottoms and the blouse that was haphazardly done up, every button mismatching.

“Are we all systems normal?” he asked. “You seem a little frazzled, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I am the very picture of serenity.”

“Hmm,” he said. “I see you weren’t joking about the pyjamas.”

“One should never joke about pyjamas, Colin.”

She gestured to the next doorway along. 

“I’ve set up at the dining table, the light is good for meetings there so that’s where I work days I’m remote.”

He followed her into the room and put the bag of pastries down next to her computer. She pointed to a chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Maybe you could sit there while I talk, and then I can take cues from your encouraging facial expressions.”

“I’m not criticising, Pen-,” he said. 

“Always a promising start to a sentence.”

“But I did wonder if you generally wear wrinkle free office-type workwear for work days, why didn’t you just pop on one of those nice tops instead of…?”

She glanced down at her shirt, grimacing at the buttons. 

“Nobody likes smugness in the mornings,” she said, reaching down to start unbuttoning the shirt. 

Colin coughed and averted his eyes. Pen was already walking back into the hallway.

“Colin,” she called out.

Colin had the mad feeling she was going to summon him to her bedroom to provide fashion advice. The thought of seeing Pen shirtless made his stomach unexpectedly swoop.

“Who is Marta?” she said. “And why does she want me to call her?”

Colin blanked for a moment, before glancing around, and spying the takeaway coffee cup Pen had left on the table. 

“Call me - Marta” and a phone number was inked on one side. 

“Your friendly neighbourhood barista,” he called back. 

“Uh huh. And did I tell you, Colin, your writing was very good.”

Colin’s stomach lurched again at the unexpected segue. It was an eerie reaction, but he felt Pen’s compliment viscerally in his body.  He was also grateful she couldn’t see his face. He was sure he hadn’t blushed so much in months.

“Honestly,” she called out when he didn’t respond, “It was beautifully written.”

Pen reappeared, faster than he’d expected, having donned a soft blue v-neck knitted top. He stared at her, momentarily distracted by how well the colour suited her milky skin and brought out the startling blue of her eyes.

“Is there anything we need to talk about?” he said, giving himself a swift mental slap.

“About Marta?” she smirked at him. “Colin, do we need to have ‘the talk’?”

Colin could feel his traitorous cheeks starting to colour again. 

“I mean about the book. My story. Was there anything you wanted to ask me before the journalist calls? We probably have another ten minutes.”

“No, I’m good.”

“You don’t seem-”

“Colin,” she said more sharply, cutting him off. “Trust me. I may know little about the world of romance writing and publishing, or why people want to read these books, or…” she waved her arm vaguely, “… let’s be honest, most things romance genre related.”

“Oh, god,” he said softly. 

“But,” she held up a finger, and fixed him with a stern look he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved, “you’re forgetting that I work in advertising. Selling things is my day job.”

Colin frowned at her. “Wouldn’t that be working in sales?” 

“I make people want to buy things,” she said.

“Okay,” he said, not fully convinced. “It’s just, you do seem jittery this morning Pen.” 

“Pre-performance adrenaline,” she said. “I’m ready to make people want to buy your book, A suitcase for lovers, and buy me, Ms Penelope Featherstone, as a hot new author.”

Colin could feel his jaw clenching.

“Great!” he forced out. “Although, it’s called A suitcase full of love.”

 Pen made a clicking sound and pointed two finger guns at him with both her tiny hands. 

“Just testing ya, Bridgerton,” she said. “I’ve got this.”

***

She did have this.

Colin had to admit, almost 35 minutes later, as the interview was nearing a close, that Pen did know how to entice buyers. She’d been engaging, articulate, and extremely funny. The journalist, Mary something-or-other, appeared to be genuinely enjoying the conversation. 

“Penelope, I’m curious, now that I’ve seen you,” she said. “Often authors these days are tremendously wary about any accusations of self-insertion. Does that bother you at all?”

It was the first time today Colin had seen Pen falter. She blinked several times, before saying breezily, “Oh no, I’m very carefree about all of that. It doesn’t bother me.”

Colin could feel his own heart rate picking up. He hadn’t anticipated that question. Of course, he should have, with his female protagonist being a gorgeous, short statured, pale-skinned redhead. He scowled at the coincidence. 

“It doesn’t?” Mary pressed.

“No,” Pen said, with one eyebrow now raised. “Should it?”

Mary chuckled, diffusing some of the tension, “Not necessarily, I suppose, but for first time authors it can be seen as a sign of naiveté.”

Also for the first time in the interview Pen made direct eye contact with Colin. She leaned quickly to her right, ducking her head momentarily out of camera range. 

“Does she actually mean,” she mouthed, making a crude gesture with her hands. One finger and thumb formed a circle, and Pen jerkily inserted and removed the forefinger of her other hand.

Colin fought back a choking sound, vigorously shaking his head. He was sure his skin was flaming yet again. Pen quickly put herself back into the frame, shooting Mary a wide grin. 

“Sorry about that, Mary,” she said with a laugh. “I have to be completely honest with you. Being a romance author, my mind leapt immediately to the boudoir, and I thought that was a question about self-pleasure. Which I’m delighted to be on the record as saying I am 100% in favour of.” 

To Colin’s relief, the journalist laughed along, and didn’t press the point. 

“Your protagonists certainly do have some steamy escapades,” she said. “Were there any in particular you were particularly proud to have included?”

“Not particularly,” Pen said. “I think I enjoyed them all equally. As did they,” she said with an exaggerated wink. “I like to think every encounter was special to them both.”

“Fair enough,” Mary said. “Although my favourite was the laundrette.”

Pen giggled. “Ah yes, the laundrette. With the dirty clothes and the machines. That smell of detergent in the air. How could it not be romantic?” 

“Did you worry at all that that scene, or some of the situations you put the couple into, might be seen as a little too much playing into the standard romance tropes?”

“Oh, not at all Mary,” Pen said. 

“Could you expand on that?”

“Er,” Pen’s eyes flickered briefly to Colin before she went on. He could feel his own forehead furrow. Something suspicious was tickling at the back of his mind, a discomfort he hadn’t expected to feel.

“Actually, Mary, my use of tropes was quite deliberate. I leaned into them. I think all the standard romance tropes are so well known, it’s silly for us to pretend that we’re inventing any set-ups that are new. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that that’s the strength of the genre, not my writing in particular.”

“You think? How so?”

“I think romance readers are smart enough to recognise the tropes when they see them. They’re like familiar signposts, or a comfortable old friendship. You know what you’re getting, to some degree.”

“Like your HEA,” Mary said. “At the airport.”

“Umm… yes,” Pen said, “like my HEA. Which happened at an airport.”

“And the one bed thing.”

“Absolutely, also with the bed thing.”

Colin felt his stomach lurch again, and this time, it was an exceedingly unpleasant feeling. The tickling in his brain grew more intense, blooming into a nasty suspicion.

“The way I see it,” Pen went on, “what readers enjoy is seeing the stereotypical tropes executed well. An audience will always forgive a cliche if the characters are likeable and have chemistry, and if the dialogue is genuinely funny. We’re essentially paying homage to the tropes. I see the same thing in romcom movies, like the Proposal.”

“The Ryan Reynolds movie?”

“Yes,” Pen said. “He’s a hot charismatic lead with well-scripted cheeky lines. No one cares that he and Sandy Bullock are using that solid trope of fake dating.”

Colin could definitely feel his eyebrows contracting and forced himself to relax his face. Pen was doing him a huge favour - it would be really unfair for him to respond petulantly now. When he refocused on the conversation, Mary was thanking Pen, explaining that the story would go out on different platforms, and they’d give her a heads up with courtesy copies as they went live. 

“One other thing,” Mary said. “Your agent neglected to send through the headshot.”

“Oh Bernie,” Pen rolled her eyes. “What is he like. That’s no problem. I can have them sent through.”

“You can message me directly. Lovely to meet you Ms Featherstone, it was a truly enjoyable chat.”

“Thank you,” Pen said. “It was absolutely my pleasure.”

Pen blew out a deep breath as the call disconnected. She grinned across at Colin.

“Well,” she said, “I’d say that’s mission accomplished.” 

“Yes,” Colin said shortly.

“The eagle has landed.”

Colin shifted uncomfortably in the chair, watching her. His head was starting to pound. He’d expected to feel relieved after the interview was done, but instead he felt a gnawing irritation.

“The astronauts are getting out of the lunar module,” she said.

Colin forced a smile onto his face.

“Indeed,” he said, “Thank you Pen. I’m very grateful for your help.” 

“I thought it went pretty well,” she said. “Apart from the odd insertion question, which you can explain to me later, once I’ve had a stiff drink. It’s probably too early in the day for that.”

Colin knew she was trying to make him laugh, but he wasn’t much in the mood. 

“For drinking, or for the sex talk?” he asked. 

“Both, I’d imagine.”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “And HEA is….?”

“A happily ever after,” he said. 

“Ah,” she said, “obviously.”

They sat in silence for a moment. 

“Well,” she said, “I suppose that’s it, over and done with. My part of the deal is done.”

“It would seem so,” Colin said. 

“Would you like a cup of tea? Maybe a snack before you go? I have the whole morning off work.”

“No, thank you. I should probably call Bernie and give him an update.”

Colin pushed himself out of the chair. He knew he was being rude by being so short with Pen, but by this point he didn’t care. The stress of the weekend – the constant worry about the mess he’d got himself into and whether he could wiggle his way out it – was weighing on him. He could still feel the tension taut across his shoulders and bunching in the back of his neck. Pretending to Pen that everything was fine when he felt far from it was suddenly exhausting. Paradoxically, her good mood was making him feel worse. Her blithe confidence, her certainty in herself and how she could perform under pressure irked him. It was far from the timidity of the teenage Pen he remembered. When had she become so self-assured?  

And there was something else, a nagging doubt that had crept into his mind as he’d listened to her answers that was crushing his earlier optimistic energy, and that he was finding hard to dismiss. 

“So,” he said, as they walked together towards her front door, “you liked all the sex scenes equally?”

She shot him a smirk. 

“Sure. Was I supposed to say I liked one more than the others? I thought it might be odd for an author to be so explicit about preferences.” 

“Hmm. And did you… did you have a favourite character at all?”

“I liked Rebecca, obviously.”

“Obviously. Anything particular about her?”

“I liked that she was ballsy.”

He gave a short bark of laughter. “And any other characters?”

“I liked Sam. He was very likeable as the leading man.”

They both halted as they reached the door.

“Hmm,” he hummed, shoving his hands deep into his jean pockets.

Pen touched him briefly on the upper arm.

“Hey, Mary said I need to send through a headshot. I don’t think I have any nice-looking recent pictures. Do you think you’d be able to take some for me?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” she seemed disquieted at his terse response. “You said you were good with a camera.”

Colin grunted. “You know what Pen? How about you take a selfie.”

Pen frowned up at him. “What?”

“That seems to be the level of effort that’s appropriate for this favour,” he said. 

Colin hated that he could hear the hostility in his own voice.

“What?” Pen said again, looking genuinely confused.

“How did you feel about the scene with the grandmother?”

“The grandmother?”

“Yes, Rebecca’s grandmother.”

“Oh,” she said, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “I thought it was extremely well written. Touching.”

That felt like a punch to his gut. Colin let out a slow, deep breath.

“I should get going, Pen. Thanks again for your help.”

He turned the doorknob and pulled open the door. As he stepped out, he paused, swinging abruptly to face her.

“You didn’t actually read the book, did you Pen?”

She stared at him. Colin’s mind was roiling. He’d told her his writing felt like sharing a part of himself. That it was personal to release his thoughts and feelings and send them out into the world. He felt like a drama queen for thinking it, but handing her his novel on Friday had felt like offering her something intimate. Like an act of faith.

“My book?” he prompted sourly, “The one I gave to you and asked you to read, you know, so you could pretend that you’d written it just now?”

“I…”

“There was no grandmother, Pen,” he snapped. 

“Oh,” she said softly.

“You didn’t read the book, did you?”

“No,” she said.

She doesn’t care, Colin, his mind supplied. Why did you assume she would? Nobody cares about your dumb scribbling. 

“You thought you’d wing it instead. I get it.”

“Colin, I…”

“No, I totally understand.”

But you thought Pen would be different. Pen always used to care about the things you liked. Didn’t she? Or was that pretend too?

“Colin,” she started to reach for his arm again, then obviously thought better of it. “I meant to read it. Honestly, I did. But we had the final dress fittings on Saturday, and it ended up taking a ridiculously long time. And then mum insisted that we all go out for a late lunch together, and when that was over the day was almost gone.”

Colin stared sulkily at the floor, aware his face had heated for the hundredth time that morning.

“And yesterday I started reading it after breakfast, but then Felicity called, and she needed my help and I had to go to hers and…”

“It’s fine Pen. I get it, it wasn’t a priority for you to read it. I only asked you late on Friday. And as it turns out, it wasn’t necessary, you are clearly good at faking it when you need to. You didn’t need my words. You just repeated details back to her or took the conversation sideways. You did really well.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly. She paused, then added, “Only it doesn’t seem that it is fine.”

“I wish you’d told me, is all. You could have trusted me that I’d be okay with you pretending in the interview. Instead of lying about it to my face.”

“I will read it, Colin. I still want to, very much.”

He snorted. “There’s not really any point now, the interview’s done.”

“But I still want to read it.”

He couldn’t meet her eyes, mortified his own were burning.

“Sure,” he said.

Colin turned to leave, but hesitated again.

“You could have said no, Pen. If you didn’t want to help me. In fact, I would have preferred that. I know this whole situation is absurd. I know I’ve made a mess of things.”

He could hear the acidity in his own tone.

“God knows nobody would be surprised to hear I’d fucked something else up.”

“Colin, nobody thinks…”

“Don’t tell me what people think,” he said curtly. “I know what people think of me. You know what people I meet expect?”

Pen blinked at the clear anger in his voice. Good. He would rather sound livid than self-pitying. She shook her head.

“Nothing. They see me as a useless trust fund boy. They want to be associated with my shiny family name. And hey,” he pushed out a laugh, although it sounded twisted, “I have the family good looks too. Apparently I have the perfect face for magazine layouts or sultry socials. Everyone wants a piece of that. I’m just a facile, rich, playboy, fuckboy…”

He trailed off, gulping for air. 

He started again, more quietly. “I thought this could be different, Pen. I could do something where my name didn’t matter. Where people could appreciate the work, not be distracted by all that other stupid stuff that is nothing to do with me. The real me. I could be anonymous.”

“Colin,” she said softly. 

This time she did reach for him, but he shook off her attempt at comfort. Her hand slapped limply back down against her thigh. Colin swept back his hair, tugging harder than he meant to and feeling the sting at the roots. He knew this was heading towards wallowing. Pen would be well within her rights to pull him up and remind him of his privilege. 

“No one I know has read my writing,” he said faintly. “Nobody.”

He supposed it was too late now to hide the hurt in his voice. Pen’s lower lip dropped, almost as if she was forming a kiss.

“What about Bernie?” she said.

“No one I respect,” he said. “And to be honest I don’t think Fife has ever really known me.”

He sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.

“Anyway, I’m pretty sure he only read the synopsis. And I gave him a verbal pitch to use, so maybe not even that.”

Pen stared at him for a moment, as he sniffed again, feeling abashed at his own emotional reaction. He looked at his boots again, unable to meet her eyes.

“You didn’t need to say it was good,” he mumbled. “That it was beautiful.”

“I didn’t mean to-” she started to say, but he shook his head. 

“Thanks for doing the interview, Pen. I appreciate it. And I owe you one. You can message me the details about the wedding.”

He strode away, trying not to listen to the voice telling him, see Colin? she never cared.

Chapter Text

Pen: I’ve been working on your socials. Have sent you an email with some mock ups attached.

Pen: Bribed a co-worker to sketch for me. I paid him in Krispy Kremes. 

Pen: I’ve started reading your book, btw. Properly.

Pen: Also, I’m sorry I lied. About reading the book, I mean. Not about being Penelope Featherstone.

Pen: I think I made a fine Penelope Featherstone.

***

Colin knew he shouldn’t have left Pen’s messages from the day before on read, but he couldn’t muster the energy to respond just yet. It had been two days since she’d taken the interview for him. Bernie had called twice, buzzing about the positive feedback from the journalist, who’d now planned to run the interview write-up on multiple online magazine sites. He had also bugged Colin to email the new publishing pitch he’d promised to prepare ahead of his next planned agent catch up with the rep from Danbury’s Books next month. 

Things were going well. He should be happy. Why the hell was he so hung up on the fact that Pen had lied about reading his writing? He’d known it wasn’t fair to put all his insecurities onto her. He was genuinely grateful she’d agreed to help him out and quickly felt ashamed of his reaction. It certainly wasn’t her fault none of his family had read his work; he’d not shared his novel with any of them. It confused him to realise he hadn’t been upset that Pen hadn’t read his novel, but that her false words of praise on Monday had made him glow. How did it make any sense for him to care so much for her good opinion? He’d not expected to feel such an intense response to her compliments, and the crash afterwards on realising she’d lied gave him whiplash. 

Around mid-morning he dragged himself to his laptop and pulled up Pen’s email. She’d attached a series of files, labeled for different types of socials, including some sites he hadn’t heard of. He let the files load up while he wandered to the kitchen, fixed a sandwich, then settled back onto the couch to scroll.

Bloody hell. He nearly dropped his sandwich. These were beautiful. Pen had attached a series of six sketches, laid out in comic book style. Each was accompanied by snippets of text from his book, some several sentences, others brief snatches of words. 

His eyes lingered for the longest on the last panel. His couple were standing on a balcony. Rebecca was gazing into the distance, clearly captivated by the view. Beside her, Sam’s head was turned towards her, and his expression was pure yearning. The caption read, “She saw me completely.”

He wondered whether Pen had any idea how much that phrase meant to him. Sam wasn’t him, obviously, but he was honest enough to know every writer left a breadcrumb trail scattered in anything they crafted. Sam’s need to be seen was pure Colin. He ached for someone who could look at him, really look at him, and appreciate everything. Someone who would want him even with his insecurities and his fear of feeling so needy alongside his deep-seated need to want to be useful. 

Maybe it was time for him to kick into gear. Colin knew his pitch for his next novel was rough, but a dedicated few hours’ work could knock it into shape.

He turned his phone off, clicked through to his draft files, and started work.

***

Three hours passed in a blur of productivity. Colin knew his pitch was sharper now and he’d tightened up his sample chapters ready to send through. All in all, a good session’s work.

He headed back to the kitchen to fetch a drink, idly flicking his phone back on as he boiled the kettle. 14 messages from Pen. That was some escalation.

Pen: I couldn’t put the book down, Colin. You made me cry.

Pen: I also laughed a lot.

Pen: Your writing is very good.

Pen: I’m FURIOUS at myself that I used that line on Monday, because goddamn it Colin, your writing IS very good. And now it sounds disingenuous to say so. Also shouty. Sorry.

Pen: I also have some questions.

Pen: Don’t blame you for avoiding me, btw. I’d be avoiding me too. What a bitch.

Colin smiled. Despite what had happened between them on Monday, he could feel his chest warm at her compliment. It’s the same compliment, dickhead, he told himself. Nope, that didn’t help. Dammit. Since he’d seen her at Eloise’s party, something seemed to be disconnecting between his brain and body, which had started responding to Pen in a way he didn’t care to investigate. 

There was a break of time between that message and the next thread, which started half an hour ago.

1:45pm. Missed call from Pen Featherington.

Pen: Colin! Featherstone alert!

Pen: I’ve got another interview offer? Should I do it?

Pen: Mary gave my name and number to a mate who’s running a weekend feature on new authors. Last minute but he said we could talk later today if I’m interested.

Pen: Am I interested? 

Pen: Sorry I didn’t catch the name of the paper. Must be something small. What do you think?

1:55 pm. Missed call from Pen Featherington.

Pen: I think I should do it, Col. It can’t hurt can it?

Pen: We are on for 230 today. I will slay now I’ve read the damn thing. 

Pen: I mean your most excellent novel, obvs.

Colin glanced at the time - a quarter past 2. He hit Pen’s number while he fixed his cup of tea. She picked up after only the second ring. 

“Hey Colin. Guess who’s popular?”

“Is it Penelope Featherstone?”

“I was going to say you.”

He laughed. “Okay. But I don’t think it hurt that Mary enjoyed talking to you.”

“I am a very charming lady.”

“You are. So you’re going to do another interview?”

“Do you mind? I know it wasn’t part of our deal, but they’ve offered and I figured, more publicity, that can’t hurt your chances with the next story pitch.”

“Not unless you bomb.”

“Wash that mouth out with soap, Mr Bridgerton.”

Colin took his mug of tea back into his lounge room and flopped onto the couch. 

“I suppose there’s not much time for a pre-interview coaching session. Or a Q & A.”

“I do have one critical question.”

Colin could feel his jaw clench with tension. 

“Oh god. Are you going to say you still haven’t read the book?”

“I have. Scouts honour this time. And I’m sorry, Col. I didn’t think through how shitty that might make you feel to give you a fake compliment.”

“You weren’t ever a scout. And it’s okay, Pen. I’m sorry if I over-reacted.”

“You didn’t. How about Ginger’s honour?”

“That not a thing.”

“It could be.”

“Please Pen, kill me now.”

“I honestly have read it. I swear on my copy of Pride and Prejudice. I finished this afternoon. No more pretending. On that score anyway. I am taking this seriously.”

Colin wished he could see her face at that moment. Somehow he knew, even without that declaration, that she was sincere. He could sense that something had changed in her tone since the last time they’d spoken.

“We have about five minutes until you need to be on the call. Shoot.”

“Okay. Why doesn’t Rebecca wear more comfortable shoes?”

“What?”

“Why doesn’t Rebecca wear more comfortable shoes?”

Perhaps not so seriously, he thought. 

“No, I heard you. I’m just – we have five minutes until this interview. You’ve just read my novel, for the first time, and that’s what you want to ask me?”

“Yes.”

Colin rubbed his forehead tiredly. “Christ on a cracker.”

“No, listen to me,” Pen said, “There’s proper logic here. So you have this fantasy world where you’ve created a fictional couple. She is beautiful and clever and profoundly busy what with her travel influencer schedule and all and she’s often on flights at the last moment, sprinting through airports to make her connections, and whatnot, and presumably she owns sensible footwear that enables her to do all that without too much trouble.”

Colin blew out a slow breath. 

“To be honest, Pen, I don’t think I put anything about footwear into the background character bio that I wrote up.”

“I didn’t think so. Hence the basis of my question.”

Colin took a sip of tea. 

“Four minutes fifteen,” he said.

“But then there’s the party scene where they’re walking a few blocks together, and her feet get very sore. He is aghast at how impractical her choice of shoes is because, well, men. They like how it looks but they don’t think too much about footwear, apparently.”

Colin narrowed his eyes but didn’t respond.

“And I get that this must be some sort of romance trope, yeah? Like your fake dating thing? It’s cliche but it’s necessary, so he can do the cute thing where he offers to pick her up and later he gives her that sexy foot rub…”

“Is there a question here, Pen?”

“Okay… but you know there are whole companies that put out ergonomic shoes, right?”

“Like Birkenstocks?”

“No, not Birks. Nice looking shoes. I mean like the whole shebang of normal shoes all the way from nurses’ shoes through to well-padded high heels.”

Colin swore he could feel a headache coming on.

“Nurses shoes?”

“They have to stand all day. Comfortable yet sturdy. Bar staff and waiters would have similar ones.”

“How do you know so much about shoes, Pen?”

“How do you not know about shoes, Colin? You have four sisters. And Ben.”

“We’re down to nearly three minutes now. And how do you think I know how much the high heel shoes hurt?”

“Plenty of time. Engage with me. Come on. I need to be authentic if I’m going to sell this. No more diverting to the side with my little Ryan Reynolds comments.”

Colin chugged some more tea.

“Fine. These ergonomic shoes. Like ergonomic heels? Are they still sexy?”

“They can look good.”

“Yeah, but are they sexy?” he said. “Or you know, are they more like practical slip ons but with extra height?”

“You’re saying it was a critical character choice that she wear sexy shoes?”

“Yes. It’s one of those ‘contains multitudes’ things. She’s a kick-arse lady but also hyper aware of the fact she is a little shorter than most women. It puts her in a position of having most people look down on her, literally, and having the extra height gives her a literal confidence boost too. I thought you of all people would get that, Pen.”

“Ah, because I am also height challenged.”

Colin grinned. “Well you are, that’s just a fact.”

“Are you calling me a hobbit?”

“I would not dare.”

“Well, good. Because amongst other things, hobbits canonically do not wear shoes.”

Colin finished his tea, setting the mug down on the coffee table. 

“Two minutes,” he said.

He could hear Pen shuffling at the other end of the line and idly wondered what she would be wearing for this one.

“Okay. So the crux of my question really is this: Colin you’ve written a work of fiction.”

“I have.”

“Made up people doing made up things.”

“Exactly.”

“You could invent whatever you wanted. I mean, you created a man who is gorgeous and kind, and remembers her birthday, and what flavour of tea she likes. Her favourite colour. He leaves her little notes to find to cheer her up, and runs interference when her mother is being bitchy. He knows her favourite books and movies. He’s giving in the bedroom, like he prioritises her pleasure, and not just even because he’s trying to be a good guy, but because it gets him off to see her enjoy herself. And yet you can’t make up an imaginary pair of comfortable and sexy shoes.”

Colin was silent for a moment. Pen had just listed a handful of things he’d think were basic in any kind of relationship, even in a close friendship. Well, perhaps not the last one.

“I feel like your standard for men must be very low, Pen.”

“I’m calling it like I see it, Bridgerton.”

“How hard is it for a guy to put an important date into his calendar?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Hmm. It sounds like it. So cynical for one who’s only 22.”

“I’m 23, Colin.”

“I know. That was a joke. I know when your birthday is.”

“Hilarious.”

“Seriously, Pen, do you not expect a bloke to remember that you like peppermint tea in the afternoons, but coffee in the mornings? That your favourite colour is green?”

“Well, to quote the seminal work that is Austenland, ‘The only good men are fictional’.”

“That’s brutal.”

“Maybe I’m starting to figure out why so many people read these romances. Wanting what they can’t have.”

“Can’t have?” he said. “Or just don’t have, yet?”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Pen?” he said.

“I’ll have you know my shoe collection is wide ranging. I’ve invested wisely.”

“You should go do the interview.”

“Do you…” she hesitated. “Could we talk later?”

“Sure.”

“Could we…” she paused again. “Could we maybe go for a drink?”

It was Colin’s turn to be silent.

“To debrief, I mean,” she said, “about the interview? And maybe we could talk about my ideas for the socials?”

“Sure,” he said. “Umm... maybe message me when you’re done.”

“I will.”

“Good luck,” he said.

***

Colin couldn’t remember an evening in recent memory when he had laughed so much. How had he forgotten that Pen was so damn funny? She was quick on her feet and had a way with words. And even stranger, she still seemed to love his terrible jokes. Ben and Eloise often ribbed him about his dad humour, but even now Pen was bent over, genuinely giggling at his silliest horse pun.

“So,” he said. “Horse shoes aside, did shoes come up in the interview, after our prep session?”

“Of course they did,” she said. “I raised them.” 

“In what context?”

“He asked me about tropes, and you know I only really know the fake dating one you’d mentioned. So I went with the shoes. Sexy but impractical, giving them the excuse for the foot rub.”

“Ah,” he said. “Possibly a fine line between sexy foot rub and just odd naked feet moments.”

“I don’t judge.”

“Maybe I need to give you a lesson in romance tropes, expand your horizons a bit.”

He glanced around the pub, which was relatively quiet for a Wednesday night.

“You seem to really enjoy the interviews, if you don’t mind me saying,” he said.

“I do. It’s weird. It must be something about the questions that make me feel like people care what I think.”

Colin was struck with the realisation that although the words were spoken lightly, she seemed serious. For her part, Pen looked slightly surprised that she’d been so honest.

“You think people don’t care what you think?” he asked. 

“Sometimes,” she said. “I will kill you, Colin, if you ever repeat this to anyone else, and especially to Eloise. But sometimes, it feels like even some of my closest friends enjoy talking more than they do listening. It should be more reciprocal in a relationship, don’t you think? Both people wanting to understand each other.”

“Sure,” he said. “Everyone wants to feel listened to.”

“Why don’t we do it now?”

Colin blinked at her, confused. “Do what?”

“Interview each other. Let’s do some back and forth, question asking.”

He laughed lightly, rubbing patterns along the side of the cool beer glass. 

“Isn’t that just a conversation?” 

“Let’s ask stuff on purpose though. Like when we prepped for the interview.”

He eyed her thoughtfully. “Okay. Why not.”

“Where should we start?”

“Well, it was your idea. You ask me something.”

“Okay,” Pen said. She took a sip of her beer. 

“Go on.”

“I’m thinking. I don’t want to pitch it too deep straight away. Or too trivial.”

“I think you’re overthinking it.”

“Why did you choose that tattoo?” 

She gestured to Colin’s mid-forearm, where his blackbird tattoo was half hidden by the sleeves of his three-quarter length grey t-shirt. 

“Ben designed it for me. He said it represented resilience. I guess I was looking for something that kind of meant strength, but not in a forceful hunting eagle or lion overly macho way.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s quite sweet.”

“I wouldn’t mind a tiny amount of macho, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” she said, with a grin. “How much macho is enough macho?”

“I just want a smidge, please.”

“Okay. You go.”

“Do you have any tattoos?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m too indecisive. I see images I love but then I’m not sure I love them enough to have them forever.”

Hmm, Colin eyed her thoughtfully. What would Pen want to carry with her forever?

“You could choose words.”

“Same problem though. Which ones?”

“Don’t you have a favourite quote?”

“Not today. My turn. Do you have any other tatts?”

He grinned at her. “Is this an interview for Ink Monthly, Pen?”

“Shut up and answer the question.”

“There’s a good tattoo phrase for you.”

“Diversion.”

Colin took a sip of his beer. “Yes. One on my back, near the shoulder, and one on my chest.”

“Oh.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “You wanna see them?”

To his surprise, Pen blushed. “Umm, no thanks. What are they?”

“Flowers on the back. Angel wings on my chest,” he said. “For my dad.”

“Oh,” she said again. She was silent for a moment, then snorted. “I don’t suppose debt notices would be quite so touching if I had that done for Archie.”

“Ah,” he said, “You see, tattoos can go deep.”

“Problematic,” she said. “If you ever want to take them off. Also,” she gestured to her chest, “It would be a bitch to get these girls tattooed. I’m not convinced they wouldn’t be way too sensitive.”

It was Colin’s turn to flush, although he tried to cover the moment with a chuckle and another drink of beer.

“My turn,” he said. “Do you really like The Proposal?”

“The movie?”

“Yes. You mentioned it in the first interview.”

“Well, yes, Ryan Reynolds is well fit.”

“Undeniable fact.”

“But I’m really there just for Betty White.” Pen raised her glass in a gesture of respect. “Icon,” she said.

“Legend,” Colin agreed, clinking his glass with hers.

“My turn. Why did you stop travel writing? Was it really about Covid? You seemed to never fully get back into it.”

“No, I suppose I didn’t.”

 When he was quiet Pen said, “You don’t have to answer that, if it’s too personal.”

“No,” he said, “It’s not that. I just don’t think anyone else has asked me that.”

Pen frowned at him. “Really? Not your family, or your mates?”

Colin shook his head. Ben had come the closest once, last year, asking why he’d been spending more time in London after he’d helped him with decor in his flat.

“I think,” he said, after a moment more thought, “that for a while I’d felt like I was finding myself when I was travelling. Maybe… maybe trying to recapture the spirit of my first solo trip.”

If Pen was thrown by the mention of the holiday he’d taken just after turning 18, just after their friendship had cooled, she didn’t show it. 

“But after a while I felt that Travel Colin was really just another facade. Like I was pretending that it made me a more interesting version of myself. More experienced, more worldly, I suppose.”

“Pretending?” Pen prompted. 

“Yeah. I often feel like I’m bluffing in some way. Putting a mask on.”

He wasn’t sure how they’d gone from tattoos to something so personal that quickly. He’d also forgotten that Pen had a way of drawing things out of him, not by prying, but by creating a safe space where he could say what he really thought. Despite her sharp sense of humour, he somehow felt trust between then; that while she might poke fun around the edges, she would never mock him about anything that truly mattered.

No masks with Pen, he thought suddenly. What a strange realisation. 

“I suppose that makes sense to me,” she said. “I’ve seen how you are with your family. It’s like you want to be what they need.”

He stared at her, startled by the aptness of the observation.

“But on the other hand, it surprises me that you feel fake because you always seem to fit in, Colin. You’re so comfortable and good with people.”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”

“Huh,” she said. “You know I use pretence sometimes as part of my confidence-building tricks.” 

Colin raised an eyebrow. “Tricks?”

He learned forwards, holding a pretend microphone up for her.

“Could you expand on that, Ms Featherstone?”

She batted his hand away, smiling.

“I was never the boldest of kids, you know.”

“I remember.”

“When I moved out of home, went to uni, and then started work, I guess I gradually got better at building my confidence by having to put myself out there. But sometimes I still use the mental tricks to stop me hiding in corners at parties.”

Colin grinned at that, genuinely intrigued. “Like what?”

Pen eyed him for a moment before replying. “Sometimes,” she said, “I pretend to be a spy on a mission.”

“Really?”

That was unexpected. Also sexy.

“Yes. Strangely, it’s particularly useful to pep me up if I’m on a pick-up mission. I even have a tag line.”

“Oh,” he said. 

“I say to myself, let’s go girls.”

“Girls? Plural?” he asked dumbly, then flushed almost violet with understanding when Pen just raised an eyebrow.

Colin wasn’t sure why the idea of Pen trying to pick up blokes made him feel suddenly uncomfortable. It was as though there was a slight prickling under his skin. Pen was a gorgeous woman - he’d always thought so. And she was a single, adult woman, living her best single life. Of course she had an active sex life. Of course she wouldn’t be ashamed of her, let’s be honest, fucking amazing breasts. Normal, normal, normal, he told himself. No need to be weird about it.

“What’s your biggest regret?” she said, bringing his thoughts back to the present.

Colin had to chuckle at that. 

“Ryan Reynolds’ fine arse to biggest life regrets in under two minutes. Nice progression, Pen.”

“Nice avoidance, Colin.”

He rolled his shoulders, settling himself back in his chair.

“Big question. I have many.”

Pen made a face at that. “Really? Colin, you’re only twenty five. You can’t have a long list like an old man.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “I have a tendency to get in my head too much, overanalyse everything.”

She hummed. “Yeah, I can see that you do that. Old man,” she added.

He took a long swig of his beer, settling it down on the coaster. 

“I guess Marina,” he said. “Do you remember that I dated her in college?” He shook his head at Pen’s scowl. “Of course you do, she’s your cousin. I don’t know why I always forget that. Maybe because you’re so different.”

Her face didn’t betray any reaction to that. “Okay,” she said.

“It was only about three months, hardly the world’s greatest romance. I don’t think I even loved her. I was just… so taken with her. Swept up by it all. I wanted to be in love. She was vibrant and stunning and really different from other girls I knew.” He shrugged. “I think I was blinded by how happy I was that she chose me.”

He eyed her carefully, but her face was still difficult to read.

“I was still taking the business degree then, doing okay I guess, although I’d probably started to realise my heart wasn’t in it. I’d gotten access to payments from my trust fund. I was living on my own for the first time. Probably partying too much.”

“Fairly usual for that age,” Pen said. “Trying to figure out what you wanted.”

He nodded. “Although not the trust fund part.” He smiled ruefully. “I get this sounds like a ‘poor little rich white boy’ story Pen. I’m not blind to that.”

When she was silent he continued.

“Did Eloise tell you what happened? Why we broke up?”

Pen shook her head.

“She was pregnant. The whole time,” he added quickly. “Her exes’ baby. He’d gone MIA and wasn’t taking her calls.” 

Pen’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t know that,” she said. “How did I not know that? I mean, I heard later she’d had kids but I didn’t really know the details, or the timeline.”

“Messy timeline, as it turns out,” he said. “I understand now that she was scared about being a single mum and affording everything and she kind of latched onto me. But I was devastated. When he turned up again she cheated on me and then went back to him.”

Colin was silent for a moment and Pen didn’t speak, just allowed him the time to gather his thoughts. 

“It was like… my worst fears come true I suppose,” he said. “She wanted my money, the security I could give her. It was like… she wanted me because I was a Bridgerton, but at the same time I really could have been any bloke. I was replaceable. She didn’t choose me, really.”

He sighed. “Needless to say, I didn’t react well. And Ant and I fought about it, of course. He said I was an easy mark - too naive and I needed to grow up. I’m not sure he was wrong. It wasn’t long after that I dropped out and started travelling more.”

“It’s not stupid to want to be in love, Colin.”

“Yeah,” he drained the last of his drink. “I think maybe I regret more that it took me years to get over it. Now,” he said, smirking at her. “Your turn. Your biggest regret?”

“Much more simple,” she said. “My predictable father issues. Never sorting shit out with my dad before he died. I was angry with him for a long time afterwards because I never told him how I really felt about his crappy behaviour. That took a while to unpack.”

She cleared her throat. 

“Why did you use my name, Colin?”

“Huh?”

“When Bernie pressured you to think of a female pen name. What made you choose my name? There are thousands of others you could have picked.”

“I…”

He dropped his gaze to the table, his fingers playing with the cardboard coaster.

“I dunno,” he said softly. “It just came to mind, I suppose.”

Pen was watching him closely, her eyes a little too appraising for his liking. 

“I came to mind?” she said.

“Your name did,” he clarified.

“Huh,” she said. 

Colin wasn’t sure how long they sat quietly, with her steady gaze on him while he flipped the coaster. 

“You hungry?” she said. 

His eyes flicked up. 

“Usually,” he said. 

“Pub food for dinner?” she suggested. 

“I could go some chips,” he said.

“How about nachos?” Pen said. She arched one eyebrow again. “I’m sure they do macho nachos.”

He grinned. “I could go some macho nachos.”

“I’ll go order,” she swung out from her seat and made her way to the bar.

Colin tried to pretend his eyes didn’t follow her swaying hips the entire way. Nothing to see here, he told himself. Nothing at all. 

Chapter Text

On Saturday morning Pen woke to the sound of her phone playing ‘Mama Mia’.

Here we go again, she thought. Doubtless more wedding drama from her mum. She rolled over and switched her phone onto silent. She had messaged Pru yesterday to confirm that yes, she was bringing a plus one to the wedding, now a fortnight away, and that it would be Colin. Yes, she was sure. Yes, Pru could confirm the final numbers with the venue. No doubt Pru had messaged their mum. And no doubt her mother had a view on that. She supposed all of her family had started speculating about it now. 

Pen shucked off the blankets and made her way to the shower. As she was drying off, she flipped over her phone. 

7:45 missed call from mum

7:46 missed call from Pru

7:48 missed call from mum

Pen sighed, shrugged on her bathrobe, and went into the kitchen to make a coffee. Fifteen minutes later, as she finished dressing, she glanced at her phone again. There were two more messages from her mum, from all three sisters and multiples from El and Colin.

She started with Felicity.

Fel: hey Pen. mums going spare. says you are ignoring her calls. u ok?

Fel: I think it’s great, btw ❤️🔥

Well. Not surprising that Felicity had got the wrong end of the stick about Colin. She suspected her younger sister knew about her long-held teenage crush, but they’d never discussed it. She’d need to set her right sometime in the next fortnight. It was not even a real date, much less anything more.

She opened the message from her next favourite sister, while refilling her coffee mug.

Pip: What have you been up to, you sly dog? 🫶 Quietly impressed, Pen.

She frowned. Clearly the Featherington sibling chat, which she often chose to stay out of for sanity’s sake, was going off, in the wrong direction. She’d need to set them all straight about Colin. Not feeling she quite had the stomach yet for more family angst she opened the messages from Eloise.

El: Babe. WTF? 

El: Look obviously I’m thrilled for you. I know your heart was leaning in that direction. But a girl would’ve liked a heads up, yeah?

El: Srsly Pen. I’m not mad, just wish you’d told me yourself. 

Okay, now that was absurd. Had Colin told El he was going with her to Pru’s wedding? Why would Eloise, of all people, assume a relationship? She opened up Colin’s messages, with a growing sense of dread. His note from Thursday was still showing. 

Colin: Thanks for the nachos last night. Just the right amount of macho. And the chat. Good chat. x

She smiled and scrolled quickly onto his new messages.

Colin: I think we need to talk. 

Oh god. That was basically the universal message of doom. What on earth had El and Colin spoken about?

She glanced at his next messages.

Colin: Someone small, Pen? 

Colin: Guardian Books <link to article>.

Holy fuck. Pen sat down with a thud.

Her thumb quivered as she hovered over the link. The Guardian? That little publication? How had she not noticed that’s what Stephen had said to her? Was this what everyone was spamming her about?

Oh hello there, consequences of my own actions, she thought.

She brought up the article. 

“Two hot new talents & their stories we love,” read the headline. 

Her headshot appeared, alongside a younger man’s face. She grabbed her coffee and started to read. The article was a good one. Instead of talking about herself, she’d clearly talked more about the story and why she thought it might be resonating with readers. Whew. At least she hadn’t bombed. And the review of Colin’s book was glowing.

She flicked back to messages and decided to start with Eloise. Not the easiest person to explain this to, but if she was honest with herself, one of the people she most didn’t want to mislead. How had it not occurred to her before that by doing publicity for Colin’s book her friends and family might have questions about her sudden and hitherto undisclosed career as a romance author?

Although…she knew it might appear strange to some, but it was actually completely plausible that she could have a hidden job her family didn’t know about.

Pen: I’m sorry El, I have been keeping a secret. But it’s more complicated than it seems.

Pen: if you wouldn’t mind, give me a few days to sort some stuff out, then we can talk properly?  

She flicked a quick note to Felicity while she was there.

Pen: I’ve got hidden depths, hon. I’ll deal with the fam later, yeah? And we can talk properly too.

What to say to Colin? As if she’d summoned him, her phone rang right at that moment.

“Hi Colin.”

“Hey there Ms Featherstone, winsome young author.”

“Are you…” she stumbled, unsure what to say. “Are you cross with me?”

“Of course not. It’s an amazing interview. You did brilliantly.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Some tension she didn’t realise she’d been feeling left her body in a rush. 

“Oh, Colin, I’m so sorry. I just really didn’t think this through. I had no idea he’d said he was from the Guardian. Something people actually read. Even my mum, apparently, when prompted.”

“It really is fine, Pen. You said some great things and they wrote it up really positively. The review was gentle as well.”

“Yeah I thought it sounded ok. I just had no idea that it would be this kind of publication. I honestly thought it would be in a little local mag.”

“Well, in your defence, they are London-based. So kind of local.”

Colin sounded unexpectedly cheerful. Pen could still feel her heart pounding. At some point in the last hour she had realised, with equal parts agitation and dismay, that she genuinely did not want to let Colin down. The revelation that she still cared so much what he thought was irksome. She’d been certain her feelings for Colin were utterly in the past. 

“You’re really not upset with me?”

“No, why would I be?”

“You didn’t ask me to do this. It was my idea to say yes. And I lied, Colin.”

He chuckled. “Wasn’t that the whole deal? I do recall us shaking on it.”

“Yes but… this was a big lie. To a lot more people. The scale… Colin, there are consequences now.”

“Consequences?” 

“My family know. And El. My phone has blown up.”

“It’ll be okay, Pen.”

“I really don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t need to do anything, Pen, I have a plan already. We’re going to fix this.”

“How?”

“I’ve gone around Bernie to call the publishers rep directly, and I’ve set up a meeting for Monday morning. I’m going to confess.”

***

They arranged to meet in a coffee shop that was a block away from Danbury Publishing to gather their thoughts before the meeting. Pen couldn’t help noticing that Colin was wearing one of his most gorgeous suits. This one was a royal blue, single buttoned jacket, which he wore with a white business shirt and a matching blue waistcoat.

“You look nice,” she said, unthinkingly reaching over to adjust his collar. She caught a slight scent of his cologne and let go quickly at the unexpected way her heart rate picked up in response.

“Thank you,” he said. “I feel like I’m off to the gallows. A little armour of handsome can’t hurt.”

Pen grinned and showed him her chunky heels. “Snap. Confidence height for the hobbits over here,” she said.

“Ah,” he said, “the lesser known species of shod hobbits.”

After they ordered, Colin pulled out a seat for her.

“How was the rest of your weekend?” he asked.

“Bizarre,” she said. “Eloise keeps sending me recommendations for writing grants to apply for. Pru is furious I’m ‘using this ridiculous smutty scribbling to overshadow her big day.’ That’s a direct quote, by the way. Pip is cheerleading in her own endearing way. Mum has left me about six voicemails asking whether there’s any chance of an introduction to Jeffrey Archer, among other things. Most of which I’ve ignored. Your mum sent me an extremely nice text saying congratulations and asking if I thought my book might be too risqué for her book club.”

“That’s an interesting pastiche, at least,” he said.

“Oh, and I should probably warn you, despite many denials, Felicity remains convinced that you and I are dating,” she said.

Colin raised one eyebrow. “Even more intriguing.”

“Not really,” Pen said. “She knows you’re my wedding date and has extrapolated wildly from there.”

He smiled, showing his dimples. “Aha! You said date.”

“I meant plus one. And you won’t look so smug once Hyacinth gets stuck into you,” she said, reminding him that their youngest sisters tended to share everything.

“She doesn’t need any ammunition to do that,” he said. “What did you tell my mum?”

“To flip to chapter 18 and judge for herself.”

“Noted,” he said. “Avoid eye contact with mum at next brunch.”

“You or me?” Pen asked.

“Both of us,” he said. “You because she thinks you wrote that scene, me because I know I did.”

The waiter approached their table, placing down their coffees.

“How are you feeling?” Pen said. She’d expected Colin to appear anxious about his impending confession, but then again, she knew there were times he was extremely good at keeping a lid on his real thoughts. 

“Surprisingly well,” he said. “I told Bernie what I’d done. Once he finished shouting at me about what a terrible idea this was, which went on for around twenty eight minutes or so, I had time to practice and process and… I feel good.”

“Okay,” she said dubiously.

“I didn’t think the lie would get this big, this quickly Pen. It’s time to come clean. I need to. It’ll be good. I can stop worrying about it so much.”

“You haven’t enjoyed this week?”

Pen hoped she didn’t sound as pathetic as that felt. She’d already been lecturing her brain about not starting to enjoy this time with Colin too much.

“God no. I’ve had this full body anxiety that’s been messing up everything. I haven’t been able to sleep properly, eat properly. Macho nachos, aside. I can barely speak. I haven’t felt this discombobulated since…” he broke off suddenly. 

Pen noticed his eyes flickered back and forth, avoiding her gaze. 

“Since?” she prompted.

“Since a while,” he said. 

“What were you going to say?” she said.

Colin played with his coffee spoon, tapping it rhythmically against his open palm.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Yes, you were.”

He shook his head. Pen stared hard at him, holding the silence.

“I thought today was a day for honesty,” she said.

“With my publishers, yes.”

“Shall I shout at you like Bernie did?”

He gave her a tight smile. “If you must.”

Pen sighed. “No. I can’t. Despite my family upbringing, I’m not one for public dramatics. I don’t think I could manage a proper scene even if I wanted to.”

“Pity,” he said, still jiggling the spoon. Pen reached out her hand and covered his, quietening his movements. Colin’s eyes snapped up to hers, and he swallowed, looking back down at his cup.

“Since we stopped being friends,” he said quietly.

“Oh.”

Colin still wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“After my 18th birthday. When you ghosted me.”

Pen pulled back her hand, stung. Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly.

“When I what?”

“Ghosted me. Iced me out.”

Pen blinked at him in confusion. “I did not.”

“You did. I should think I’d remember. You were one of my closest friends.” 

“Was I?”

“I thought so,” Colin scowled. “Until that night you heard me tell my brothers I didn’t want to have sex with you, and then you dropped me like hotcakes. Like that was the only reason you liked me. That we might hook up.”

Pen’s head was buzzing. She felt as though she’d suddenly zapped into an alternative universe where the laws of physics, and her own memories, weren’t quite so reliable. 

“I… what?”

“You stopped taking my calls. Stopped texting me. What would you call that?”

Pen frowned. “I would call that a reasonable reaction to your shitty behaviour, Colin.”

Colin’s face screwed up, perplexed. “My shitty behaviour?”

“Yes. When you hated my gift and said it was overkill.”

“That’s not… that’s not what happened.”

Pen snorted. “I should think I’d remember.”

“No, I mean, you were the one who clearly didn’t value my friendship.”

“No. You made it clear I embarrassed you in front of your friends.”

“I wasn’t embarrassed by you, Pen.”

“You sure made it look that way.”

“I was embarrassed, yes, but not by you.”

She stared at him, dumbfounded.

“By what then?”

“By myself. Pen, I was 18. I was trying to fit in with my mates. I was trying to find my place. To figure out what it meant to be grown up. I didn’t want to be the strange guy who really liked his younger sister’s friend more than anyone else at his party. Who likes art and books and ideas more than football and beer and talking about shagging women. I mean, I liked football and beer fine. But I hated how Joe and Bernie talked about girls like they were just interchangeable bodies. And I wanted to be interested in more things and for that to be okay. But it didn’t feel like it was. They’d probably think Matisse was a football player. And now I understand about toxic masculinity and I know better, and maybe I should have told those guys to fuck off and stop being so juvenile, but honestly Pen, who has their shit together at that age?”

Pen heard it all but one line reverberated the loudest.

“You liked me more than anyone else there?”

His voice was almost unbearably soft. “Of course I did. You’re Pen. You were always special to me. That’s why I’ve missed you so much.”

Pen fell silent, unable to untangle her confused thoughts. Colin thought she had ruined their friendship? Colin had missed her? She was special? What the fuck was happening?

“Colin, you… you were mean. Cold. When I heard you talking to Anthony and Ben. The way you talked about my gift… You said it was dumb. I was mortified. It felt like you thought I was nothing to you. Like you were ashamed of me.”

“No, Pen,” his eyes were glowing as he reached out to grab her hand. “I was upset. Ant was having a go, making it sound like all my trip meant was an excuse to slut my way around Europe, when I’d planned it for so long; and then assuming I would treat you badly, and I was so sick of being teased about you. And your gift was part of the art thing which the guys were such dicks about me liking. I snapped. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”

“But that’s why I stopped talking to you,” she said. “Not because… not because I just wanted to… although, maybe I did want to… but…”

Pen stared down at their hands. Colin was rubbing his thumb gently across her knuckles. Her whole hand was sparking in the wake of his touch. 

“I’m sorry, Pen,” he said. “I completely forgot I even said that about your gift. You’re right. That was shitty.”

“I didn’t know anyone teased you about me,” she said.

“Yeah, my mates did. I usually just ignored them.”

Pen was still watching his long, gentle fingers. God, she’d always loved his hands.

“I thought sometimes you didn’t fit in with them. That you were different.”

Colin hummed.

“Until I showed you I wasn’t?” 

Something flickered in his eyes then.

“Christ, Pen. No wonder you were pissed when I said that about Pru’s wedding. That I’d pretend to like you.” He sighed. “I’m a writer, Pen. I’m supposed to be good with words.”

“You are good with words, Colin.”

“Just not necessarily in the right order at the right time. And when there’s no scope for editing.”

They sat in silence for what felt like an eon, both drinking their coffees, each lost in their own thoughts.

Colin glanced at his phone and startled. 

“Oh god! We really need to go.”

***

They walked together in silence down the block. Pen didn’t speak again until they reached the reception desk.

“We have an appointment,” she said to the receptionist. “Ms Pen Featherstone and…” she hesitated… “and her lawyer.”

She shot Colin a sideways glance. She supposed the suit was lawyerly enough.

“Of course,” the young man behind the counter said. “Ms Sharma is expecting you. Please, take a seat for a few moments.”

Pen reached out to squeeze Colin’s hand. He threaded his fingers against hers, pulling their joined hands onto his knee. They stayed that way for the next few minutes, sitting quietly together. Pen wondered whether he was thinking about the confession he was about to make, or the one he’d just made at the coffee shop. For her part, she was still processing, trying to unpick the past seven years and see how it might reform differently in the light of his perspective. He’d said she was his closest friend, and he had missed her. She was special. It was hard for a girl not to feel affected.

At a buzz from his phone, the man ushered them into a wooden-panelled office, where they were greeted by a tall elegant dark-skinned woman. 

“Good morning,” she said, gesturing to the seats in front of her desk. “I’m Kate Sharma, I’m a manager of author liaison here at Danbury.”

“Hello,” Pen said. “My name is Penelope Featherstone, and this is my… uh… my lawyer.”

“Colin Bridgerton,” Colin said. 

“Please, sit,” Ms Sharma said, staring for a few moments directly at Colin, with a piercing gaze that Pen found unnerving. “I thought you were going to tell me that this is your new agent, Ms Featherstone.”

They both sank into the chairs.

“Penelope, please,” said Pen. “And no, my agent is Bernard…”

“Mr Fife,” Ms Sharma said, “Yes, I’m aware. You’ve done very well for yourself, despite his assistance.”

“I….ummm… thank you,” said Pen. “I think.”

“Mr Fife has somewhat of a reputation in this business,” Ms Sharma said. “He is not always forthcoming with the whole truth of a situation.”

“Oh. Gosh,” said Pen. She was slightly thrown by this woman’s brisk directness.

“Unfortunately, there are still many parts of this city where a man can rely on his old school tie connections to get a foot in the door. I prefer to deal in content, not cronyism. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr Bridgerton?”

She turned her plain gaze onto Colin, who shifted slightly, but met her stare. 

“I do,” he said firmly. 

“So do I,” Pen said. “I would rather get somewhere on the strength of the work itself, not what people think of me, my profile, or my name.”

“I hope you don’t mind me being frank,” Ms Sharma said, “I find it much more useful in most business conversations to get straight to the point.”

“As do we,” said Colin. “And with that in mind, I was hoping to discuss…”

“Would it be possible, Ms Sharma,” Pen said, cutting him off, throwing Colin a meaningful look, “to change the contract we have in place, if I do decide to change my agent representation?” Pen said. “Or some other… minor matters?”

“Of course,” Ms Sharma said. “A change of agent is not unusual, if you decide to do so, I can arrange a standard contract variation to update the name of your representation.”

She looked over at the notes on her computer. 

“Now, I understand the first print run of your work sold quite well, very much above expectations actually. And we have just issued a second. This was of course allowed for as an option under the terms of the original contract.”

She looked up at Pen.

“And is that what you wanted to meet about today - discussing a change in representation?”

“Yes,” Pen said, with a nervous glance at Colin. “And perhaps a few other things. We… that is to say, I have written a second manuscript. And I have a pitch I was hoping to discuss for a second novel - perhaps potentially a series.”

Colin looked startled she’d brought that up.

“That would normally be dealt with by one of our commissioning editors,” Ms Sharma said. “Of course, you are not a new author to us or an unknown quantity. You are an existing client, with a small but enthusiastic fan base, and a small but growing profile. I can ask one of the commissioning editors to put it in the top of their pile for consideration. You may well be someone I work with in future.”

“I imagine that’s a very big pile,” Pen said. “We… I appreciate it. I’ll email the pitch through.”

“I saw the piece in the Guardian on the weekend,” Ms Sharma said. “That’s not part of our new author promo package.”

“No,” Pen said. “I arranged the interview myself.”

Ms Sharma raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a friend at the Guardian? Old school friend or otherwise?”

Pen laughed. “No. I think it was blind luck, to be honest.”

Ms Sharma chuckled. “Well, you made the most of the opportunity, I must give you credit for that.”

She leaned back in her chair, appraising them both. Colin opened his mouth to speak, but she was faster. 

“You’re an unusual operator, Ms Featherstone.” 

“Oh?”

“You interest me. After seeing that Guardian piece I agreed to take your meeting when Mr Bridgerton called the office. I skimmed some of your novel this morning, but your voice in interviews is quite different. It’s unusual particularly for a new author, but you clearly have considerable skill in knowing how to sell yourself and your work. You understand the advertising game.”

“I suppose I do. And that’s unusual?”

“For authors? Yes,” she said bluntly. “Most authors tend to be myopically interested in their own writing. They don’t understand publishing as a business, just as a vehicle for their art.”

“Isn’t that how it should be?”

“Yes, of course, but it needs to be a viable business for us, or we can’t stay in it. You know how to shill your own product. That gives you extra value to me.”

She eyed them both before continuing.

“Most of our authors fall into 2 categories: the Divas and the Darlings. The Divas think their work is extremely special. They hate their work to be edited. They have no doubt they are the talent we should publish and promote and revere. They require a particular kind of managing editor relationship.”

“And the Darlings?”

“Sweethearts. They also think their writing shouldn’t be edited. But they tend to lack confidence. They’re the kind of author who hid away and furiously scribbled and never shared their work with anyone until it reaches us. Their managing editor needs to siphon off a litre of the ego from the Divas and loan it to the Darlings, who are somewhat more easily bruised.”

Pen laughed, and Ms Sharma smiled with her. She really was quite stunning looking, Pen thought.

“Of course, there are the individuals who embody both Diva and Darling and veer wildly between the two states. They are the most exhausting to manage.”

She swung her keen gaze onto Colin.

“And what do you think, Mr Bridgerton? Are you a Diva, or a Darling?”

Colin gaped at her.

“I mean in your own field, of course.”

Colin drew in a breath, and shared a look with Pen. 

“The thing is, Ms Sharma, you are absolutely correct. About Mr Fife. He has not been completely honest. And I’m afraid to say, neither have we.” He glanced at Pen. “That is to say, have I. About my role.”

Ms Sharma continued to gaze at him. 

“How so?” she asked mildly.  

Colin swallowed. “I am… I am not Penelope’s lawyer. She is a friend of mine. A… a good friend. In fact, I…”

“I understand,” Ms Sharma said. “It can be intimidating for a new author to come to a business meeting like this. Particularly without your agent. And particularly if you are thinking of leaving your agent.”

“Yes, but I am also really…”

“Even for those who have not met me previously.”

They both stared at her.

“That was a joke,” she said.

“Of course,” Colin said. 

“You are not contractually obliged to laugh.”

Pen giggled. 

“That was also a joke,” Ms Sharma said. “And I do apologise if there is unnecessary tension here. The truth I have not fully shared is that I know your brother, Mr Bridgerton.”

Colin froze. “You do? Which one? There are four of us.”

Pen suspected she knew the answer already. 

“Anthony,” Ms Sharma said, in a tone of voice that spoke volumes. “He very briefly dated my younger sister. I am a lawyer by training and we have legal friends in common. And it would be no surprise to her or him that I consider him to be very much a Diva. And an enthusiastic wielder of his old school tie.”

“Oh,” said Colin.

“Of course, I understand that you are your own man. Now that I cleared that part of the air,” Ms Sharma said briskly, “I can say I’m pleased you did bring your,” she glanced at Colin, “friend today Ms Featherstone. I have an offer for you both. Although mostly you, Penelope.”

Pen eyed Colin, who was looking slightly queasy. She wasn’t sure how much of that was due to the mention of Anthony, and how much his failure to confess.

“An offer?” she said. 

“I need to tell you,” Colin said, “That I…”

“No, no, Mr Bridgerton,” Ms Sharma waved him to be quiet. “We ladies must talk business. Ms Featherstone. An opportunity has come up unexpectedly. I appreciate this is very last minute. But the way you seized the opportunity of that interview made me wonder whether you’d be up for another challenge.”

“I would like to say…” Colin snapped his jaw shut as Ms Sharma glared at him.

“We are almost out of time here. Please, let me finish. Our firm, Danbury’s, is a sponsor at this years Love Notes romance writers convention taking place this weekend in York. We have several authors appearing on the program from our firm, along with thirty or so other authors. It’s the usual sort of convention program: keynotes, networking, book signing sessions, and one moderated panel. But unfortunately we have a last minute cancellation. One of our authors has Covid. She was booked to participate in the panel session. I was wondering if you might be interested in taking her spot.”

Pen looked stunned. “Me?” she said. “On a panel discussion?”

Colin opened his mouth, but closed it again as Ms Sharma glowered. 

“I appreciate it is last minute but it’s a wonderful chance to spruik your book. The sales bump from these events is considerable.” 

Pen looked across at Colin for guidance.

“I… that is to say… that is a very kind offer,” she said.

Colin looked torn.

“Of course, Penelope,” Ms Sharma said, “you would be most welcome to bring your friend along. We have an accomodation booking at the venue for the whole weekend that would suit the two of you.”

“That’s very kind,” Colin echoed.

“The commitment for the appearance at the event itself would be small. There’s a Friday night welcome dinner you’re under no obligation to attend. Keynotes during dinner are also optional. Primarily, we’d have you appearing in a Q & A panel for an hour with fans on the Saturday. Then there’s a session of book signing. Followed by a networking drinks event Saturday night you may wish to attend with fellow writers and industry reps.”

“Book signing,” Pen said quietly. She thought about Alfie in the bar and how she’d joked about signing his copy. How horrified he was at the idea she, not the real author, would do so. She remembered what a joke she’d thought it, how he’d never meet the real Penelope Featherstone, not realising that sweet, talented, hard-working Colin, the real author, was at the same party.

“Your appearance, if successful, might sway us firmly towards that second book offer,” Ms Sharma said.

“Oh,” Pen said. She thought she might be sick. They’d come so close, to the precipice really, of telling the truth, and now this. 

“Pen,” Colin said softly. He reached over to touch her forearm. “You’re under no pressure to say yes. I will support you fully, either way.”

She held his gaze. “You will? Are you sure?”

“It’s still kind of local.”

“Yorkshire is local?”

“Speaking in the context of global geography, yes. It’s one weekend. We can swing this. It’ll be okay. But only if you want to.”

For some reason Pen felt like crying then.  How was he being so goddamn sweet to her, even now, when she was starting to feel that she wasn’t doing him a favour, but taking this moment from him? It should be Colin at the conference. Colin fielding questions about his writing, Colin meeting his fans.

Pen looked back at Ms Sharma, who was watching them closely, her eyes flicking from Pen to Colin and back. 

Pen recalled the crushed look on Colin’s face a week earlier on realising she hadn’t read his novel and had lied about it being well-written. How vulnerable he seemed that first night at the pub when he’d said he wanted to be good at this. How afraid he was of disappointing his family. She could help him secure that second book deal. It was still all his writing, all his hard work on the page that mattered - was it really that much of a lie to continue to be his public face for one more weekend? How different was this really to being someone who helped him with his PR?

“He's a Darling,” she said. “And yes, I’ll do it.”

Chapter Text

They both seemed a little numb as they left the Danbury offices. Colin wasn’t sure his heart rate had calmed since they’d heard Ms Sharma’s offer. The second book deal didn’t feel like such an unreachable fantasy now, more like a second step. It was there, tangible, not out of reach but just a few paces away.  But his mind had been set on coming clean, on owning Bernie’s initial blunder and everything he’d done afterwards to reinforce the lie. And he had failed.

The peace he had felt since reaching the decision to confess was gone. He could feel the tension again in his body, tight across his shoulders and coiling in his gut. It was kind of Pen to keep helping him, but now as he felt more than heard her soft steps beside him, he was more aware than ever his ‘one small favour’ had encountered significant scope creep. 

Just one more thing was starting to feel like a dangerous mantra that could be said every day, every week. Colin straightened, catching his mind before it descended further into that spiral.

No, he thought firmly, it really is just the one more thing. Just the Love Notes convention. Then we stop it.

Without even discussing it they had walked back the way they came. Once they reached the cafe, Colin offered to buy Pen lunch. As they ate, Colin mostly picking at his food as his lack of appetite returned, they debriefed about the meeting. Each of them trying to pry apart its pieces and when they might have spoken differently to fulfil its real purpose.

Colin had to intervene on multiple occasions to wrest the blame back from Pen who seemed determined to share it. Firmly reminding her that this whole situation was his dumb idea in the first place, that she had been nothing but supportive for going along with it. True, Ms Sharma had been more forceful than he’d anticipated, but still, he could have tried harder, could have blurted out the words, could have held his ground and spoken louder, faster. It only would have taken him three words. I’m the author. It’s my work. I’m Penelope Featherstone. Any variation would have done.

Even now it wasn’t too late. He could call the office again, confess over the phone. Or he could email. Ms Sharma had given Pen her card with her direct inbox address and mobile number so she could copy her in when she sent her second manuscript.

“You should send in your submission straight away,” Pen was saying. “Maybe then there’s a slight chance someone will look at it before this weekend. If things go tits-up badly at the convention at least you’ll have your foot in the door.”

Colin couldn’t help smiling at that, imagining Ms Sharma would not hesitate to close it swiftly regardless. That made his mind pivot in a different direction.

“What a weird coincidence that she’d met Ant,” he said. “Although I suppose they’re both lawyers who know firms and people in common.”

Pen chuckled. “I know,” she said. “Is it weird as well how much I’d have loved to be a fly on the wall for those interactions? No offence to your brother but I’ve been fancying Kate Sharma could have him on the ropes in one round.”

“Flat on the canvas,” Colin agreed.  

The conversation turned to the weekend and whether they should take the train to York or drive up. 

“Probably easiest if I hire a car for the weekend,” Colin said. “I don’t think the train would save us that much time. Besides,” he added, “I rather prefer the security of knowing we could high tail it out of there at any time we want to.”

“Reassuring we are both fearing something might go awry,” Pen said.

The more he thought about it, the more Colin was starting to feel better about the situation. Not reassured, as such, but relieved that it was Pen he would be with. Pen who would have his back. As ridiculous as the whole scenario was he couldn’t help but feel pleased that he’d had to chance to reconnect with her. And unwittingly this morning they’d even stumbled into clearing the air about their estrangement. He knew he should feel chagrin they’d each misunderstood the other, that each had spent the last years thinking the other was to blame, but he couldn’t deny his overwhelming emotion had been one of solace. Pen hadn’t ditched him because she didn’t care. If anything, she had wanted more from him then he’d ever realised. 

“Speaking of offers made at short notice,” Pen was saying, when he refocused on the conversation. “Are you busy Wednesday night?”

“I think I have a date,” he said, “with watering my plants. I can reschedule.”

Was it his imagination that Pen had tensed at the word date, then relaxed? 

“I’m going to a pub quiz night with a bunch of work people,” she said. “Would you like to come along?”

“Yes,” he said immediately, then, self-conscious at how he’d been so keen to spend time with her he hadn’t even taken a breath, he added, “Sounds like fun. The quiz, I mean.”

“I should warn you they’re a competitive lot,” Pen said. “And that old stereotype of hard drinking advertising execs hasn’t completely gone away. To be honest, I quickly learned to pace my drinks and pretend rather than genuinely try to keep up. I figure my liver will thank me later.”

Colin smiled. “I’m intrigued to see you in your work persona.”

Pen laughed at that. “Sorry to disappoint you, Colin, but Work Pen is not that different to Regular Pen. My job rewards my natural sassy tendencies.”

“Hmm,” he said. It occurred to him then that he’d never really talked to Pen about her job. “What made you interested in advertising in the first place?”

“It’s creative,” she said. “And often playful. You get to think a lot about what makes people tick, and how to speak to them in ways that resonate.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Colin said. “I think maybe I tended to think it was more about manipulation. Humans getting better at tapping into insights from behavioural economics, and then using that to make us want things we don’t need and compel us with sneaky techniques into buying them.”

Pen regarded him steadily. “Gosh that’s flattering,” she said mildly.

Colin rushed to add, “I didn't mean you personally, Pen.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You know we aren’t all Duck Phillips, yeah?”

Colin laughed lightly at that. “I’m assuming no one uses Mad Men as a recruiting tool.”

“God no,” she said. “Although Peggy Olson is actually Wonder Woman and I will accept no other input on that matter.”

“Noted,” he said.

Pen reached to gather her phone and handbag. “I also love my current firm. I mean, most of the time.”

Something dark flickered in her gaze but she quickly moved past it. 

“The pay is okay, and my contract hours are really flexible. Comes in handy when I want to do other things, like…” she grinned at him, “pretend to be a hot new author. Taking Friday afternoon off to drive up to York won’t be any drama. I’ll message you the details about the quiz.”

“It’s a date,” Colin said, unthinkingly. 

His heart suddenly began to thud at what he’d said. “It’s a not.. not date,” he stumbled. “I mean to say, yes, that would be…”

Pen seemed to be eyeing him with amusement as he floundered.

“… appropriate and helpful. For arranging our… the detail of the thing.”

Oh good lord. He was supposed to be a writer. What the hell was happening to that connection between his brain and his mouth? 

“Yes,” Pen said, her mouth twitching. “I will certainly helpfully text you all appropriate details of the thing.”

***

Colin glared at his half-filled suitcase as if it was personally to blame for his crippling inability to know what to pack for a weekend away. How many trips had he taken in his life? After briefly looking up the details of the hotel outside York that Ms Sharma had sent Pen he’d realised with some shock that he had never taken a woman for a proper mini-break holiday. He’d taken a few girlfriends up to Aubrey Hall, his family’s old country house, once or twice, but that had never felt like it signified much to him. Of course, he thought on reflection it likely had meant something to his exes who’d had to navigate not just the theoretical drama of “meeting the family” but the actual terror that was meeting the Bridgertons. His siblings were friendly enough, and lovely people as individuals, but the fact there were seven of them tended to inevitably overwhelm even the most confident of strangers.

Pen wouldn’t have been overwhelmed, he thought idly. My family adores her already. 

Oh dear. Where had that thought come from? 

This is not a romantic weekend away, Colin, he told himself firmly. It’s a romance convention. At an idyllic 4 star hotel outside the city, where Pen and I are staying together. Where there will be no shenanigans of any kind.

Of course, the fact that Ms Sharma could likely be added to the growing list of people casually assuming he and Pen were dating didn’t help his wandering imagination any. Hyacinth, as Pen had predicted, had been sending him cheeky notes all week, the latest of which innocently enquiring if Colin was aware that Sam, Pen’s romantic hero, had traits in common with Colin and wasn’t that an interesting coincidence. If only she knew, he thought. 

In the end, he decided to go with a few neat casual pieces, slinging one of his suit bags alongside just in case the dinner or drinks were dressier. 

He’d taken Pen’s advice and submitted his pitch and next manuscript chapters on Monday afternoon. It felt strange to message the company directly, instead of working through Bernie, who’d always confidently waved off any of Colin’s queries about administrative details. Strange, but not wrong. He’d started to seriously question his previous decision-making in joining Bernie’s client list. It had felt so serendipitous in the moment: he’d been catching up with old school mates at exactly the time he’d seriously considered shopping his novel around. When Bernie had mentioned he was a literary agent he’d felt like the stars had aligned, that the universe was nudging him in that direction.

Of course, he now thought ruefully, it was entirely possible every apparent coincidence was really fate having a giggle and he should pull up his socks and be more directive about his career. He knew Anthony’s birthday toast to Eloise hadn’t been pointed at him. He knew himself well enough to understand that he had a tendency to over-analyse and presume the worst when it came to his oldest brother. Assuming Ant was having a dig at him made as much sense as hearing a group of strangers laughing when you were out somewhere and were feeling miserable, and inferring they were obviously mocking you. But it couldn’t mean nothing that something in Ant’s wording about Eloise always knowing what she wanted had resonated so strongly with him.

Colin had just dropped his case and suit bag alongside the front door when Pen rang his apartment bell, and he ushered her in.

“I’ve never seen your apartment before, Col,” she said, as she strolled past him into his living area. 

Colin’s eyes followed her, tracing the lines of the cornflower blue sundress she was wearing. What would that fabric feel like under his fingers, he wondered, if he skimmed his hands up her back and onto the patch of skin revealed by her upswept hair? His fingertips pulsed and he had a sudden image of standing close behind her, one hand on her waist and the other sliding around to cup one of her gorgeous breasts.

“How long have you lived here?” she asked, startling him out of his unexpectedly horny paralysis. 

“Ummm… nearly two years now,” he said, not actually sure if that was correct. 

“It’s lovely,” Pen was saying, turning back towards him. “Not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” he couldn’t help asking, glancing around the flat. It was a pretty standard London city apartment, he thought, clearly more expensive than Pen’s, thanks to his healthy-sized trust fund, but nothing particularly flashy or exotic, apart perhaps for the number of rooms and the location, which he knew reflected his bank balance.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Maybe something a bit more blandly man-pad. This looks…” 

Her eyes took in the small art works and family photos that Ben had helped him arrange in gallery-style on the main wall, then the huge handmade quilt that was thrown across the sofa; a gift from his Aunt Georgie, who was a mad crafter and adored the fact she had so many relatives to share her creations with. 

“It looks comfortable,” she said, “homey. I like it.”

Colin felt an unexpected rush of pride at the compliment. There was something oddly primal in hearing that Pen liked his place and would feel comfortable there. He shoved away that thought as quickly as it had appeared.  He was not some bower or weaver bird, trying to attract potential mates with his nesting prowess.

Mind you, if Pen wanted to snuggle into a nest with him… 

Stop Colin! he told his rogue mind. It’s only day one of the weekend, for god’s sake. 

“I’ll put the bags in the car if you want to have a proper look around, feel free,” he said, seizing on the chance for a moment alone to reset before they left.

He’d already been reminding himself all week not to read anything into Pen’s words or actions. Catching up with her at the pub on Wednesday had been lovely, and he’d had to engage some stern self talk to remember it did not signify that they were spending time together for an event that was completely unrelated to their deal. It meant their friendship was renewing, that was all. 

Pen had been essentially correct that Work Pen was very much like the Pen he knew: witty, sharp, and perceptive. There was something else though he couldn’t help admiring - that Pen had clearly grown in confidence since her teenage years. She was not intimidated by any of her rowdy colleagues, even the most alpha of the males. And in turn, the way others listened to her input showed him she had an established reputation of providing valuable insights. Colin, who had always worked alone, was intrigued to watch her in action. There had been some odd undercurrent in a few of the conversations he didn’t quite understand - perhaps about an absent colleague there was a shared dislike of? He supposed that was one of the benefits of working alone.

His apartment block had a built-in underground garage, which he rarely accessed, not having any need to own a car. He’d picked up the rental that morning and parked it in his spot. It didn’t take long to put both their bags into the boot and catch the lift back up to his flat.

When he entered, it was to find the living area empty. 

“Pen?” he called out. 

His apartment had a large master bedroom, a spare bedroom, and a smaller room he’d set up as his home office. He padded down the hallway, and it was in this final room that he found Pen. He thought at first that she was looking out the window, where he did have a lovely view of the bustling city below. He enjoyed watching people walk to and fro as he wrote; there was something in the rhythm of other people going about their busy lives he found comforting. 

He drew still as he realised she was actually looking at a series of objects he had displayed on the window ledge. Most were travel souvenirs. Usually he liked to buy small items directly from the maker which could remind him of the smells and sounds of a place just by touching them. A few others were gifts from his family: a conch shell Eloise had given him, a small golden pocket watch from his mother. And next to that… 

Pen stood frozen, staring at the small paper bird sculpture. Her birthday gift to him. The one he’d so carelessly dismissed, amid a stupid argument with Anthony, not realising it would hurt Pen and push her away.

“You kept it,” she said quietly. 

“Yes, of course,” he said. “It’s beautiful. And you made it.”

He wished she was looking at him then so he could see what her eyes and facial expression might be telling him. By the time she turned, a few moments later, her face was placid. Whatever her reaction she clearly wasn’t interested in sharing it right now.

“We should get going,” she said. “It’s a long drive.” 

***

“It’s not really a long drive,” Colin said, as they were making their way out of the city and onto the M1 heading northwards. 

Pen glanced at him. “What?”

Colin jerked his head to indicate the map route they’d called up earlier on the rental’s dashboard. 

“The drive to Yorkshire,” he said. “I wouldn’t call it long.”

Pen frowned at him, glancing again at the map.

“It’s four and a half hours, Colin, minimum,” she said.

“Oh I know,” he said. “I just think time, and particularly time in cars, is a relative phenomenon. With a good passenger, four hours is a doddle. Might be five or so though, with this traffic.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said.

“It is,” he agreed. “Imagine, say, if I was ferrying your mum up to York.”

“Oh god,” Pen said. “Or my mum and Pru together. My childhood nightmares re-lived.”

“We’d probably both jump and roll out of the car,” he said.

Pen giggled at that image. “I imagine we would.”

“All your spy field training would finally come in handy.”

Pen laughed again and Colin felt a little dopamine ping of satisfaction. There was nothing quite like the feeling of making Pen laugh.

“Seriously, though,” he said, “when I stayed with Murray in Sydney, we decided to drive up to Brisbane for a couple of days. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Wasn’t it?” she said.

“It was a great side trip,” he said, “Beautiful place. But it took us nearly ten hours driving up the east coast.”

“Ten hours?” she said.

“Yeah,” Colin said, with a grin. “He did warn me. He said, ‘You know that’s like the equivalent of driving from Bournemouth up to Inverness?’ And it was only one state capital to another there.”

“That sounds ridiculous, Colin.”

“I would have loved to see more of the country,” he said, “The landscapes are so different. But the cities are really far apart and I didn’t fancy spending what time we had catching planes back and forth between them.”

“What else did you want to see?”

“Everything,” he admitted. “Off the west coast there’s this reef called Ningaloo which is supposed to be one of the most gorgeous places to dive. There’s heaps of wonderful wine regions. There’s a place called the Barossa Valley, where German settlers went. They have some really old red vines there too, because they avoided a major phylloxera outbreak Europe had. And I would have loved to visit Darwin, right up in the north. But you know what?”

“There’s crocodiles up there?”

He flashed her another grin.

“Yes. Also, it’s a forty two hour drive from Sydney to Darwin.”

Pen snorted at that. “Colin, you are making that up.”

“I’m not,” he said. “it would be quicker to drive from Paris to Moscow. That’s only thirty hours.”

“Really?” she said. “That seems ridiculous too. Although doubtless Napoleon would think that fantastical.”

“That doesn’t count stopping for passport checks. Or vittles. Or fighting the coalition army and conquering territory,” he admitted. “In fact, for forty two hours non-stop you could drive from Madrid to Moscow.”

Pen laughed again. It was fast becoming Colin’s favourite sound. 

“How on earth do you know that?”

“Google maps,” he said. “Murray and I looked it up to find the equivalent.” 

“How is Murray?” she asked. 

More out of politeness, Colin suspected, than any real interest. 

“He’s well,” he said. “He’s working as a school teacher.”

“Really?” she sounded surprised. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Younger kids. He teaches science and also coaches the netball team.” 

He shot her a quick look before turning his eyes back to the road. 

“Turns out he’s gotten past the toxic masculinity, too.”

“Oh,” she said. 

They drove in silence for a moment.

“Perhaps there is hope for the future,” she said.

“There’s always hope, Pen,” he said lightly.

He could feel her perceptive gaze turning onto him. “Is that why you write romances? Because they’re hopeful?”

“I like that they’re stories of human connection,” he said. 

“Well,” she said, “we might not be going Madrid to Moscow, but this human would like to connect with a bathroom break somewhere on the way, if that’s okay.”

“Sure,” Colin said, “I’ll need to stop for snacks anyway.”

He could see Pen eyeing the drinks holder between them where he’d stashed two chocolate bars and a bag of crisps.

“We have snacks,” she said. 

“That’s first snacks,” he said. “I’ll need second snacks.”

Pen grinned again at his hobbit reference.

“Getting your appetite back?” she asked. “Does that mean you’re feeling better?”

I always feel better with you, Pen, he wanted to say.

“It turns out that like my characters, I too contain multitudes. Now, how about you pick us a playlist.”

***

It had just gone 6 o’clock as they arrived at their destination, a heritage property from the late 1800s that had been converted to a hotel late last century.

“Hmm,” Pen said, as they drove around from the building’s frontage to the carpark behind. “I was expecting something a bit more gothic from the name Manor.” She shot him a smirk, “Or something Georgian, like one of your family mansions.”

He chuckled. “Sorry to disappoint”.

“No,” she said. “It’s still lovely. It’s just it has more an air of somewhere Miss Marple might stay for a murder-vacation than I’d expected.”

“Well, let’s hope for no bodies on the landing,” Colin said, as he pulled into an empty parking space. “I don’t write detective stories for a reason. I’m still not great with blood.”

Pen unbuckled her seatbelt and rolled her shoulders. 

“Really?” she said.

“Yes,” he said, “You might not remember that from when we were kids. But also,” he admitted, “the one time I did try writing something darker, I really didn’t enjoy injuring or killing any of my characters.”

“Oh Colin,” she said, with a look he couldn’t quite decipher. “You really are a big softie.”

By the tone of her voice he supposed that was a compliment. 

There was a small queue at the check in counter. Colin turned to Pen, who was surveying the foyer with her usual analytical gaze. 

“Let’s hope we don’t get stuck in the one bed trope,” he said.

“The what?” she asked. 

“The ‘only one bed’ set-up,” Colin said. “Standard romance fare. Where you have the characters arrive somewhere for a stay, expecting separate rooms, or separate beds, but there’s been a mix up. Instead they get put in the one room, with only one bed.”

“Ah,” she said, “hence the name. And like Sam and Rebecca in Paris.”

“Yes,” he said with a grin. “And the more sexy or romantic you can make that bed look, you know, four poster, or mirrors on the ceiling, or silk sheets,” he quickly went on as she cocked one eyebrow at his mention of a mirror, “plush towels and bed robes laid out, and maybe a hot tub next door, the more awkward and hilarious the characters’ reactions are.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, there’s no concerns on that score. Kate knows we’re not a couple. I rang her to double check.”

“Oh,” he said, then desperately hoped that didn’t come out sounding disappointed. “Great,” he added lamely.

“She actually quite nice,” Pen said. 

“Yes,” he said, unsure why he felt quite so unsettled by the fact Pen had spoken again to the publishing exec and was using her first name. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact Pen had called ahead specifically to confirm there would be no Queen-sized awkwardness this weekend.

“I mean, I didn't only ask her about the beds,” Pen added. “That would’ve been a weird conversation.”

“Welcome to Aldwark Manor Estate,” the concierge said brightly, when it was their turn at the counter. “May I have your name, please?”

“Penelope Featherstone,” Pen said. “We’re convention guests.”

They took a room fob each, not speaking much as they handed their luggage to the hotel porter, and made their way upstairs to their room.

“I don’t know what to expect now,” Pen said. “I think you’ve persuaded me that the one bed thing is going to happen, despite my best endeavours.”

Colin smiled weakly at her. He wasn’t sure what was making him feel worse: the fact that she’d again asked for confirmation from the concierge that their room booking was for two separate travellers, or that somehow, over the last fortnight, his brain had decided that a one-bed scenario with Pen was something he could very much live with. He was still at war with his psyche, which was loudly suggesting it actually longed to see that Queen-sized bed, or even a King, when Pen unlocked their room and swung the door open. 

They both stepped inside and surveyed the room before them. Colin couldn’t help but let out a belly laugh. There in front of them, neatly made up and decorated in the usual elegant hotel style, were three single beds.

Kate Sharma, it turned out, had arranged for the hotel to leave them a bottle of chilled Bollinger and a note. Pen laughed when she read it, a laugh that turned into a small coughing fit. 

“Sorry,” she said, as she handed it to Colin. “I really like her.”

He opened the page, to see the neatly daubed words: “Dear Penelope. Can confirm definitely more than one bed. Now your challenge: is it more awkward to take the beds next to each other, or leave one in between? Completely up to you, obviously. Have a lovely weekend, both of you.”

Chapter Text

Once the porter had brought in their suitcases and he’d taken a quick look at the room (no mirrors on the ceiling, he noted, and no hot tub) Colin sank onto the sofa and eased off his shoes. Being a veteran of hotels little surprised him about checking in these days, although sharing space with Pen was a novelty. Pen had a taken a tour of the facilities, doing a lap of the bathroom, kitchenette and small balcony before peering into each of the wardrobe cupboards. He smiled at her curiosity.

“What should we do tonight?” he asked. At Pen’s raised eyebrows he added quickly, “I mean do you think we should attend the dinner and the keynotes?”

“I don’t know,” Pen said, sitting down beside him with a sigh. “Kate did say they were optional. Might be nice to have a quiet evening in, but the dinner could be entertaining too. Are you tired from the drive?”

He was a little, Colin realised, but it also might be a culmination of the fortnight’s stress settling into his body. He didn’t know how career fraudsters did it - telling lies was exhausting.

“Yeah,” he said. “But equally I could jump in the shower and wake up some if you’d like to join in.”

He suddenly realised how that sounded and blushed. 

“I mean join in the dinner not join me in the shower.” 

Pen continued to watch him silently as he bumbled on. 

“Or you’re welcome to have a shower first if you want one. Not that I’m saying you smell bad or anything. Or that I’m saying you should get naked. I don’t know why I’m talking about being naked, Pen.”

The corners of her mouth were twitching now. 

“Or talking at all. Please put a pillow in my mouth,” he said.

Pen giggled. “Maybe you are too tired for company, Colin.”

“I’ll be fine if you want to eat at the big dinner though,” he said. “Although I don’t know how much we’re supposed to dress up. I really didn’t know how formal these events are but I’ve brought a suit in case it’s fancy.”

She considered him for a moment. Colin couldn’t help noticing that now she’d tugged her hair out of its earlier ponytail her fiery auburn curls were cascading in a very distracting way over one of her shoulders. He wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked. Or what the skin of her milky white shoulder might feel like if he reached out and … Get a grip, Colin, he told himself. You really need to stop thinking about Pen’s naked skin.

“Why don’t I head downstairs and scope out the dining room?” she said.  “Put my spy skills to some use. I can check out how busy it is and maybe figure out how formal a scene it is? Then we’ll know how to dress.”

“Sounds sensible,” he said. 

Do not think about Pen taking that blue sundress off, he thought. 

“You can get naked and shower while I’m gone,” she said. 

Well that wasn’t helping. 

“Okay,” she said, pushing herself out of the couch and towards the door. “If I’m not back in an hour, maybe call Miss Marple.”

***

Colin groaned as the jets of warm water hit his bare skin. He rolled his neck, savouring the way the warmth trickled over the back of his shoulders where he could feel he’d been holding all his tension. Well, not the only place. He glanced down at his dick which was already standing at half-mast waiting for his attention. He started to slowly soap himself up. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to take the edge off tonight.

Or maybe not. He froze at a sudden thought. What if Pen went straight downstairs then came directly back up again? That would barely take her two minutes. He really did not want to be caught in the act. Okay. That visual - imagining Pen’s wide eyed stare at the sight of him naked and panting, palming himself furiously - did nothing to calm his increasingly insistent erection. 

With another groan Colin reached up and quickly shifted the tap setting to full on cold. He squeaked at the shock of it but forced himself to stand still and take the cold medicine. 

A few minutes later he pulled on his briefs and sat down on the side of one of the beds. He really should get dressed properly before Pen came back in. As much as he didn’t want to be found wanking he wasn’t sure it was significantly better if Pen came back to their room to see him waiting patiently in just his underpants. But what was he supposed to put on? The point of Pen’s trip downstairs was to check if he needed to wear his suit or if he could get away with something more casual. He really hadn’t thought this through before undressing.

Colin stood and wrapped the towel back around his waist, tucking the end in firmly. There. That was better. Briefs suitably covered. He caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror through the open door. Oh god! Now Pen would assume he was naked under there! Definitely worse.

Colin unzipped his suitcase and threw it open, rifling desperately through the contents. Surely there was something he could throw on as transitional pants? Something respectable and not at all presumptuous or creepy. With a growing sense of panic he heard Pen’s key fob touch the door and it beeped to allow her entry. He grabbed the closest pair of pants - his striped pyjama shorts, he realised - and yanked them on, discarding the towel in the process.

“Hey Colin,” Pen said casually, dropping her fob on the console table near the door. “You won’t believe what-”

She stopped talking.

“Pyjamas?” she asked. 

Colin turned towards her and gasped in horror. Pen’s lower face and a good portion of her dress bodice were covered in blood. 

“Oh my god!” he yelped. “Pen, what the hell happened?”

Pen stared at him in confusion for a moment.

“Oh,” she said, reaching up to haphazardly swipe at her chin with her forearm, “It’s nothing.”

Colin could feel a lightness in his head and his stomach roiled. It had been 18 months since he’d had an episode and he’d forgotten how violently they came on.

“No, it’s blood,” he gasped.

“Oh, Colin,” she said with sudden realisation. “I’m so sorry. I just had a blood nose. It really is nothing serious at all.”

Colin started to sway on his feet as dizziness hit him. He wondered if his face had turned as green as he felt. 

“I really can’t,” he took a stumbling step backwards and the back of his leg collided with the edge of the bed. He swayed for a moment, somehow unable to take his eyes off Pen even as she began to blur. 

Pen rushed towards him and took him by the shoulders, forcing him to sit then easing him back down on the bed. Her hands were firm yet still soft against his bare skin.

“Lie down before you fall down, Colin,” she said gently, reaching down to help scoop up and then stretch out his bare legs. He felt himself tremble and couldn’t tell if it was due to his dizziness or the warmth of Pen’s palms, first hooked under his knee then on his calf. 

He moaned as she helped him to settle, his head landing with relief on the plump pillow. 

“I’m sorry,” he said thickly. “I just can’t…”

“I know, Col it’s okay,” she said. She was bent over him, her eyes warm with concern. Tendrils of her auburn hair dangled to one side, almost cocooning them together in the space they created.

“No…”

“It’ll be fine.”

Colin shook his head, raising his hand to gesture at her soaked bodice. 

“No, Pen,” he said weakly, “I know you’re trying to help. But you’re so close to me. With the blood…”

Pen drew back from him, finally realising what he was trying to say. 

“Oh,” she said, “of course. You can’t stop swooning while I’m still flaunting the blood in your face.”

Colin grunted. “Not swooning,” he managed.

Pen stood and fiddled with the buttons at the back of her neck. Before Colin realised what she was doing she had slipped out her arms and thrust down the top of her dress, revealing a navy blue bra and skin, so much skin. She kept wriggling, pushing until the dress was pooled at her feet. 

Colin knew he shouldn’t be staring but honestly, this was like some warped version of his fantasies come to life. She was fucking gorgeous. He’d always known her breasts were magnificent and while he’d seen her in a swimsuit before he’d never been this close or seen her this bare. His eyes followed the way her waist gently tapered then flared out to her curvy hips and luscious thighs. Even her belly button was cute, and he suddenly ached to reach out and stroke the soft skin of her stomach. To put a palm on each hip and pull her towards him, down onto the bed, skin against skin. As if not realising stripping in front of him would have any effect on him whatsoever, Pen casually scooped up her soiled dress and wandered into the bathroom.

He could hear the tap running as she presumably attended to the mess on her face, neck and arm. Without any blood in his field of vision, Colin could feel his pulse and breathing calming, and knew from experience his head would soon clear. 

“What happened, Pen?” he called out, his voice already a little stronger. 

Pen took off her dress, his brain helpfully supplied.

“Just a blood nose,” she called back. “Happens occasionally when I’m upset or startled, or sometimes just randomly. Not often, though.”

Colin stared at the ceiling, counting his breaths as his heart rate slowed. The last time this had happened he’d been visiting with a friend in Brighton when one of their children ran into the room with a skinned knee. He hadn’t fully passed out then, only felt his stomach churn and his lightheadedness forced him to rest on the sofa while the injury was dealt with. He didn’t think it had happened near Pen for years. He certainly didn’t remember her getting blood noses as a child either. Perhaps, his mind supplied hopefully, Pen had never been frightened or uncomfortable around him.

With considerable difficulty he tried not to dwell on how supple her skin had looked and the way his chest had constricted as she’d so casually stripped off her dress. He’d always been aware Pen was beautiful - he wasn’t blind - but somehow his mind had managed to compartmentalise, to somehow push down those thoughts to a place where he’d never been fully beholden to his visceral attraction to her. 

Colin heard the tap shutting off, then some rustling. Moments later Pen emerged from the bathroom cocooned in a large white bathrobe. It was so enormous on her the fluffy material threatened to engulf her fully.

Colin frowned. “Where was that robe?” he said.

“Hanging up next to the towels,” she said. “Why?”

She walked towards him and sat on the edge of the bed, her body turned to face him.

“You okay Col?”

She reached out with one hand and pushed back his still-damp hair. His eyes closed involuntarily at the delicious feel of her fingertips brushing across his forehead. He sighed as her fingers continued to stroke his hair and scalp. That truly was heavenly. 

“I really had forgotten that about you and blood,” she said softly. “Now I remember that time you and Daphne got knocked off your bikes when you were about 14. Neither of you were badly hurt but you started throwing up when you saw Daph’s arm was bleeding.”

“Yeah,” he said, not really wanting to open his eyes yet. “I remember. I was really embarrassed.”

“You were?”

“Uh huh. Didn’t seem like the sort of thing a guy should do, Pen.”

“How so?” she said, her voice still so gentle.

“It’s not very manly to swoon,” he mumbled.

Pen chuckled, and he opened his eyes to see her gazing down at him. There was nothing malicious in her laughter, only a kind of soft glee. 

“Why’s that funny?” he said.

Pen hummed. “Just look at you, Colin Bridgerton.”

She flicked her eyes up and down his body. Colin was suddenly quite aware that although he’d pulled on his pyjama pants and felt mentally less undressed than he had earlier, he was still not wearing much in the way of clothing. He held his breath as Pen’s eyes drifted slowly all over his upper body, pausing on his angel tattoo, then back to his face.

“You are a fine specimen of manly manliness,” she said.

Some part of Colin’s mind thought he should play that coolly, but instead he couldn’t help smiling like a dork.

“You think so?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, in that same soft voice that was causing him to shiver slightly. “Especially in these very fine pyjama shorts.  Very manly sleepwear,” she said. 

Colin couldn’t help himself. 

“They’re transitional pants.”

He couldn’t blame Pen for looking baffled. 

“They’re what?”

“Transitional pants,” he repeated. “Didn’t know what we were going to wear down to dinner, but I didn’t want to wait in… uh… an inappropriate state.”

“And the robes?”

“Didn’t see them,” he admitted. 

“Hmmm,” she hummed again. “Well, how about I grab you a robe of your very own and we can order some room service and hunker down here for the rest of the night. Forget schmoozing at dinner. We can work tomorrow.”

He didn’t think he could have said no to anything Pen asked him right then.

“Yes please,” he said.

***

His fluffy robe didn’t quite fit him in the same way Pen’s did (i.e. swallowing her tiny form) but it was warm and comforting. They both sat up in bed, discarded dinner trays and dishes scattered across the mattress on the spare bed on the other side of Pen.

She had, without discussion, chosen the bed right next to his. Doesn’t mean anything, Bridgerton, he’d told himself as she’d settled in place. Stay cool. Of course, he thought, there was plenty of room for improvement in his rizz this evening, with telling Pen she didn’t smell, gawping at her undressing and almost fainting being his high points so far.

Pen had poured them each a glass of the champagne and he’d been sipping it slowly, savouring the moment. Despite his mind’s erotic meanderings, which he couldn’t seem to control today, there was something profoundly relaxing about just hanging out with Pen. It didn’t seem quite real to him that they’d only been reconnecting for the past two weeks. Something within him was responding to her with such a strong magnetic pull that it felt like they had always belonged side by side. 

He had no way of telling if he was alone in this strange feeling of contentment fused with anticipation. Did Pen feel it too? When her fingers had so softly traced his face earlier, did she feel that spark? Were her eyes drawn towards him whenever he entered the same room? And when not, did her thoughts wander to him? Apart from his insistent and growing hunger for her, did she wonder, like he did, what he was doing at odd moments of the day? Did she look forward to seeing him again when they were apart? Had she counted down the days to this weekend, as he had, pretending all the while it was a countdown to the work, not the company?

“I forgot to ask you how busy it was down there, in the dining room,” he said, wrenching his wayward thoughts back to the present. 

“About 80 people, maybe? It was already getting loud.”

“I’m glad we stayed in.”

Pen grinned at him. “Me too. These robes weren’t quite the go down there.”

She pushed her hair back from her forehead, raking her fingers through her long curls. He watched as she separated her hair into sections and began plaiting it into a loose sleeping braid. He remembered how she’d always struggled to control her curls as a kid, suffering from frizz when the days became humid. Then as a teenager she’d learned which products were best suited to her hair type and had grown sleeker. The hair she’d always hated as a sign of difference from her peers became something special. He knew it was how he spotted her in any room, always looking for those tumbling red locks. As he studied her something struck him.

“Pen,” she said, “you didn’t really tell me what happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“The blood nose. You said sometimes it’s random but other times it’s when you’ve had a fright or you’re stressed out.”

“Yes. Although they’re pretty rare. I have to be really spooked for it to happen these days.”

“And?”

She was quiet for a moment and Colin wasn’t sure if she was going to answer.

“I thought I saw someone down there in the crowd. Someone I wasn’t expecting to see. Freaked me out momentarily.” She shrugged, and didn’t seem that concerned. “But I’m pretty sure it wasn’t him.”

Him. Colin’s mind snagged on the word. An ex-boyfriend? He couldn’t think who else would disarm Pen so much at the mere suggestion of their presence. 

“I think it was likely that thing, you know,” she went on, “where you’ve been thinking about someone and then there’s a figure that looks a tiny bit like them, really just the same build and hair colour, and your mind just goes to full projection.”

“Oh,” Colin said.

So she’d been thinking about a guy. Maybe an ex. That was totally fine. Was there a subtle way to ask what kind of build? And what colour hair? What was Pen’s type? He tried to remember the last time he’d seen Pen with a boyfriend. There had been David something-or-other. He couldn’t recall the surname, he hadn’t lasted. He’d been tall and buff with a shock of dirty blond curls to his shoulders. He’d reminded Colin of a surfer type. Did Pen prefer athletic guys? Colin was no slouch in the gym, he liked to keep active and in good shape, but he'd never felt particularly sporty.

He swallowed. “I might go for an early night tonight, if that’s okay with you?”

“Of course,” she said. “Maybe you could pop the rest of the bubbles in the fridge? They’ll still be fine tomorrow if you put the silver cap thing on. We might want another celebration after the book signing is over.”

Pen slipped off her bed and gathered some things from her suitcase before heading to the bathroom. When she returned five minutes later Colin had cleaned up the rest of their drinks. Pen was clad in the same striped pyjama pants she’d been wearing for that first Zoom interview and a soft blue tank top. She turned off their overhead light and clicked on the bedside lamp instead, then slipped under her covers.

Colin lay with the blankets pulled up over his chest, staring at the ceiling. He was struck with the irrational thought that their pyjama patterns were almost a matching set.

“Colin,” she said quietly. “Can we talk for a bit? I think it would help me wind down. Be a bit less anxious about everything tomorrow.”

“Of course,” he echoed her earlier words. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Maybe just something dumb to distract me from the worry.”

Colin’s stomach clenched. He hated that she felt concerned and hated even more that he was the cause of it. He’d been thinking on the drive up that perhaps he should draft his confession email to Kate ready to go. That way he could hit send at any time. It didn’t feel fair that any decision on his second work should hinge on how Pen performed at the panel session tomorrow. After all, he’d really rather the commissioning editors made a call based on the strength of his work. If they thought it had merit, if they thought it would sell, surely that mattered more than the whole public performance side of things? He understood that in the modern world it was really impossible to separate the two: that his persona as an author could help feed a desire for his book, help him engage with readers. But he wanted it to be about the story, not about him. Not about the Colin Bridgerton image that was, ultimately, going to be fake in some way even if it was him there on that panel. He resolved to draft an email in the morning.

“Tell me,” he said, forcing his voice to adopt a lighter tone, “who is the extremely lucky man that Prudence is marrying next weekend?”

Pen laughed. 

“Oh goodness,” she said, “where to even start?” 

Colin could feel himself sinking, his body relaxing into the mattress at the sound of her laughter. The sheets were soft against his bare legs and he flexed his feet, stretching then releasing his toes. 

“How about his name?”

“Harry. Harry Dankworth.”

“Dankworth?”

“Yes.”

“Any relation to the Dank Woods Corner of Dorset fame?”

Pen laughed again. “I don’t know, I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s the name of some woods in Dorset.”

“Okay.”

“They’re between Salisbury and Shaftesbury.” 

“How do you know that, Colin?”

“I honestly don’t know, Pen. I think my brain likes to collect and remember place names.”

“Well, you’ll be the person to know when the apocalypse hits and Google maps is down.”

“What’s he like? Mr Dankwoods of Dorset?”

“Dankworth,” she corrected. “Umm. I’m not sure how to describe him. I’m trying to use polite words.”

“No need on my account.”

“Mum says he’s pretty.”

Colin laughed at that. “Is he?”

“Yes I suppose so.”

“Am I pretty?”

“No,” she said.

“Oh.”

“You have a beautiful face, Colin.”

“Oh,” he said again.

“I don’t think pretty was a compliment. She meant there wasn’t much else going on behind it.”

“Ah.” 

“He’s a very sweet man,” she added. “He’s friendly to everyone and never has a bad thing to say. It’s like he’s just happy to be there, you know? He and Albie, Pip’s husband, get on like a house on fire.” 

“Okay,” he said. “Interesting match for Pru. Is her good to her?”

“He adores her. I think that’s what makes it work for them.”

“That sounds nice.”

It did sound nice. Colin had never cared much for Prudence, the most prickly of Pen’s sisters, who seemed to delight in knowing just where to land her sisterly barbs for maximum impact. Still, there was something comforting about hearing someone else he knew was settling into a match that added something to their lives. Maybe it fed that hope they’d talked about, that love wasn’t always fictional. If even Prickly Pru could find a partner who adored her, surely there was a chance for him too? 

Pen was quiet for a moment, then said, “Also, I don’t think either of them has met a mirror they didn’t love. That probably helps too.”

He let out a bark of laughter. “Pen!”

“He reminds me a bit of Mr Bingley,” she said. “Full of goodness, a bit eager like some kind of bouncing dog breed, but ultimately, not that bright.”

“No one spears a character quite like Jane Austen.”

“She’s still the G.O.A.T.,” Pen said.

Colin rolled over on his side to face her direction.

“Can I ask you something about Austen? Really it’s about Austen adaptations. While we’re having a deep conversation.”

“Of course.”

“You and El both have some very firm opinions on what works and what doesn’t.”

“I suppose so.”

“I mean scarily firm,” he said. “I’ve seen Eloise almost come to blows arguing over some shows. And I remember you were always the same.”

Pen rolled over to face him, propping her head up on her hand.

“I must warn you right now, Colin, if you mention the name Dakota Johnson there will be fisticuffs. She is a lovely woman I’m sure and a fine actor, but how dare they.”

Colin smiled at that. There went his question. He wished he could have seen her reaction to that film.

“Eloise said you didn’t even finish that movie.”

“How very dare they.”

“She said you threw your crisps at the TV. And then her popcorn. The box itself.”

“I wanted to enjoy it. I wanted to like it in an ironic way and be a defender but I couldn’t.”

“How come?”

“My brain started bleeding.”

Colin chuckled. 

“I fucking love Persuasion,” Pen said, rolling onto her back. “Don’t come at me on that one. It’s a beautiful story of regrets and second chances and it not being too late for real love. It is not a whimsical farce where Anne gets jam on her face and gurns at the camera.”

“Do you love it more than Pride and Prejudice?”

“I love it differently. Austen was older and had written more. And it’s kind of sadder, with less snark. But maybe more real.”

“Hmm,” Colin said, shuffling so that he too was on his back. “You love Austenland.”

“Book, movie, and book sequel. All great.”

“You liked Death comes to Pemberley.”

“Both book and mini-series. Different from each other, but good.”

“What about Lost in Austen? I remember you liked the start and hated the ending. Explain that to me.”

Pen was silent for a moment. Colin had a sudden moment of fear that he sounded like a complete creep, remembering Pen’s opinions on too many books and movies. 

“Pen?” he said.

“Amanda, the modern girl, travelled back in time and stayed there. She gave up her whole life for Darcy. I didn’t like that. Jane Austen never asked Lizzie to do that.”

“It wasn’t just a nice character swap? The modern girl for Lizzie?”

“No. That doesn’t work when you throw in modern sensibilities. In the original book Lizzie was winning at life. Lizzie got love and security and a giant estate. Marrying the equivalent of a millionaire. Austen knew she was marrying her up.”

“But it wasn’t the same win for the modern character, Amanda?” 

“No, because she’s from our time Colin. She has the vote. And contraception. Her own money. Penicillin. And a career. And she gives all that up to go and be a wife to Elliot Cowan in a very bad wig. But it’s not about the wife part. She goes back to a time when women were treated as lesser. She chooses to be lesser, for love. That doesn’t seem like a fair trade to me. And the tragedy is she feels like she can’t find a decent man in the modern world who will treat her with the respect she’s craving. I can’t take joy in that as a conclusion.”

“I never thought of it like that,” he admitted.

“Well, no Colin, in that story your family are the aristo landowners. And you’re a man. You could always vote.”

Colin laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “My double privilege is definitely showing. I’ve never heard anyone so passionately defend the value of Penicillin and the Pill, at least in the context of time travelling regency romance and bad wigs. I’m sold.”

“Mind you,” Pen said, “I wouldn’t kick young Colin Firth out of bed.”

“I might,” Colin said.

For a moment Colin worried that had sounded weirdly possessive then decided he didn’t care. When he glanced over at her Pen was staring at the ceiling but her face seemed pensive now.

“Colin,” she said softly.

“Yeah?”

“I like how you listen to me,” she said.

“I like listening to you,” he said.

She was silent for another few moments.

“Colin? I lied to you about something else.”

He kept his head turned so that he could see her face. 

“Oh?” he said.

“I don’t always love my job,” she said softly.

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said about the work itself. I like that part. I like working with the clients to deliver what they want. When you hit the brief just right, and it all comes together, it really feels like I’ve achieved something. Happy client, happy Pen.”

Colin let the silence hang, waiting for her to go on.

“But there’s this guy in the office. One of the older execs. When I first met him he gave off such sleazy vibes it was like a red flag convention.”

“Did I meet him the other night?”

“No,” she said. “He doesn’t come to the big group things. He prefers his target groups…smaller. I would not have gone if I thought he’d be there.”

She paused again and Colin waited for her to speak, remembering the absent colleague some of her work friends had snidely mentioned.

“I’d been there about a week when one of the other women took me aside for a coffee. She warned me, basically, to keep an eye out for him. He has form for bullying the younger staff. Men and women. It sounds like the firm’s worst kept secret because in the first month about four other people warned me too. I heard some of the details, and Colin, it was some messed up shit.”

“I didn't think there would be dinosaurs like him around but it’s like they’ve just evolved to make their methods slightly more sophisticated. He doesn’t shout at people or demean them directly, but he lies and hides information and sabotages your work to make you look bad. This guy cultivates people who think he’s a good bloke; I mean he actively charms people with the sole purpose of them providing him with cover later on for his manipulative shit. And he’s senior so he has more power than any of us on the junior levels. He could get any of us fired at a moment’s notice.”

“And has he…”

“No,” Pen said. “He’s not tried anything with me. But I feel like it’s a ‘yet’. It makes me feel sick to my stomach any time I have to see him in meetings and I’m sure if we ever got put on a project together I really wouldn’t feel safe. There’s no trust with someone that toxic.” 

“That’s… that’s not okay, Pen.”

“I know. But it is literally the only thing I hate about the job and if he wasn’t there it would be like a completely different team. And I hate that feeling of anticipation the most Col. It’s like… like because we’re newer and younger none of us have any power to fight back.”

Colin’s stomach was churning and he felt a kind of impotent, directionless rage that Pen had to deal with this arsehole. And that others clearly allowed it to happen.  

“I’m sorry that’s happening, Pen,” he said eventually. “But thank you for telling me.”

“I don’t need anyone to fix it for me. It feels like it’s just part of life. Dealing with those kind of people.”

“I don’t think it should be.”

“Hmm,” Pen said softly. “Things aren’t always what they should be.”

She turned her head on the pillow to face him, her eyes glowing in the reflection from the table lamp.

“But you should sure as hell stop worrying about whether you’re enough of a man, Colin Bridgerton,” she said. “You are a good man.”

Colin’s chest grew warm at her words. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as Pen reached over to switch off the lamp. They lay in silence for a few beats longer, until Pen’s voice came from the darkness again.

“Also you look fucking hot with those tattoos, Colin.”

He laughed, his whole body warming then. 

“Seriously. Warn a girl when you’re going to be lounging around in pyjamas, topless. If you hadn’t fainted on me I might have needed to run for a cold shower.”

Colin was sure his mouth stretched into the world’s most ridiculous grin.

“I thought we were never supposed to joke about pyjamas?” he said.

“I think you’ll find those were transitional pants, Mr Bridgerton.”

“Goodnight, Pen,” he said.

“Goodnight, Colin. And thank you.”

“Always, Pen.” 

Chapter Text

When Pen woke on Saturday morning the bed beside hers was empty. The early night - and the relaxing conversation with Colin - had helped her nerves and she’d slept soundly, an odd feeling for her first night somewhere away from her own bed. A note lay on top of Colin’s pillow. She wiggled to the edge of her mattress, leaned over and scooped up the paper and lay back down.

‘You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you. Gone for a run. I gathered vittles from the breakfast bar so no need to brave the masses. (Pastries, fruit and OJ in the fridge). Will bring you coffee on the way back. ❤️ C.’

God, he really was considerate. Pen had always thought so. Perhaps that was why his cold reaction to her birthday gift all those years ago had been such an unexpected blow. It was so unlike the Colin she’d thought she knew. Pen wasn’t sure what to make of the fact she’d seen her paper bird yesterday in his flat, resting on the windowsill of his office. Not only had he kept it, he’d displayed it alongside a collection of other precious objects. It would even be visible from his desk while he wrote. She wondered if that meant anything.

Pen stared for longer than she wanted to admit at the small love heart he’d drawn next to his initial.

Love, Colin. Love Colin.

***

After breakfast and the coffees Colin brought back, Pen left him in the room to work on his laptop and then take a shower while she stepped outside for some fresh air. 

The grounds of the estate really were beautiful. The large expanse of golf course did nothing for her, but there were soft lawns for rambling and some picturesque little corners. She snapped some photos for Colin to use later on his socials: the fountain outside the front door, a cute little wooden bridge crossing a small body of water, and a giant outdoor chess set.

She was wondering idly if Colin ever played chess these days (she knew Francesca had taught him when they were children) or maybe if she could persuade him to comically pose for her with some of the pieces later, when she rounded a blind corner and nearly collided with someone walking in the other direction.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Sorry,” she said automatically and then stepped back to look at the man properly. 

He was reasonably tall, clad in a pair of brown slacks and a patched-sleeved vintage cardigan.

Oh god.

It was Alfie. Phillip’s friend. Pen’s heart began to thud. She forced herself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. In, out, in, out. She did not need to freak Colin out with another blood nose.

“Well, hello again,” he said, with a friendly smile, as he also took a step backwards. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said.

Fuck. This was not good. Extremely not good.

“I am still on my ‘Penelope quest’, as you called it.”

Pen forced herself to smile in response.

“And you found me again,” she said.

“Very droll,” he said. 

Alfie was here. At the hotel. At the convention. In York. Alfie, who carried his copy of A Suitcase full of love everywhere he went. Alfie who was chasing an autograph from Penelope Featherstone. Alfie who knew with certainty that she was not Penelope Featherstone.

“I'm here for a writer’s convention. I’ve never been to one of these things before,” he was saying. “I must say, I’m finding it to be a gripping cultural learning experience.”

It was Alfie she thought she had seen across the dining room last night when she’d taken her brief reconnoiter of the hotel, and it had scared her enough to trigger her blood nose. She’d spent ten minutes afterwards telling herself it had been her overactive imagination. How likely was it that the one fan of Colin’s work she had met would have travelled all the way up to Yorkshire? Not very, she’d concluded. But here he was.

Pen blinked, forcing herself to focus on his face and what he was saying.

“Are you?” she said dumbly.

“The literary world in itself is an intriguing place. And the romance genre is a fascinating sub-culture within that world,” he said.

“Uh…yes,” she said.

“You seemed to be critical of my generalisations on the genre when we met,” Alfie said. “But I’ve been learning more.”

Pen wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Or his presence in general.

“Okay,” she said.

“I still don’t understand the appeal,” he said. “The stories all seem rather silly to me. Would rather spend my time with Charles Darwin, to be honest.”

“But here you are,” Pen said. “In Yorkshire. With the writers and fans of their silly stories.”

“Indeed,” he said, “Cress said that Penelope Featherstone has started to post on the socials this week.”

As with their last meeting he used that phrase as though he had no idea what it really meant. 

“And she said she was going to be here at this convention as a last minute inclusion on a panel session. So here I am.”

“Here you are,” Pen said again.

“My manky biro is poised for use to collect that autograph today.”

Part of her brain wanted to ask surely you brought along a new pen? but she restrained herself. 

“Did you…” she could feel herself faltering. “Did you see any of her latest publicity? I’ve been keeping an eye out for her work since we met. There were some articles about her online this week.”

Surely he hadn’t? He would have seen her own photograph alongside the quotes she’d given to the journalists.

“No,” Alfie said. “Cress did. But I’m mostly only online for JSTOR.”

Ordinarily Pen would have asked what the hell that was but she didn’t have the current brain capacity. It almost felt like her mind was hurtling through a dark valley. Only one thought was clear: Alfie’s unexpected presence was going to destroy their charade.

“And I do enjoy the wordle.”

Pen’s brain was definitely short circuiting. There was no way she could walk onto that stage now pretending to be Penelope Featherstone with Alfie in the audience.

“And what are you doing here?”

“Me?” Pen said blankly.

“Yes, you,” Alfie peered at her quizzically. “It’s most peculiar to see you here. I could probably calculate the odds but suffice to say they would be astronomical. Are you attending the convention too?”

“The what?”

Alfie frowned at her.

“The Love Notes convention. Most of the guests here are attending that event. I assumed you were too. Although I suppose there are still some independent travellers here as well. It’s a large enough hotel. I was able to snare a room last minute.”

Pen seized on that opening. 

“Yes,” she said.  “That’s what I am. An independent traveller.”

“Oh!” he said. “This is a singular coincidence then.”

“That’s me,” she said, “I’m 100 per cent singular. As in, single,” she added at his blank look.

“I see,” he said.

That train of thought gave her inspiration. 

“Actually,” she said. “I’m here for a family event. A wedding. My sister Pru is getting married.”

“Oh lovely,” he said. “Why in York?”

“I’m sorry?” Pen said.

“Why is she marrying up here? You’re from London, aren’t you? I assume your sister lives there as well?”

“Um.. yes,” said Pen, thinking quickly. “Her fiancé, Harry, is from the area. From…”

She tried desperately to think of the name of a town in Yorkshire. Where was Colin, with his freakish knowledge of local geography, when she needed him?

“Bramham cum Oglethorpe,” she blurted.

Alfie stared at her.

“It’s near Leeds,” she said. 

Good work, Pen, she thought. Why didn’t you just say Leeds? For that matter, she could have said Harry was from York itself. Unfortunately, her head was still pounding from the shock of seeing Alfie and she’d clearly abandoned all good judgement somewhere back on the M1.

“So I’m here as part of the wedding party,” she said.

“Always the bridesmaid, eh?” Alfie said with a chuckle.

“What?”

“You said you were single. And your sister is marrying.”

“Yes,” she said, inexplicably feeling her hackles start to rise at that.

“I thought that was one of those things ladies say,” he said. “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”

Good lord. Even when he was apparently trying to be friendly Alfie had to be one of the most awkward conversationalists she’d ever met. The thought was enough to momentarily distract her from her panic.

“Has anyone told you,” she said, “that you have a peculiar habit of saying things about ladies like we’re another species?”

“No,” he said, “Do I?”

“Yes,” she said.

“No one’s ever mentioned it before,” he said. “Maybe it’s just you.”

“What about me?” Pen said.

“Maybe you are hearing me incorrectly. Or perhaps you are a perennial debating student, always on the search for an opponent.”

Pen wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult. She weighed the words. It didn’t feel flattering.

“You think I’m argumentative?”

“You did quiz me rather intently on the logic of my autograph hunting when last we met,” he said.

“Yes, because it’s bonkers to do it that way,” she said. “Waiting to meet people called Penelope and then asking them follow ups, like the tardiest census collector on record.”

Alfie definitely looked vexed at that.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“Honestly, Alfie, you know the book cover says it’s published by Danbury Publishing. Did you even call their offices to see if the author had a fan address you could write to?”

“I…” he trailed off.

“I mean a postal address not email. That’s an old-school enough approach for you, surely. Or you could send their office a telegram to enquire.”

“I think perhaps I meant fencing, not debating,” he said. “You are rather sharp, Ms Featherington.”

“Better pointy than dull,” she said, unthinkingly. 

Alfie glowered at her, his face now sullen.

“I do hope for Harry from Bramham cum Oglethorpe’s sake your sister is less of a shrew,” he said tartly. 

Pen glared back at him. “Excuse me?”

“I think you heard me perfectly well. It’s certainly no surprise to me that you are unmarried and un-partnered.” He gave her another black look. “Do enjoy the wedding.”

He stalked away, leaving Penelope alone and fuming.

***

Pen was sure she’d muttered under her breath the entire way back to their room. She slammed the door, causing Colin, who was dressed in his robe and laying out outfits onto the beds, to jolt with alarm.

“Bad walk?” he asked. 

“Houston, we have a problem,” she said, dropping her fob unnecessarily loudly on the table by the door.

“Is it worse than my problem of which henley goes the best with these tan pants?” he asked, holding up two different tops for her.

“Yes,” she said. She paused and glanced quickly at what he was holding. “Wear the dark blue,” she added. “It really brings out your eye colour.”

It may have been a trick of the light but Colin almost seemed to blush at that. 

“Does it?”

Colin had been quite skittish since she’d arrived at his flat yesterday and she could only assume he’d worked up even more nervous energy about the event later today. 

“You look good in everything, Col. That is not our problem. Do you remember the guy from the bar at Eloise’s birthday party? Phillip’s friend? The one who has a girlfriend who likes your book?”

“Alfonso?” he said.

“No, his name is Alfred. Alfie.”

Colin frowned, looking confused. 

“Why were you calling him Alfonso then?”

“I think I was being a shrew,” she said. 

“A shrew?”

“Apparently that’s a thing I do.”

Pen crossed the room and threw herself face down on the empty bed. 

“This is a disaster,” she mumbled. 

“I can’t really hear you with your face all mushy in the mattress, Pen,” Colin said.

She turned her head slightly.

“He’s here for the convention,” she said. “Love Notes. In what has to be the worst coincidence of my tragic young life. He’ll be at the panel event and the book signing. Probably front of the queue. He knows I’m not Penelope Featherstone, remember? At the bar he showed me your book and we talked about how my name was similar. But I clearly hadn’t heard of the book and told him I wasn’t a writer.”

“Oh.”

She lay silently for a moment longer.

“Also I mocked him and he really doesn’t like me, which is beside the point but also likely unhelpful.”

Colin sat gently on the bed beside her, dropping his shirts onto the other bed.

“You mocked him at Eloise’s party?”

“Yes,” she said. “And also maybe downstairs in the garden just now.”

“Okay.”

She could feel Colin’s steady presence beside her. He didn’t speak again but the sound of his breathing was somehow comforting. 

“He was the man I thought I saw last night across the dining room,” she said. “When I got the blood nose. I was so shocked. I told myself, don’t be ridiculous Pen, he couldn’t be here. But he is.”

Colin rested one warm hand on her left shoulder. 

“That’s who you thought you saw?” he said softly. “I thought maybe…”

Something caught in his voice. She shifted slightly so she could see him. 

“Maybe what?”

“Never mind. Doesn’t matter.” 

“Who did you think I’d seen?”

He let his hand drop from her shoulder. Pen studied his profile as he plucked some fluff off his robe.

“I don’t know, Pen. Maybe you have a network of enemies around the country.”

“Not that I know of,” she sniffed, “just this one nemesis.”

Colin laughed softly. 

“Ex-boyfriend,” he said. “I thought you’d seen an ex-boyfriend.”

Oh. 

“No,” she said. 

“Pen, while you were out I’ve drafted the email to Ms Sharma explaining everything. Bernie’s initial blunder, me making it worse, reinforcing the lie by asking you to appear as me. I can send it any time. I could send it now.”

“But your book deal, Colin…”

“Might be off the table, might be fine,” he said.

“I was hoping we could do this afternoon, get through the panel at least then come clean,” she said. 

“Hmm,” he said, “and did Alfonso by any chance call you a shrew?”

“Yes,” she said shortly.

“And you know you’re not?”

She felt her irritation flare again.

“I really don’t want to let that… that… cardigan-wearing pen-chewing knob-hobbit ruin everything.”

Colin laughed again. Despite her misery, Pen felt a warmth in her belly at the sound. She could feel the vibrations in his body next to her.

“If anything, you’re more like a cute little hedgehog.”

Pen laughed. “Colin.”

“People think shrews are like mice but they’re not,” he said. “They’re not even rodents. They’re more closely related to hedgehogs and moles.”

Pen rolled over onto her back, gazing up at him.

“I am very glad you think I’m not a rodent. Or a mole.”

“Should I ask what a knob-hobbit is?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, “I just liked the way it sounded in my mouth.”

She liked the way it felt to be here with Colin too. Even as her plans for day were unravelling she felt a sense of rightness at being beside him. Like they could face anything together. 

Stop that, Featherington, she told herself sternly. You are not together. A few extra hang outs and a light scattering of flirting does not a relationship make. 

She had no idea how Colin even felt about her. They were definitely friends again. Years ago he’d clearly not been interested in her sexually. There was no real indication that had changed. There had been a time when she was younger she was so sure she’d loved Colin that she would have built her own wings and flown towards the sun if he’d asked her to. She would have let the wax joints melt and plummet, splintering herself on the ground for him. But she had let that go - she had to let it go because it wasn’t a healthy kind of love. It wasn’t healthy to want somebody so badly and be so alone in her wanting.  Hopeless yearning was all very well for romance novels but in the real world it was painful and desolate. It was the kind of love that took and took from her but never nurtured in return. She couldn’t bear to see her own light dwindle away while she became a husk of Penelope, wasting all her hope on someone who never saw her there.

Still, something tugged at her heart at the way he was looking down at her now with warmth and care on his face. At the way his presence reassured her. At the way he always listened. At his Colin-ness. Their friendship at least was not one-sided.

He touched her arm again lightly.

“Pen, it really is okay if we stop, you know.”

“I don’t want to stop,” she said softly, feeling the truth of it. “I like helping you.”

A thought hit her like lightening and she sat up rapidly, slapping one hand down on the mattress.

“Colin!” she said, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Colin was staring at her impassively. 

“I highly doubt it, given the slightly alarming gleam in your eye right now.”

“Do you think we could make sure Alfie isn’t in the conference room later?”

Now Colin’s forehead rumpled with alarm.

“What?”

“I’m not suggesting we take him out with a sniper.”

“Thank goodness. I’m a terrible shot.”

Pen’s mind was racing again. She was starting to feel like she did at work when they’d start firing in a brain-storming session. Like she could make things happen; she could create possibilities that would become real out of mere thoughts and words.

“But some kind of trick might not be out of the question. Maybe I could steal a key and lock him in his room.”

Colin shook his head, more in disbelief than disagreement.

“You’re not serious?”

Pen wondered if she was. How bad a moral infraction would it be to keep Alfie away from the session for the afternoon? She briefly imagined trying to flirt with the desk clerk like she was some minx in an Agatha Christie novel while Colin snuck behind the desk and swiped the key, then sighed. No, that really was ridiculous. Despite her amazing natural cleavage she’d always been pretty woeful at coquetry. They might have more luck if Colin did the flirting.

“I suppose it’s out of the question to slip laxatives into his morning tea so he has to stay in the bathroom all afternoon.”

“I’m glad I’m not your nemesis, Pen.”

She pursed her lips ruefully.

“Alas I am not much of a real threat, beyond being argumentative, apparently. If only I could go through with something that wild. Would solve our problem.”

Colin was silent, eying her.  Pen wondered if she’d finally gone too far; if she’d pushed their banter to a point where Colin would pull back and away from her. Younger Pen would never have been so bold, would never have let herself be too sharp around Colin for fear he would hate her jagged edges.

The edge of his lips twitched, then he said, “I could shove him down the staircase.”

Pen felt her stomach do a little flip.

“We could super glue his hands to the bannister,” she said.

“I could hide all his clothes and then bribe a waiter to spill soup over him at lunch,” he said.

“Literal ants in his pants.”

“You could lure him down to the car park and then I could gently bump his head and lock him in a car boot.”

She laughed. “Tabasco sauce in his eyes.”

“Slice a finger off so he’d need to go to hospital. Just the tip of the smallest one, the pinky. Not an important one he might need for gaming or anything.”

Pen giggled again. Nobody matched her beat for beat quite like Colin.

“And you say you can’t write darkness. Colin Bridgerton, you are a menace.”

Colin reached out to take her hand. He threaded his fingers through hers and held them, palms together. This time Pen couldn’t deny the instant butterflies in her stomach, how her heart leapt and her cunt throbbed, and all those other cliches she didn’t know how romance writers found sensible ways to describe.

“I think I should go downstairs again and find Kate,” she said, although her body was screaming at her that moving away from Colin was most definitely not what it wanted right now. 

She wanted to lean up and forwards and kiss those perfect pouty lips. She wanted to slip her fingers under his robe and explore his bare skin with her fingertips; to follow that trail of chest hair she could see poking out from the neckline of the fabric. She wanted to circle around his pecs and down his taut abdomen and kiss the spot where he had tattooed wings. She wanted Colin. She could smell his cologne again and felt a pang of need. How was it fair that this man was so fucking gorgeous with his sharp jaw and his well-defined hard muscles and was also sweet and kind and soft, like she’d always adored? She sighed. Being distracted by Colin, rekindling this craving for him, was not the plan.

Colin was staring down at where their fingers were intertwined. 

“Colin?” she prompted gently. 

He looked up at her and nodded.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay.”

Neither of them moved. It felt as if they were suspended in time, like slow moving goo, like honey slowly dripping from a spoon.

“We were just kids weren’t we, Pen? Before, I mean.”

Pen flexed her fingers in his.

“Before we were adults?”

His eyes were flickering over her face, something intent and probing in his gaze.

“When we were friends. Before we… before I stuffed it up.”

“Before we stuffed it up,” she corrected. “And yes, we were really just kids.”

“I’m sorry that I hurt you,” he said. “I'm sorry I made assumptions instead of, I don’t know, trying harder to reach you. We could have talked it out years ago.”

It felt like the honey was trickling inside her now. Sliding into all of the empty spaces and warming her up from the inside out.

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you reach me,” she said. “And I guess I made assumptions too.”

“I’ve really liked you helping me, too, these past weeks. Pen… I… you…”

His voice was soft as bird feathers. He seemed almost to be glitching somehow, as if he was trying to say something he couldn’t quite force out. Pen cleared her throat and pulled her hand free. 

“They’re setting up in the conference room. I’m going to see if Kate’s there. Let me test the waters. See if there’s time for us to talk to her properly and pull out of this thing, yeah?”

Colin nodded at her. 

“I’ll get dressed. In the dark blue that brings out my eyes.”

Pen held his gaze for longer than she probably should have.

“Your eyes are remarkable,” she said. 

“Are they?” he said. 

She could see him swallow then, his Adam's apple bobbing in way she found unfairly sexy. Of course, everything about Colin was sexy so it didn’t seem far fetched that she might develop a bonus obsession with his neck. She was momentarily distracted by a vision of running the tip of her tongue up the side of it, stopping at the place it met his jaw and sucking at the skin there. 

“Yeah,” she said. “But don’t go getting a big head about it. You know we Featherington women have a weakness for pretty boys.”

“You said I wasn’t pretty.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“No need to fish for compliments. I’d say I’ve flattered you enough for one weekend, Mr manly good-man good-listener hot-topless-and-tattooed Bridgerton.”

This time Pen was sure it wasn’t her imagination that Colin was blushing, or that his eyes followed her the entire time as she readied herself and left their room.  

***

Kate was, as it turned out, extremely easy to find. She was in the conference room co-ordinating the final instructions to the venue’s IT support manager when Pen walked in.

“Ah, Penelope,” she said, waving the man away, and greeting Pen with a smile. “How are you finding York?”

“It’s been… uh… pleasant so far.”

Pen wasn’t really sure how to describe the trip, except to say: lovely drive up with the man I seem to be falling in love with (again), terrible blood nose, nice room service, moments of vulnerability with the same man, lovely breakfast away from the crowds, feeling crazy horny, oh, and a run in with a snarky ecologist who may well ruin my life.

Possibly more detail than Kate needed.

“I’m glad you came in early. We thought we might run a pre-panel chat for the authors to warm up. We have another chap in who’s also having his first time.”

“Sounds great,” Pen said.

“And how is your friend?”

“Hmm?”

“Mr Bridgerton. The non-obnoxious one. Did he come with you?”

Pen cursed her pale skin as she flushed involuntarily. For some reason she now felt fully wired for any possible innuendo.

“He is… also here,” she said.

“Lovely,” Kate said with a smile. “I looked him up, you know.”

“You did?”

She must have looked startled because Kate laughed.

“I didn’t mean on some secret spy database. I was curious what he did for a job and googled him. I found his travel writings.”

“Oh,” Pen said. “Of course. Yes, he’s been a writer for some time.”

At Kate’s direct stare she added, “I mean, he is also a writer. Just like me. We’re both writers.”

“I see,” Kate said.

Pen took a deep breath, supposing this was her ideal moment to come clean.

“And about that…” she started to say, at the same moment Kate said, “I’m glad you’re here…”

“Sorry,” Pen said, flustered, “please go on.”

“I’m glad I have a moment to talk with you alone before the show kicks off.”

“Oh?” Pen said again. She had to wonder if Kate was starting to think that for a writer, she was somewhat lacking in vocabulary.

“I was checking my diary schedule for the coming week and there’s a meeting in there I’d forgotten was approaching. The firm is pulling together our ideas for some streaming pitches.”

Pen had a fair idea what that meant from her own workplace but wasn’t sure why that would be relevant for her as Penelope Featherstone.

“Okay,” she said.

“We’re having an internal conversation about some of the IP on our books at the moment; shortlisting those that we might want to take forward for a conversation about shopping their rights around.”

“Shopping their rights,” Pen repeated.

“Yes, well it’s early days, but it’s the start of the process where some of our literary works end up being picked up by other content creators. Netflix, Paramount, Disney.”

“Netflix?” Pen said numbly.

“Yes.”

“You mean, some of your books end up being Netflix shows?”

“Yes. We’re thinking about pitching some work from our newer authors this round. I only mention it today because I know you were thinking about changing representation, and it’s normally something we would of course be doing with your agent’s awareness and cooperation.”

“Oh,” said Pen. 

“I don’t want to bring Bernie into a discussion about auctioning off your rights if you’re about to fire him.”

“Oh,” Pen said again. Fire Bernie? That was a thing they could do?

Kate shot Pen another of her extremely perceptive looks.

“Is something wrong, Penelope? Only you seem quite jumpy this morning. Is it the panel? Are you nervous?”

“I am nervous,” Pen admitted.

Part of her brain was prodding her, saying, Tell her now. Tell her you can’t go on. Tell her it’s Colin’s work.

The other, less helpful, part of her brain was whirring like a Catherine wheel at the phrase Netflix adaption. Could Colin’s book really be picked up as a tv show?

Tell her, sensible Pen urged.

Netflix adaption? devil Pen whispered. 

You can’t keep lying forever.

Netflix.

That’s not even a guaranteed thing! sensible Pen thought.

No, but… Netflix!

“I am nervous about the session,” she said, “but it isn’t about the public speaking itself. I’m fine with that.”

“What then?”

Later, Pen couldn’t explain what had overtaken her good sense. It was as if the part of her mind that thought saying Bramham cum Oglethorpe was a good idea had taken steroids and staged a mental coup.

“There’s a man,” she blurted. “Here at the convention. I saw him in the gardens this morning. And I’m a little freaked out that he’s going to be in the audience for my session. I don’t think I can go on.”

Kate frowned. 

“What man?” she said.

“His name is Alfred,” Pen said. “And I know him because… because…”

Kate leaned forward and gently touched one of Pen’s elbows.

“Penelope,” she said. “You look like you’re about to be ill. Is this man a danger to you?”

Pen shook her head. 

“No,” she said. “I don’t mean he’s dangerous. He’s really not. I just mean I’m nervous about his being here and it’s for reasons that are really quite difficult to explain.”

“Is he an ex-boyfriend of yours?” Kate said.

Say no, her mind said. No. Not at all. Nothing like that.

“Yes,” she said.

Kate’s eyes widened and her mouth tightened.

“Is he stalking you?”

“No!” Pen said quickly. “It’s nothing that serious. I’m quite sure he means me no harm. I shouldn’t like to imply as much… only…”

She flailed for a moment, wondering how to make this white lie work without having someone arrest Alfie for breaking a non-existing restraining order, or somehow smearing his reputation.

“Only that last time we spoke, the last two times actually, the conversations didn’t go well.”

That at least was quite factually correct.

“And I know he’s here because Penelope Featherstone is on the program. He told me so this morning.”

Also quite literally true.

“He carries the book around with him all the time, because he wants it signed.”

Kate blinked at that one. “He wants you to sign his novel? Your novel?”

How to deflect that question?

“He’s here for the panel session. I’m sure he’ll be around for the book signing afterwards. He’s staying at the hotel. And he has a special biro ready.  Well, it’s not fancy special. Actually he chews on the end of it. It’s quite disgusting really.”

Some freakish part of Pen’s brain was actually applauding her for managing to lie to Kate while for the most part telling her truths.

“It’s not stalking,” she said. “I want to be clear. I know that’s a serious thing for people to deal with. And I really don’t want to get him into any trouble. I just don’t think I can go ahead with the panel session knowing that he’s going to be in the audience.”

Kate’s mouth had tightened into a grim expression.

“So you see,” Pen went on, “it was very kind of you to ask me to attend this event and I’ve been really grateful for the opportunity of exposure, but I think you can understand when I say that I’ll have to withdraw myself from the session. And also the book signing.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Kate said firmly. “Do you have a photo of him?”

Wait, what?

“I… um… of course,” said Pen.

No need for Kate to know she had googled Alfie’s faculty staff listing to jog Colin’s memory earlier. 

“I will have a word with hotel security, Penelope. This man will not be let into the room for your session.”

Oh God. What had she done? 

Kate gave her what she no doubt thought was a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry Penelope. I do not stand for a man, any man, making a woman uncomfortable on my watch. I will deal with this.”

“Um… thank you,” Pen said faintly.

Exactly how the hell was she going to explain this to Colin?

“The show will go on,” said Kate.

Penelope gulped and tried to smile. 

“Excellent,” she said. “I’ll be ready. For the show.”

Chapter Text

Perhaps it was a strange thing for a romance writer to admit but Colin Bridgerton wasn’t sure he had ever been in love. He’d had girlfriends and relationships, one of which had even lasted for almost a year. There had been affection and attraction, sure, but had there ever been love?

The very fact that he wasn’t certain had always bothered him. He wondered if perhaps his romantic tendencies meant that he had set his expectations too high. He was waiting for a moment of epiphany, an earthquake, a heart-rending certainty that had never materialised. Perhaps that was why he poured so much of his energy into his stories. Perhaps that was why, when he sat down to start writing fiction in the mid summer of 2020 his characters immediately told him, without equivocation, that their story would be a romance. If Colin Bridgerton couldn’t have an earth-shattering love story Rebecca and Sam certainly could.

When he and Pen had started to message each other after Eloise’s party that was one of the first questions she had asked him. Why romance? He’d given her a reply that was not really an answer. It wasn’t a lie, as such, but perhaps only a part of the truth. He loved stories of connection. He’d said something similar to her in the car on their way up to York. Now he was starting to wonder if her comment to him just prior to her Guardian interview wasn’t closer to the truth. She had joked that perhaps she was starting to understand why people read romances, looking for something they can’t have. His optimistic self had pushed back with, “Can’t have, or don’t have yet?” Was he really asking himself the same question?

All of which is to say that Colin shouldn’t have been surprised that his brain was primed for some kind of epiphany that weekend. Even had he been aware, he certainly wouldn’t have expected it to come at 10:47 in the morning as he was bounding down the grand staircase of the Aldwark Manor Hotel. He was looking forward to seeing Pen although she’d only been gone ten minutes. Perhaps that in itself should have offered a clue.

As he descended the stairs he was thinking about their earlier conversation. Pen’s face had been scrunched with anxiety about Alfie until she’d abruptly sat up, animated. He remembered how his heart had squeezed as her eyes had lit up, saying all they needed to do was keep Alfie out of the room. While he knew she was joking there was something so charismatic about Pen playing with words and ideas, when she was almost glowing from within.

He’d been remembering the moment he joined in with a suggestion, and Pen’s brilliant smile in response, when he randomly thought I love Pen’s smile. I love bantering with Pen. Only his mind didn’t stop there. It kept on opining, with I love hanging out with Pen. I love how Pen makes me feel. I love Pen.

Colin nearly tumbled down the rest of the stairs. Wait, what? Two weeks of being back in Pen’s company and he what now? He was still in this dazed state when Pen stepped out of a corridor and saw him, beckoning him over.

“I think I may have made things worse,” she hissed at him quietly, as she tugged his arm to draw him around the corner into a more secluded nook of the foyer.

“What?” Colin said, distracted by the electricity that was shooting up his arm from where she was touching him.

He was asking his brain the very same question at that moment.

“I talked to Kate, and I may have told her a list of things which were technically true, only wrapped inside of one teeny tiny lie. I thought it would get me off that panel, Colin, and buy a bit more time for us to tell her the truth. But actually she’s going to keep Alfie out of the room instead so I think we’re okay for now.”

Colin stared at her, his mind jumbled.

“I don’t understand. So it’s both okay and worse? What happened?”

“The conversation really did take an unexpected detour,” Pen said. “Much like a trip to Leeds via Bramham cum Oglethorpe, one might say.”

“What?”

Colin was truly lost now. His mind was reeling with an emotional revelation he hadn’t even had minutes to process, and here was Pen (looking, he had to say, unfairly attractive in a mid length blue-green dress that suited her complexion perfectly) making absolutely no sense at all.

“I only have a minute, Col,” she said. “Kate is getting us to do a quick practice before the panel starts properly.”

“Just give me the Cliffs notes,” he said.

“She still thinks I’m the author. And she’s asked security not to let Alfie in the room,” Pen said quickly.

“What!” Colin said again. “Security? What did you do, Pen?”

“I think I had a brain fade moment, Colin. You know, when your mouth keeps on moving but your mind has switched onto standby mode?”

Unfortunately Colin did know what she meant. He was feeling very much in that state at the moment. Except instead of being set to quiet his mind was galloping. And not in an amusing horse pun way but more like an unhelpful I love you I love you I love you way that threatened to shut down his synapses altogether. 

“Look,” Pen was saying, “I’m going to cross my fingers and hope for the best. We can still talk to Kate afterwards. It’s not like we can do any more damage in two hours.”

“More damage?” Colin heard himself say faintly.

Before he had any time to process that Pen had stepped closer to him.

“Wish me luck?” she said.

Colin thought she might be leaning in for a hug. He meant to move to return it. Instead he found himself almost reflexively bending his neck so that he could kiss her cheek. His lips grazed her skin for just a moment. But in that moment it was as if his panicked mind and time itself had gone still. He was aware of the warmth of his lips and the soft pliability of her pale skin. The tip of his nose nudged her cheek and he could smell her shampoo and some other scent he realised reminded him of her. Their faces were so close that they could both turn a scant few inches and their lips would meet. He realised that he ached to kiss her. He really, truly wanted to kiss Penelope Featherington. It was probably the first time he had, with complete honestly, listened to that voice inside. The one that was seeking connection, her connection, and seemed to recognise something in her spirit that was kindred.

The spell broke as he pulled his lips fully from her cheek although Colin was fairly sure he was still gaping at her with a dazed expression.

“Umm… good luck,” he said.

Pen’s cheeks were slightly flushed but aside from that she didn’t seem too affected by his kiss.

“I mean,” she said, “what could possibly go wrong?”

***

Everything, apparently, could go wrong.

Well, Colin supposed, that was probably overly dramatic. It was only one specific thing that was wrong. But it was wrong enough to distract him from mulling on his staircase epiphany. And that one thing - the voices quarrelling in the corridor outside the conference room - were growing loud enough to be heard even over the speakers’ microphones. Only fifteen minutes into the session, it was becoming progressively more difficult for the panel host to ignore them.

It was the very first completely audible sentence that really kicked off the drama. Unfortunately for all the authors on the stage what that voice had to say was more intriguing than any of their own answers.

“I am NOT having an affair with that shrewish woman!” it boomed.

The host, who was mid-sentence, paused and with great aplomb swivelled in her armchair back to the larger couch, and more specifically to Pen, whose turn it was to speak.

“Would you say that your characters…”

Whatever she was going to ask was obscured by a reply from the corridor.

“You are lying! You are a deceitful duplicitous two-faced troll!”

Colin had to admire the woman’s alliterative skill, even if it did interrupt proceedings.

The host cleared her throat and continued to smile placidly at the three authors who shared her stage.

“Would you say that your…” she tried again, only to be shouted over.

“I don’t know what would make you think that I would be even SLIGHTLY interested in her! Since when do I like redheads?”

“Why are we here then? Why are we even at this damn convention?” the woman yelled back.

Even from his seat in the third row Colin could see that Pen was turning pale. While he had no clue what was going on both the expression on her face and the fact that the first shouter had used the words ‘shrewish’ and ‘redheads’ suggested she might know.

“You characters are often very…” the host tried valiantly again.

“We are HERE,” the man shouted, “because of your bloody OBSESSION with Penelope Featherstone.”

The host stopped trying to interrupt and stared openly at Pen, as did the other two authors on the couch. Pen looked a little ill.

“MY obsession,” the woman scoffed. “Forgive me for wanting something a little more romantic in my life. But YOU are the one who carries her damn novel everywhere you go. Don’t think I don’t know that you’ve been scheming to try to meet with her for MONTHS now.”

“I’m trying to get YOU an autograph. I don’t even like these nonsensical romance books.”

Colin could see that Pen was looking to both sides, clearly judging if there was a quicker side of the stage from which she could exit.

“HA!” the woman snorted. “All this time it’s really been about you having a THING with that woman in there and not having the BALLS to tell me she was your ex-girlfriend.”

It was quite clear to Colin by now that one half of the argumentative couple in the corridor was Alfie and the other was his girlfriend. But why was she so angry? And why was she saying Pen was Alfie’s ex-girlfriend? Pen was looking over at him, her face stricken. The audience had started to murmur amongst themselves. Colin watched Ms Sharma stand from her seat in the front row, along with an older woman with shortly cropped hair in a sharp red pantsuit, and both made their way towards the closed door.

“She is NOT my ex-girlfriend,” the man boomed.

“Then why did they throw you out of the room saying that you were? I’ve never even been frisked by security IN MY LIFE. And I used to shoplift all the time as a teenager.”

Colin stood and sidled his way to the end of his row, intending to follow the two women, when the male voice came again, as loud as a clanging bell.

“I have no idea what’s happening today but THAT WOMAN IS NOT PENELOPE FEATHERSTONE!”

The audience gasped. Both women stopped walking. Colin saw Ms Sharma’s head swivel towards the stage. Pen seemed to be shrinking down on the sofa. Colin took a moment to glance around the room where the audience was now fully abuzz. His eye caught on a familiar trio sitting only a few rows back and he stiffened. The girl at the edge of the group looked over and saw him watching. She waved at him happily.

“Hi Colin!” she shout-whispered. “This is much more megadrama than I expected! It’s brilliant!”

It was his youngest sister, Hyacinth, who was sitting alongside Pen’s younger sister Felicity, who was also beaming at him, and Anthony, who decidedly was not.

“Oh god,” he muttered.

Clearly the girls had seen on his author account that Penelope Featherstone would be appearing this weekend, and they had presumably badgered Anthony into driving them up to York. Felicity, he assumed, was here with the intention of surprising and supporting her sister in her writing career. Hyacinth was always up for any kind of mischief and wouldn’t have needed much motivation to tag along. Anthony looked like he was ready to stab someone.

“He’s right. I’m not Penelope Featherstone.”

The voice came from the stage. Colin turned to see that Pen had stood and was glancing between the panel host and Kate Sharma. Ms Sharma’s eyes narrowed as she quickly pivoted from Pen to look at him. The lady standing beside Kate, who was holding herself aloft with the posture of a general, raised one lone eyebrow. 

“I’m sorry,” Pen said. “My name is really Penelope Featherington.”

There was dead silence for only a moment.

“But that’s almost exactly the same,” came a random woman’s voice from the audience.

A jet of thick red blood spurted from Pen’s nose, the crowd gasped as one, and Colin fainted.

***

Fifteen minutes later, as they’d arranged, Colin stepped into a smaller meeting room down the corridor from the Aldwark’s main conference venue. Pen had used the time to clean herself up and change her clothes (again) while she filled in Felicity and Hyacinth, who were now off doing vox pops around the hotel. Colin had quickly come to and had sat alone on the hotel’s front porch, letting the fresh air revive him, away from the curious audience who had been hurried on to the buffet lunch, still buzzing like bees at the unexpected drama. He’d hoped for some calm too but not surprisingly his mind still scuttled. This was it. This was the moment Ms Sharma would cancel his contract. She would dress him down, scold him, and possibly also truss him up and set him to roasting over one of the manor’s large heritage-listed open fireplaces.

Pen stood beside Ms Sharma and the lady in the red suit. All three turned towards him. Given their silence, it appeared as though they had been waiting for him to arrive before the demanding explanations and charcoaling Colin portion of the day began.

“Colin! Are you okay?” Pen asked, as he approached the trio. She seemed about to reach out to touch his face but quickly withdrew her hand. He scanned her face carefully to check if she was well.

“I’m fine,” he said, although he was, at least internally, far from fine. He felt like he’d been tumbled down a hill like a giant wheel of cheese.

“Lucky I didn’t hit my head on anything. Pen, I really wish you’d told me more about what you’d done about Alfonso,” he said.

Kate’s voice was as sharp as her gaze as she glanced between them.

“Who is Alfonso?”

“Alfred,” Pen said. “He means Alfie. My… not-ex-boyfriend. And I’m sorry Colin. Like I said earlier, my brain really did freeze up for a moment this morning.”

“For a moment?” Kate said, one eyebrow raised.

Colin couldn’t help but agree. On both their accounts.

“In my defence,” Pen said, “compared with the rest of my ludicrous ideas telling Kate an ex was here was much more in the ethical light grey zone, more white than black I would say. No jail time. No super glue. I had no idea Cressida, his girlfriend, was here in York too. And I really did think Kate would let me off the panel if I said I was trying to avoid him.”

“I would have let you off the panel if you’d just told me you wanted to be let off the panel,” Kate said.

Colin was puzzled to see that she appeared rather placid. He’d expected a volcano. Or at least a small geyser.

“I can see that now,” Pen said.

The lady in red spoke, her voice rich with authority.

“I rather think it’s time we all had a frank discussion.”

Colin looked at her curiously. “Do you also work at Danbury Publishing?” he said.

She regarded him much like an elephant would a gnat; not cruelly per se, more with the knowledge she could effortlessly swat him.

“My dear boy, I am Danbury Publishing,” she said.

Kate cleared her throat.

“This is Agatha Danbury, founder and CEO of Danbury Publishing,” she said. “Agatha, may I introduce Mr Colin Bridgerton, the young man we were discussing earlier today and…”

She looked sideways at Pen before continuing.

“I believe this is Penelope Featherington. At least for this afternoon.”

Ms Danbury nodded her head to them both.

“I am Penelope Featherington,” Pen said, her face flushing. “That is my real name. And there’s been a terrible misunderstanding. Well… a mistake, or a… a lie, I suppose.”

Colin’s chest ached at her nervous words. This was his fault, not hers. The whole debacle had started with his request for a favour. Pen was an angel for ever having agreed to help him. Before he could say anything, however, the door swung open and Anthony Bridgerton strode in. He walked up to the group without preamble, hands on hips. Despite the sinking feeling in his stomach Colin had to admire Anthony’s confidence. He really did act like he belonged in any room he entered. He remembered then what Ms Sharma had said about Divas and Darlings; wondering if there was a way he might be able to siphon off some of Anthony’s self assurance. 

“I should like to know what is going on,” Anthony said.

“Excuse me?” Kate said. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Ms Sharma,” Anthony said, with a tight nod.

“I drove my teenage sister and her best friend all the way to York because they wanted to watch Penelope here talk about her writing today. Only apparently it wasn’t her writing?”

“No,” Colin said quickly, before any one else could speak. It was well past time he took responsibility for his actions.

 “It was mine.”

“What?” Anthony said.

“And I’m fine, by the way, thanks for asking Ant.”

Kate waved her arm in Anthony’s direction and said to Ms Danbury, “And this, for some reason, is Mr Anthony Bridgerton.”

“Charmed,” she said.

“This mess is my fault,” Colin said. “I am the writer of A suitcase full of love. I chose a female pen name and I ended up picking a name that was…” he faltered.

His eyes caught Pen’s who gave him a nod of encouragement.

“I really can’t explain why but I’ve always liked the sound of Penelope’s name and I chose a pen name that sounded very like hers. Featherstone, instead of Featherington. And then my agent led the marketing team at your firm,” here he tipped his head politely at both Ms Sharma and Ms Danbury, “to believe that it was really my name. And when it came time to do the one interview I had scheduled they were expecting a woman.”

Kate looked surprisingly nonplussed at his explanation.

“So you asked your friend with the very similar name to pretend it was her writing for the interview?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Why the hell would you do that?” Anthony said, his tone showing considerably less understanding.

“And we thought it would be only that one time,” Colin went on, ignoring the interruption. “Only it turns out that Pen was quite good at interviews and she was offered a second one and …”

“And so you thought you’d lie to the whole country through the Guardian as well?” Anthony said.

Before Colin could reply Pen spoke up.

“Clearly neither I nor Colin have exercised our best judgment in this matter. But we really meant no harm.”

She looked to Kate. “And for my part I am very sorry that I wasn’t truthful with you.”

Colin swallowed. In all the scenarios in which he’d imagined admitting the truth, in none was he standing before two formidable-looking women who both looked like they could eat him for breakfast. And he certainly hadn’t expected his eldest brother to barge his way into the conversation.

“I’m very sorry for the problems I’ve caused,” he said. “I understand if you want to cancel my contract and of course I’ll withdraw my newest submission.”

“Now wait a minute,” Kate said. “I agree you have made a somewhat strange and unwise decision here, but I don’t think we need to leap to a hasty resolution.”

“Unwise decision?” Anthony laughed. “Brother, this is possibly the most stupid decision I have ever seen you make. And you’ve made a few.”

Colin dropped his gaze to his boots. He could feel that familiar mix of shame and anger that only Ant seemed to engender.

“I don’t think that’s fair at all, Anthony.”

To everyone’s surprise it was Pen who had spoken.

“Look, I’m not saying that we didn’t make a hash of this. But I don’t think it’s okay to make it sound like Colin is a meandering clown who never does anything right. He’s worked hard on his writing. His book is wonderful. He was trying to be anonymous. He wanted to achieve something himself without riding on the coattails of his family name. I think that’s admirable.”

Colin couldn’t help noticing that Kate smiled at that and recalled her earlier snark about Anthony’s use of his old school connections. Anthony was so astounded that he stared at Pen for a few moments before responding.

“I don’t believe I said meandering clown,” he said.

“He’s twenty five years old, Anthony. There’s no need for you to speak to Colin, or about Colin, like he’s a misbehaving child,” she said.

Anthony frowned.

“Penelope, I’m not sure why you’re defending him in this particular matter, but I should point out you’ve never had the best judgement where my brother is concerned.”

“Don’t talk about Pen like that,” Colin said hotly.

“Actually he’s probably right,” Pen said. “I would likely do many more foolish things if I thought it would help you, Colin.”

It was Colin’s turn to stare at her.

“You think no one wants to hear your stories and that’s clearly not true. You’ve always thought you have to change parts of who you are to fit in. And that’s not true, either. But what I said about you being a good man? That’s true.”

She glared at Anthony.

“And yes, it might be a particularly witless thing we did here but I likely would do a hundred more hare-brained things for Colin because he…” she pointed her forefinger at Colin’s chest for emphasis, “…is worth doing dumb things for. I’m not sure where the boundary is right now although I do hope I would draw the line at serious law breaking.”

Colin’s heart quickened at her passionate words.

“Penelope…” Anthony said.

“I’m not even sure why you are in this city, Mr Bridgerton,” Kate said, “Much less this conversation.”

Anthony turned towards the taller woman, his face darkening.

“Because he is my younger brother. I am responsible for my family. And this is a serious matter.”

He turned his scowl onto both Pen and Colin then.

“And I thought at this point you might need legal representation.”

“Sorry?” Colin said.

“You have been staying at this hotel, yes? At the publisher’s expense? You do realise that is fraud? Obtaining a benefit by deliberate dishonest means?”

“Actually, Anthony, it isn’t fraud,” Kate said. “You can power down from lawyer mode.”

“I think I understand the definition of fraud, Ms Sharma.”

“Perhaps you do,” she said, “But in this case it’s irrelevant. Mr Bridgerton,” she gestured towards Colin, “the other, pleasant one, left his credit card at the hotel front desk this morning. He requested that all charges be made to him personally not to Danbury Publishing. The clerk alerted me because it was an unusual occurrence for one of our clients.”

“You did?” Pen said.

“Yes,” Colin said. “It didn’t feel right to take the company’s money when we don’t need to.”

“But it’s fine to waste our family’s money?” said Anthony.

Kate raised her voice a notch.

“Mr Bridgerton, I feel it might be stating the obvious, but if I must, we have paid your brother for his work. He is earning both a contracted fee and royalties from his writing. In any case, as Colin is himself one of the authors whose work is being featured at this convention he’s fully entitled to benefits from our company should we choose to bestow them.”

Colin had a sudden image of how Ms Sharma might appear in action in court and was very glad that for whatever reason she seemed to be on his side of this argument. Ms Danbury spoke then, her commanding voice cutting through the tension in the room.

“What I don’t understand,” she said, “is why this all couldn’t have been solved in a five minute conversation with Ms Sharma. Before today’s event.”

Colin glanced sheepishly at Pen.

“Uh… yes,” he said, “It could have been. I had an email in draft, actually.”

“You had…” Anthony started to say, then snapped his mouth shut at a pointed look from Kate.

“In Colin’s defence I do believe he was trying to tell me during our last meeting but he wasn’t able to get a word in.”

“I’m shocked,” Anthony said.

Kate glowered at him.

“Mr Bridgerton, I will throw you out if you don’t be quiet.”

“She will, actually,” Pen said. “She knows the security men. I’ve seen her do it, she absolutely can do that.”

Colin eyed Pen then, wondering just how the conversation about Alfie went down between her and Ms Sharma. Did she really just spontaneously tell Kate that Alfie was her ex-boyfriend? He remembered how Mary and Stephen, the two journalists, had not doubted for a second that Pen was the author when they interviewed her. For that matter he’d been convinced at first that Pen had read his book. She was remarkably adept at lying. Or… a horrible thought struck him then. What if it hadn’t been a lie? What if Alfie actually was an ex-boyfriend? Pen had said she’d only met him at Eloise’s party. But then, she’d told Colin that two weeks ago when she wasn’t feeling particularly friendly towards him. Was it possible she just hadn’t wanted to tell him the truth, that the man at the bar he’d seen her talking to was her ex? Was it possible that his guess in the hotel room last night was correct - she had seen an ex-boyfriend, Alfie, and that had triggered her blood nose?

Colin’s stomach started to cramp. Oh god. He was spiralling. For no good reason. He really needed to stop doing that. There was no evidence whatsoever Pen had ever dated Alfie. But Alfie’s girlfriend had seemed very convinced something was going on. Could it be possible…?

When Colin refocused, Anthony was speaking. 

“… then if there are no legal issues, I’ll withdraw to allow you to sort this out. It is your business after all. Colin?”

He realised with some surprise that Anthony was asking him for his permission to leave. 

“Yes,” he said, “Thank you Ant. If you wouldn’t mind waiting outside.”

Anthony nodded in farewell to the two women and left the room.

“In any case,” Ms Sharma said, as though Anthony hadn’t interrupted them at all, “Anyone who has read Colin’s travel writing and then read his romance writing would know it came from the same pen. Or keyboard.”

Colin’s eyes snapped from Pen over to Kate.

“Pardon?” he said.

“After we met on Monday I was curious about you,” she said. “So I looked you up and found your travel portfolio. Your work in that field was excellent. I particularly liked your National Geographic series from 2019.”

“Oh,” Colin said.

“Then you submitted your new pitch after our meeting and I read one of your draft chapters. Also excellent, by the way. And clearly it was written by the same author.”

“Oh,” he said again.

Kate turned to Pen.

“I’m sorry, Ms Featherington, you are quite good at the publicity side of things but it really is the writing that interests me in the end. As much as I adore an author whose willing to go that extra mile, or can charm a crowd, at the end of the day we are all here because of the writing, to share it with the world.”

“That’s no insult to me,” Pen said, with a shrug. “I have no experience as an author. I actually work in advertising.”

Ms Sharma raised an eyebrow.

“Ah, you do? Interesting. That explains a few things, actually. The new Featherstone social media profile is very good.”

Colin eyed Ms Sharma. 

“So you knew already?” he said. “Only you said you spoke with Ms Danbury this morning about me.”

“Yes,” she said. “But I have to admit I was curious to see how far you’d both take the charade.”

Before Colin could dwell on how foolish that made him feel Ms Danbury spoke again.

“As much as this is quite frankly a ludicrous situation, ironically that could feature in one of our novels, Ms Sharma and I discussed it this morning and I consider that there has been no real damage done.”

“What?” Colin and Pen said at the same time.

Colin couldn’t quite believe he had heard her correctly. He had been wound so tightly with anticipation of a dressing down that the publisher’s calm acceptance floored him. He realised that despite his general leanings towards optimism there had been not one single narrative he’d imagined where his confession and apology were simply politely accepted.

“In fact, I’d go so far as to say the viral publicity from that entertaining little drama that unfolded in our session just now will do us the world of good. These conventions can  tend towards the dull side.”

She turned to Colin who was still watching her mutely.

“I am willing to overlook this incident. And I do believe you should stay on for the afternoon session, Mr Bridgerton. You can make your authorial debut at the signing table.”

She nodded at Kate.

“I dare say we’ll need to put out statement correcting the recording that Mr Bridgerton is the real author writing under a pseudonym. And send an personal apology to those journalists Ms Featherington has spoken to. We can provide our marketing team with…”

She glanced between Pen and Colin.

“A slightly more accurate head shot.”

“Thank you,” Colin said, finally finding his voice.

“And I assume you are firing your agent?” Ms Sharma said. “This debacle has Bernard Fife’s fingerprints all over it.”

“Oh dear,” Ms Danbury said, with a knowing grimace, “That man again.”

“Absolutely I will,” Colin agreed.

“I can suggest some options for alternative representation,” Kate said. “Decent ones.”

Colin felt like he’d been slingshotted between angst and relief. This was the end of their deal. No more lying. It was over. It was done. And it was fine - better than fine! Danbury Publishing wouldn’t be dumping him! Kate wouldn’t be whipping out the tub of duck fat after all. He could scarcely believe everything had turned out so well. 

Ms Danbury turned to Pen.

“I’m afraid our hospitality no longer extends to you, Miss Featherington. I’ll have to ask you to leave. Not for your part in pretending to write the novel, but your treatment of Mr Debling.”

Oh. Colin’s heart sank.

“Of course,” Pen said quietly. “I guess I really have no reason to be here.”

He was wrong: the slingshot was actually a pendulum. There would be no drinking the rest of their champagne together after the book signing. No cosy dinner for two. No chance for him to ratchet up his courage and tell her how he felt. 

“I appreciate you are a friend of Mr Bridgerton,” Ms Danbury said. “But I can’t sanction your behaviour towards one of our convention guests. Enticing Ms Sharma to eject a paying patron was not appropriate. Amusing, yes,” she added with a slightly wicked expression, “but not appropriate.”

Pen nodded. “Absolutely. I understand.”

Colin’s stomach started cramping again. This wasn’t right. He’d been the one to ask Pen for help and yet she was being punished? Pen caught his eye then as if somehow she knew exactly what he was thinking. 

“It’s fine, Colin,” she said softly. 

He shook his head. 

“But I was the one…”

“No,” she said, a little more firmly. “You didn’t ask me to lie about Alfie. That was my doing. My choice.”

Pen said her farewells to the two women then walked with Colin out into the corridor. 

“We’re leaving York shortly and would be happy to take you back to London,” Anthony said to Pen, once she explained the situation. He glanced at Colin. “I do hope you wouldn’t expect Hy and Felicity to stay and wait in line for your autograph now.”

“No,” he said. “But I might charge Hy for it later.”

Anthony smiled at that, the rare genuine warm smile that Colin loved to see from his eldest brother. He slapped Colin on the shoulder.

“Very good idea, Colin,” he said.

***

Colin and Pen stood together silently by the hotel exit as they waited for Anthony and the girls to bring around the car. Colin wasn’t sure why he had, at the least helpful time, lost the ability to put together sentences. He felt as though they had been careering through space in a super fast vehicle, flailing to keep their balance, and had now screechingly come to a stop. There were so many things he wanted to say to Pen but none of them were making their way to his mouth.

Honestly, what kind of romance author was he that he couldn’t find the words to say Pen, I really like you. Do you like me? Do I have a chance? Is this all in my head?

“I suppose, strangely, despite the melodrama I caused today, it does seem that everything has turned out for the best in the end,” she said eventually.

“The best?” Colin said. “Pen, you’re being thrown out of the hotel right now. And I’m not. I'm not even being penalised at all.”

“Technically, yes,” she said. 

“And Anthony is here. In York.  He forced his way into the middle of the humiliating conversation where I admitted what I’d done. To two of the most terrifying women I’ve ever met.” 

“Also, yes,” she said.

“You bled onto the stage. And I fainted in public.”

“But we finally got to tell the truth.”

He snorted. 

“I’m not sure we actually did tell the truth, Pen. We got found out then we confessed. Not quite the same.”

“I suppose with Ant and Hyacinth knowing about your book there’s no need to hide it from your family now. Isn’t that a good thing?”

Colin sighed. “Really looking forward to that conversation with my mum,” he said. “And Eloise. Oh God, Daphne. And Ben will be fucking unbearable.”

Pen seemed determined to put a positive spin on things. 

“But Colin, it sounded like Kate Sharma really likes your writing. She praised your new chapter. That has to be promising. Maybe she might even be interested in taking some of your work to the pitch meeting. For Netflix and other streamers.”

He frowned at her, confused. “Netflix?”

“Oh I didn’t get a chance to tell you,” Pen said. “She’s going to want to talk with you about the possibility of seeing if anyone wants to buy the development rights to your stories.”

That didn’t even feel real. And even more strangely, he wasn’t sure he cared. 

“I – well I suppose that’s a good thing. Although I must admit to some apprehension about anything else you’ve not told me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the boyfriend thing,” Pen said. “Only it really did happen so quickly. I don’t know where my mind was today. All of a sudden Kate gave me the opening and I just took it.”

“Were you…” Colin hesitated, unsure how to ask the question. It felt so stupid but it had been eating at him for the last half hour. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Were you ever…You and Alfie?”

Pen laughed but then quickly sobered, watching his face as it didn't relax.

“Wait… Colin, are you serious?”

Colin could hear his heart rate increasing, thumping in his ears.

“I… I don’t know. Was there ever… ever anything between you?”

Pen gaped at him. “You are serious. Why on earth would you ask me that?”

Because I love you, Pen. And clearly I am an idiot.

“I don’t know, Pen. I have no idea what you said to Kate. And his girlfriend sounded really convinced something was going on.”

“Her wild imagination and jealousy are not my problem,” she said.

“So that’s a no?”

Pen was starting to look irritated now. 

“Colin, I really don’t know where this is coming from. I told you at Eloise’s party two weeks ago that we’d only just met. I’d never seen the man before then. And I saw him once again, this morning in the garden.”

“Yes, but,” he hesitated again, not sure how to explain his confusion. 

He held her gaze, wondering if she could tell he had utterly fallen for her, wondering if she could possibly feel something, even a fraction, of what he was feeling. Why was his sudden epiphany turning him into a complete knob? He nearly swooned just kissing her cheek earlier today. He yearned to kiss her again. Why didn’t he have the courage to say something sweet about that?

Instead, his mouth opened and the worst possible words came tumbling out. 

“You’re quite good at lying, Pen,” he said.

Oh fuck.

“Excuse me?” she said.

Colin wasn’t sure why he didn’t stop there. He could have slapped himself in the face (likely to save Pen the trouble), apologised and blamed the nerves of the day. Instead his mouth kept on moving and the words kept coming.

“Those journalists were convinced you were the author. And the audience today would have been too, if it hadn’t been for Alfie’s shouting match in the corridor.” 

“I lied because you asked me to, Colin,” she said tightly. 

“Yes but you are very persuasive,” he said. 

Clearly his brain had left the county and was on its way back to London without him. 

“Maybe because you work in advertising.”  

Pen’s glare could have melted a sizeable glacier. 

“What?” she said.

“You know,” he said, digging his own grave further with every syllable. “Knowing how best to convince people of something and being good at selling it. Or making them want to buy it.”

One small part of his mind was marvelling that she could look both fiery and icy at the same time. The rest was quietly waving a white flag.

“I see,” she said. “It’s because my job has made me better at manipulation. Using what we’ve learnt about human behavioural psychology to sneakily compel people to buy things they don’t want or need.”

“I…” he faltered. 

“So because I lied convincingly about something you asked me to lie about, Colin, for a favour you asked me to do, you now think I can’t be trusted not to lie about whether I was shagging someone or not?”

“No, I…”

“I know you’re good at fiction, Colin, but honestly, that’s ridiculous.”

Colin’s gut was twisting again.

“I’m sorry, Pen,” he said. “It’s just… a lot has happened today. And I’m stressed out. And the idea got in my head and I just couldn’t stop wondering…”

“But why would you think that in the first place?” she said, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. “That’s bonkers Colin.”

“I know,” he said, squirming with discomfort. “I just can’t stop thinking that…”

“That what?”

She crossed her arms now, glaring at him again.

“You’re so fucking beautiful Pen,” he blurted. “You’re sexy and you’re brilliant and funny and brave. Why wouldn’t he have wanted to date you if he’d ever had the chance? Even if you’d just tried to hook up with him at Eloise’s birthday, how could he have said no?”

Pen seemed lost for words then. She watched him quietly, her eyes flickering between his. Colin’s head was pounding now.

“My mouth is broken, Pen,” he said. “Well, not literally my mouth. Unfortunately. I mean the part of my brain that controls language and is giving the instructions to my voice and lips and tongue on what to say. It has clearly gone on some badly timed vacation right now, and I know, I know, Pen, I’m being a blithering idiot and you should probably slap me to shut me up.”

Pen’s lip twitched ever so slightly.

“You want me to slap you?”

“Not want, no, but possibly need. Deserve, absolutely.”

“Broca’s area,” Pen said.

Colin shook his head, confused. “What?”

“Broca’s area in the frontal lobe of your brain. It’s the part that helps us articulate ideas and use words correctly.” 

At his blank look she added, “Pub quiz nights, remember?”

“Oh,” he said. “Yes, that broccoli thing is on vacation.”

“Hmm,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Pen. Could we just… could we forget the last five minutes happened?”

He glanced through the doorway to see Anthony’s Mercedes pulling up on the horseshoe shaped driveway.

“Could we just maybe edit that scene? Pretend I said something thoughtful and thanked you for helping me out?”

“Like what?” she said.

Colin tugged his curls back from his forehead. 

“Oh… ummm…. like, ‘words can’t express how grateful I am to you for your kindness, for your time, for your grace and generosity.”

Pen looked at him steadily for a moment. 

“Yeah,” she said, “that’s considerably better.”

Colin bobbed his head towards the driveway. “Your ride is here,” he said.

She turned and saw the car.

“Ooh! Guess I’m driving back in luxury style,” she said.

“No budget rental for you, Ms Featherstone.”

“I don’t suppose Anthony will have any interesting stories about place names along the route.”

Colin managed a tight smile at that despite his lingering feeling of mortification.

“I doubt it.”

“They probably haven’t even got first snacks,” she said.

“All the energy would have gone into planning Hy’s playlist,” he agreed.

“Sweet.”

“Well.” 

“Well.”

Colin felt as if he was trapped in molasses while she was being blown away from him. Pen nodded and hefted her case.

“I guess today has proved that I can do dramatic public scenes, after all,” she said. “I really am a Featherington. Mum would be proud.”

She walked towards the car. Colin saw Anthony push open the drivers’ side door and jog around to the car boot, popping it open for her.

“Pen,” he called out.

She stopped and turned towards him.

“Thank you,” he said, “for doing dumb things for me. With me. Even when I’m being really dumb. Like right now. You helping me out - it’s meant the world to me.”

She gave him a small smile as Anthony took the case and secured it, then she climbed into the passenger seat. Colin waved at the girls in the back, then watched them drive away until he could no longer see the car in the distance, and then watched for a little while more.

Chapter Text

Colin Bridgerton glanced again at his phone which lay face up on the desk. No messages.

He was aching to reach out to Pen - who should be well onto the motorway by now - to hear her lovely voice. But he didn’t know where to start. Messaging her Are we good? didn’t feel like it would cut it. He was starting to worry Pen had been more irate with him than she’d let show. Given the way his mouth was running wild at the hotel’s front entrance, he really wouldn’t have been surprised if Pen had asked Ant to back up his Merc and drive over Colin’s toes on his way out of York.

He sighed and turned his attention back to the room. Fifteen minutes into the session Colin was still signing. Much to his surprise there were a fair number of fans who already knew his work alongside a bevy of others who’d been intrigued enough by the panel drama to pick up a copy and queue to meet him. The line at his table had dwindled now to two people. He took a moment to glance around and was heartened by the sight of the other authors, industriously chatting and smiling, writing special notes for their readers. Since his initial publication he’d been so caught up in wanting to be anonymous that it hadn’t occurred to him that there were positives to meeting your audience. 

Colin forced a smile to his face as he greeted the next patron and made idle chit chat with her while he carefully inked a message in her book. Only as she thanked him and stepped aside did he register that the final person in line looked familiar. It was Alfie.

“Hello,” he said warily, in what he hoped was a polite yet friendly tone.

“Hello,” Alfie said, fiddling with his cardigan sleeve. “My name is Alfred Debling and my girlfriend is a big fan of your work.”

Colin blinked at him, taken aback. Did Alfie really think he didn’t know who was bellowing outside the conference room earlier?

“Yes,” he said cautiously. “I know who you are. I believe you’ve met…” he hesitated, thinking how to describe their situation, “… my friend Penelope, who inspired my pen name.”

“Ah yes,” said Alfie. He paused, then said, “The copper-haired harpy who was pretending to be you in recent media articles and was here earlier masquerading as you at the convention before she was, quite deservedly, ejected?”

At Colin’s stare he said, “I’ve been catching up with events.”

He placed the novel he was carrying down in front of Colin. 

“I would be greatly obliged if you could autograph my copy with an inscription for my girlfriend. Her name is Cressida.”

“Uh… sure,” Colin said. 

He was trying to think of a polite way of asking if the couple had reconciled when Alfie went on.

“And you are friends with her? The ginger shrew who had me expelled from the room earlier? And caused an argument with my beloved?”

“Yes,” Colin said. “But I wouldn’t call her a shrew. Or a harpy.”

Alfie scowled at him.

“She accused me of making generalised statements about women like they were another species,” he said.

“Did she?”

“She took an innocent comment about the preponderance of female readers to imply that I thought romance was trash and a lesser form of literature than Kafka.” 

“Gosh,” said Colin, trying very hard not to smile as his low mood lifted a little. That sounded like Pen.

“She said my search for you was undertaken like I was the tardiest census collector on record.”

“Okay,” Colin said, genuinely unsure how else to respond. “And you’re sure you would still like me to sign your book?”

“Of course,” Alfie said. “You are the actual author, are you not?”

“I am.”

“I thought this might assist with my rapprochement with Cress,” he said. “She likes these silly stories.”

Colin stared at the man for a moment longer, then shrugged and opened the cover, writing on the title page. Alfie took the book from him stiffly without reading it, nodded, and strode away. Well, if he had any remaining doubts (which, for the record, he did not) that certainly answered that question. There was no way Pen had touched that man.

He was still thinking about Pen’s description of Alfie as a tardy census collector when Ms Sharma approached his table. She glanced at Alfie’s retreating back. 

“I see you’ve managed to assist Alfred Debling without causing a Severe level security incident. Well done.”

“Yes,” Colin said. “Although I was surprised he still wanted an autograph.”

Kate smiled. “I’m surprised you are still here to be honest.”

Colin frowned. Wasn’t this where he was supposed to be? Kate herself had set him up at this station not much more than half an hour ago.

“And how are you finding your first public appearance as an author?”

“Strange,” he said truthfully, “but also more enjoyable than I expected. I never gave much thought to meeting readers before.”

She grinned. “Well, now that you are officially onboard, there are several other people I’ll arrange for you to meet later this week. Your editor for one. The two of you have clearly only communicated over email before.”

“Bernie kept me away from real interactions with people at your company.”

“Mm,” she said noncommittally. 

Although he’d only met her the week before he was finding he very much liked Kate Sharma. Colin had to wonder how many more stories about Bernie Fife she knew that she was too professional to share. Her expression suggested an abundance.

“Why did you say you were surprised I’m still here?” he said.

“Considering the drama of this morning, I would have thought you’d be keen to sign everything quickly, finish the session as fast as you possibly could. Then spend some time with Penelope. Not that I’m complaining about you taking the work seriously, of course. I saw how you took time to talk with everybody.” 

“Penelope?” he said.

“Yes, your good friend Penelope,” she said, obviously smirking at the phrase. “I imagine you two would both be wanting to rest and reconnect. Recover from your little scheme? Enjoy some time just being here in York, being yourselves.”

He stared at her blankly. 

“But she’s on her way back to London.”

Kate’s eyes widened.

“Already? Why?”

Colin wrinkled his brow. “Because… because Ms Danbury kicked her out?”

He was so flummoxed the statement came out as a question.

“Of the convention, yes,” said Kate. “But we have no authority to make her leave the hotel. Especially considering you were already paying for your own room.” 

“Oh!” Colin said. 

Kate gave him a look that he couldn’t quite translate.

“You thought we did?”

“Yes.”

Colin thought even more highly of Kate Sharma then. She had clearly seen him behave foolishly multiple times and yet had diplomatically chosen not to point this out. 

He closed his eyes for a moment. His good friend Penelope. Since this morning he’d been confounded by his revelation about loving Pen. He’d found it difficult to speak clearly and then he had babbled. But now, sitting quietly with his emotions, he could tell the feelings inside him weren’t new. The way his skin sparked when he touched hers, the way she made him laugh, the way his heart both raced and stilled in her presence, his peace of mind. They were old feelings. They’d been sleeping maybe, waiting for the right moment to wake. 

He remembered standing with Pen at an art gallery once, side by side, in front of a picture that had overwhelmed them both. He’d had the strongest urge to take her hand then, although he didn’t. He wondered now if he’d touched her and felt that luscious skin and how well it curved into his, would he have realised this earlier? Or did they need to wait until they had both grown into themselves before they could start blooming together?

He thought about Pen’s paper bird - so beautiful and so delicate. How his heart hurt when he’d first seen it, not for the reasons Pen had thought, but in recognition of how well she perceived him at a moment in his life when he wasn’t ready to fully see himself.  She’d made him a hummingbird, of all creatures. He'd looked up their biology once and knew Pen had not chosen it by accident. The only bird that could fly backwards. The birds that people thought of as frail, but who possessed such incredible strength and perseverance. Birds that could consume up to twice their body weight in a day. The smallest birds to migrate and yet they could fly 800 kilometres and did so by themselves, rather than travelling in flocks. A bird whose heart comprised, relatively speaking, more of its body weight than most other animals.

And it was his careless dismissal of the bird, and the assumptions they both made afterwards, that broke them apart. His flaky mouth, running ahead of his brain. 

He thought about last night when he’d been overcome by dizziness and had sagged onto the mattress. How sublime it had felt when Pen had sat beside him, her cool fingers stroking his forehead, trailing over his scalp. She’d seen him weak. She’d seen him anxious. She’d seen him foolish. And she hadn’t flinched. 

When he opened his eyes Kate was watching him.

“Well?” she said, smirking again. “Your signing line is empty. You’re done. Why are you still sitting here?”

Colin grabbed his phone and pushed himself away from the table. With Pen’s half an hour head start he might need some assistance. But first, he opened up his notes and starting typing.

***

They had driven east towards York for petrol for the return journey to London and were making their way back to the motorway when Hyacinth exclaimed.

“Oh god no! Not now! Not when I’m sitting on Anthony’s cream colour leather.”

Anthony glanced into the rear view mirror at his sister. 

“What?” he said.

“I’m going to need you to pull over,” she said. “It’s a feminine emergency.”

“What on earth is…” said Anthony, then sighed as realisation struck and he indicated to pull aside.

Felicity was already interrogating her phone, thumbs flying.

“It’s all good,” she said, “there’s an Asda quite close by. It not five minutes back the way we came.”

“I’ll need a bathroom break too,” Hyacinth said. “And probably some naproxen. And maybe a hot chocolate.” 

Pen turned to look at the two girls, who seemed to be communicating telepathically about something across the back seat.

“I’m sure I have some products in my bag,” she said. “There’s usually a pack of something for emergencies.”

“I’m quite particular about what I use,” said Hyacinth. “But thanks.”

“Siri,” Anthony said, “Directions to the nearest Asda, please.”

“You don’t need to say please to your phone, Ant,” Hyacinth said.

“Good manners are a good habit, Hy,” he said primly. He shot Pen a sideways look. “Also I have that irrational notion that when the machines rise up they’ll remember who was nice to the AI.”

Pen laughed. Despite the ridiculous way her morning had unfolded she felt a profound sense of relief that she was no longer maintaining the fiction she was a promising young romance author. Lying to strangers had been one thing. But once her friends and family found out about the book and she’d met Kate Sharma everything felt decidedly murkier. Still, she’d loved every moment spent with Colin and was hoping that once he got back to London they might catch up sometime soon. They had Pru’s wedding rehearsal dinner coming up on Thursday. And she was very much looking forward to seeing him in a wedding suit. But for some reason five days with no Colin felt like an interminable wait.

She picked up her phone and shot him a message.

Pen: We all good? That farewell was a bit weird. I hope the signing is going well. Maybe we could chat later? Don’t forget you have leftover Bolli for afters 🥂

Smooth, Pen, she thought. Not at all sounding desperate. As they drove back into outer York she tried to pretend she wasn’t keeping an eye on how fast Colin would respond. 

***

Fifteen minute later she hadn’t heard back from Colin, but had to assume he was busy with the convention. Either that or they were not fine, which was the option she preferred not to dwell on.

“Felicity just messaged,” she said to Anthony, putting down her phone. “They’ll be done at the shops in five minutes. I told them where to find us.”

She shuffled in the booth and glanced out of the coffee shop window. There was a steady stream of traffic leaving York and the car park had filled up quickly with early afternoon visitors.

Anthony took a long drink from his coffee mug, trying and failing to stifle a yawn.

“Sorry,” he said ruefully. “Long day already.”

“What time did you leave London?”

“5 o’clock.”

Pen winced. She had never coped well with early mornings.

“There’s a 5 a.m. now?”

“Hyacinth and Felicity were keen not to miss your session,” he said.

Pen would have to remember to thank Felicity later. It had warmed her that Felicity had been so excited she was speaking and wanted to come and show her support. Despite the larger age difference between them she’d always gotten along better with her younger sister than her older ones. Before things had gone south she had seen Felicity and Hyacinth in the audience; Hy waving at her enthusiastically and Felicity smiling proudly. She’d lost sight of them once the shouting began but it was safe to guess both hadn’t been at all bothered by the way the session deteriorated. In fact she’d be surprised if one or both of the girls hadn’t filmed the interruptions and her eventual confession and spectacular nose-bleed finale. She’d have to check their feeds later. Or perhaps not. #LoveNotesTrainCrash was not really where she wanted to spend the rest of her weekend. 

“I’m sure they were happy with the drama I provided,” she said.

“Hyacinth was mumbling something about content,” he said. “I must confess it wasn’t quite what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?” she asked curiously. 

Although she’d known him for years Pen hadn’t spent much time alone with Anthony. He’d always seemed to be a somewhat distant and preoccupied figure, which she appreciated was likely a caricature on her part. Now they were both older the age gap between them didn’t seem as much of a chasm as it once had and she found herself increasingly interested in this man who loomed so large in Colin’s life.

“I don’t know, really,” he admitted. “Perhaps something halfway between literary festival starchiness and embankments of enormous pink heart-shaped helium balloons. Definitely less blood.”

Pen grinned and took a sip of her peppermint tea. Her weekend hadn’t gone to plan either. She wasn’t really sure how she’d envisioned travelling with Colin but making him faint (twice) certainly hadn’t been on her bingo card.

“How long did you actually end up spending in York?”

Anthony shrugged.

“About an hour. A little less. Although we do appear to still be here so perhaps our York adventure is not yet over.”

“You’re a good big brother.”

Anthony held her eye for a moment before replying. 

“Not always,” he said.

Pen could see the crinkle across his brow and thought about how many times in their lives she had seen Anthony taking care of his siblings, going out of his way to ferry one to a sporting game or make sure they had everything they needed for a class. In every Bridgerton family moment Anthony was always there alongside his mother, loyal and steady like an anchor. And today he had taken the time to escort Hy and Felicity to Yorkshire. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Felicity had chosen not to ask their own mother, who likely would have offered her a train fare at best. Even just now at the hotel when he had sounded a little pompous he’d really been stepping in to help, seeing if Colin needed support and offering what he could to protect his brother. She felt a moment of connection with him then - after all, her involvement in this whole mess came from her own desire to help Colin.

“I’m sorry I had a go at you about Colin. I know you care about him.”

Anthony hummed, his eyes on his coffee.

“But we don’t often seem to be on the same wavelength. I feel it’s taken me far too long to realise why.”

At her silence he went on.

“That when our father died Colin was somewhat stuck in the middle. He wasn’t young enough to need to be fathered by me like Greg or Hy, but he wasn’t old enough to really help mum out.”

Pen watched him thoughtfully. She’d never thought of that explicitly but it made sense.

“That probably affected how he feels about his role,” she said. “In your family, in life in general. I guess I relate easily as a fellow middle child. You know he just really wants you to be proud of him. Or to take an interest in the things in his life that matter to him.”

Anthony gave her a crooked grin. 

“Oh? Like you?”

“I meant his writing.”

“Mmm,” he hummed again. “Colin didn’t tell me he’d finished with travel writing. I assumed he still was. But you knew.”

“Yes.”

Anthony didn’t need to know that despite their estrangement Pen had always kept a closer-than-was-healthy eye on Colin’s social media presence, where he publicised and shared links to his travel writing.

“Clearly he didn’t feel comfortable telling me. Perhaps he thought I knew. Perhaps he was waiting for me to show an interest. I had no idea he was writing fiction,” he said.

Pen thought about Anthony’s remarks at Eloise’s birthday party. Perhaps Colin had felt that he couldn’t win either way. He didn’t want Anthony to feel that he was failing in the career he’d chosen, but perhaps he’d also felt that Anthony respected some jobs more than others. That likely wasn’t fair on Ant either, as he’d never explicitly said as much, but she knew enough from her own family dramas to understand that hurt could be felt deeply even where it wasn’t maliciously intended.

“Would you have supported him?”

“Of course. Well, I wouldn’t have not supported him.”

Pen sipped her tea.

“It’s not too late to start. He’s doing really well. They might be publishing his second book and he’s pitching them a series.”

Anthony smiled at that.

“My brother, the writer.”

He spoke as though he was trying out the feel of the words on his tongue.

“Your brother the romance writer.”

Anthony winced.

“Ah. Not my area of expertise.”

Pen shook her head.

“Yeah, I’m not going there.”

“It really was something how you defended Colin.”

Pen drained the last of her tea before responding. It felt disingenuous to undercut a stand she was quietly rather proud of making. Colin hadn’t said anything but she’d seen the look on his face at her words and it warmed her all the way down to her toes.

“I’m not actually sorry I had a go. I just thought I should say that,” she said.

“Well, rather you than that Sharma woman.”

Pen eyed him curiously at the vehemence in his tone but didn’t comment. She turned to look out of the window, wondering how far the girls were away. As she watched she could see a large black Land Rover vying with a small blue hatchback for the last parking space in the car park. They’d approached the space from different directions and were now facing each other, both ready to turn into the park. 

The driver in the Land Rover rolled down her window and stuck her head out. Noticing Pen’s distraction Anthony turned in his seat to follow her gaze. The driver of the hatch opened his door and climbed out.

“Oh hello,” said Anthony. “Car park fight about to kick off.” 

The male figure jogged over to the woman’s window, lowered his head and began talking. Pen frowned and peered more closely at the man. Surely she was doing that thing again where thinking of someone made you imagine you saw them. Mind you, last time she was correct after all, so perhaps…

“Is that Colin?” she said.

Anthony sat up straighter and took another look. 

“What on earth would Colin be doing here? Isn’t he supposed to be signing books for his fans?”

Pen couldn’t see his face but the man was definitely well built, and clad in tan pants and a navy blue top as Colin had been earlier. As she watched he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, withdrew a note, and passed it through the window to the other driver. 

“It is Colin!” she said, as the man uncoiled and loped back to his car. “What’s he doing?”

“He just gave that woman something.”

The Land Rover started its engine and began backing up and away from the park. As they both watched the woman pulled out of the car park altogether, waving out of her window at the other driver as she left. 

“Did he just pay her to get the car park?” Pen said. 

“Looks like it.”

Pen pushed herself up from the booth and edged out past the table. 

“Stay here,” she said, “I’ll see what’s going on.”

Pen strode through the cafe door and out into the car park. The sun was now hidden behind a bank of high clouds. It was starting to look dangerously like rain. She pulled her knit cardigan tighter around her shoulders and walked towards the blue Clio that had just slid into the last vacant space. She recognised it now as definitely the rental Colin had driven up from London. Had one of the girls left something behind that they might urgently need? Or had she?

As she reached the car, Colin swung open the door and climbed out. He saw her waiting on the verge and made immediately for her.

“Pen!” he said. “I’m so glad I didn’t miss you. Hy said you’d stopped here but I didn’t know for how long.”

“You spoke with Hyacinth?”

“Yeah we've been messaging.” 

A sneaking suspicion grew in her mind about Hy’s sudden need for sanitary supplies. Not that she wasn’t happy to see Colin (it seemed to be a fact of her life now that she would always be happy to see Colin). But she couldn’t think of any particular reason he’d have needed to rush away from the convention to find them.

“What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

“Looking for you,” he said, as if that was obvious. Although he’d driven he sounded oddly out of breath as if he’d been sprinting down the road. 

“Yes, but why?”

Colin was wriggling the fingers of his right hand against his thigh in the way he always did when he was nervous. She could see the tendons in his hand flickering.

“Pen, I’m so sorry for what I said when you were leaving,” he said.

She stared at him in confusion.

“What?”

He tugged his hands through his hair, pushing the wayward curls back from his face.

“I am truly the most feeble-minded man in England today.”

Pen chuckled at that wording.

“I doubt that’s true, Colin. There’s a lot of idiots out there, population-wise.”

Colin shook his head, his face still solemn. His fingers hadn’t slowed and now his thumb was rubbing against his forefinger too.

“But I’m the one messing up with you again.”

“Messing up? And what do you mean again?”

His eyes glittered as he gazed into hers, his head tilted slightly.

“Aren’t you angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry?”

“Because of the daft things I said. About Alfie. About you being a good liar. It was like you said this morning, that my mind was set to standby but my mouth kept moving. I knew I was wrong but I just couldn’t stop. I’m so sorry, Pen.”

Pen bit her lower lip, considering him. Colin’s face was pinched and his fingers were still twitching rapidly. He was almost vibrating with concern. Had he really rushed to catch them so he could apologise to her again? His words to her as she was leaving were a little off the mark, sure, but hardly bad enough to justify him pursuing her down the M1. 

“Actually,” she said, “In a way you weren’t wrong. I did find it easy to pretend to be Penelope Featherstone.”

“Yes, but…”

Something had occurred to her since their earlier conversation and she thought Colin needed to hear it too.

“But if you think about it, Colin, I wasn’t great at lying to you. Not at all. You figured out I hadn’t read your book in less than an hour.”

Colin blinked rapidly. 

“Oh,” he said.

He clearly hadn’t thought of it that way. Pen shrugged. The wind was starting to pick up now and she tucked some wayward strands of hair back behind her ears.

“I think you know me really well. Probably because of how closely you listen. It’s like your superpower, you know. You’re one of the very few people who gets past my lines of defence.”

Colin’s cheeks flushed. His hand movements seemed to slow, then stilled.

“Maybe that’s why I was so thrown you imagined that Alfie could be my type.”

“Oh,” he said again. “Well, yes. I’ve certainly realised how implausible that was.”

“Good. And Kate could tell the writing was yours. Which now I think on it is not surprising, given she’s obviously good at her job. We didn’t fool everyone. But I'm not upset with you.”

He shuffled his feet, looking only slightly appeased.

“It wasn’t the most diplomatic thing to say,” she added. “But I understand. I know you, Colin. You don’t have a mean bone in your body. I know you get in your head and need to process things, and I know you worry. And even though sometimes you’re so good with words it takes my breath away, at other times you stumble and say a few frightful things, that kind of also take my breath away too. In a different, less pleasant way.”

“My broccoli brain,” he said.

She smiled softly at that. 

“Yes. Your broccoli brain.”

Colin nodded. Something in her words seemed to settle into him. Pen was oddly reminded of one the comic panels she’d chosen for Colin’s new social media look, where one of his characters realised the other saw them completely. She saw Colin now in a way that was different to her teenage infatuation. He was still kind and funny and occasionally excitable, all of the things she’d always loved about him. But he was also sometimes unsure of himself, occasionally doubting his worth and his value to others. And he didn’t always say the best thing at the best time but then again, she thought, didn't everyone really do that? Didn’t she? She had literally told a hell of a lie to Kate Sharma only this morning.

“But we don’t get to cherry pick only the good bits of people, do we? Nobody is all sweetness and light.”

She glanced back to the cafe where she could see Anthony was watching them curiously from his window seat. He waved then turned back to his drink. There was still no sign of Felicity or Hyacinth.

“But I don’t want to be that person with you, Pen. The person who says the wrong thing because I’m not thinking straight and then I upset you and push you away.”

Ah, she thought, as the realisation clicked into place. The ghost of the birthday bird. 

“And that’s why you’re here? You couldn’t just reply to my text?”

Colin looked blank. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. 

“Oh,” he said, on sighting her friendly message. “I didn’t see that there.”

He looked slightly sheepish then, realising he had clearly misjudged the likelihood or extent of her ire. She peered around him.

“And did you just bribe that lady for the car park?”

Colin looked around at the Clio as if he’d already forgotten what had happened three minutes earlier.

“Yes, it was the last one. I thought if I had to park further down the street and walk you'd be gone.”

She watched as his eyes dipped to his feet.

“How much did you pay her?”

Colin's face flushed but he didn’t reply. Clearly enough that it was embarrassing to admit. They stood in awkward silence for a few moments longer. Colin’s jitters must have been catching because Pen was feeling her own stomach fizzing.

“Okay. So.. you’re out here behaving like a maniac because…?”

Colin swallowed hard and turned his intense gaze up from his boots to meet her eyes.

“Because I miss you, Pen.”

“You miss me?”

“Yes,” he said.

What?  Pen had missed him too but hadn’t wanted to admit it, particularly since…

“I’ve been gone for half an hour, Colin.”

“Yes, but…” He swallowed again, apparently having some difficulty speaking. He took a few breaths, his eyes flickering between hers, his gaze fierce. The effect was electrifying. She felt as if his eyes were pinning her in place. 

“Don’t go back to London, Pen,” he burst out. “Not yet. Stay here in York.”

“What?” she said, bewildered.

“Stay,” he said, still agitated. “Come back to the hotel. Stay with me.”

Pen stared at him. Had he lost his mind?

“Colin, they threw me out.”

“No they didn’t!” he said. “You were kicked out of the convention, not the hotel. You’re allowed to stay at the hotel as long as you like.”

Pen’s heart began thumping in her chest as her pulse quickened, studying this gorgeous animated confusing man. What was he saying? Was Colin really asking her to come back to the room with him? To their room? She had a sudden mental image of colliding through that hotel room door with him, limbs entangling as they stumbled towards the beds.

“Oh,” she said dumbly. “I didn’t realise that.”

“Neither did I, obviously.”

He took a step closer to her, his eyes earnest. 

“We don’t have to… we don’t have to do anything you’re not interested in, Pen. And I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Which I appreciate might be difficult right now, considering I’ve literally chased after you... I just…. I just want to be with you. I want to finish our weekend, together.”

It was Pen’s turn to be breathless. Her neck tingled as though all the tiny hairs were dancing. Was her imagination getting ahead of reality again? Was he talking about spending time with her as a friend, or could he possibly mean…

“Why?” she said. 

Colin’s lips trembled. He ducked his head, taking a deep breath, then looked up at her with such an expression of longing that she almost gasped. 

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you. You are haunting me, Pen, like the sweetest ghost. I see you everywhere. I think about you all of the time. Every minute of every day. When I fall asleep at night I dream of you and when I wake up my body is aching for you.”

Oh. Pen’s mouth dropped open but he hadn’t finished. 

“Your touch is like electricity on my skin. Like Fizz Wiz but in my heart not on my tongue. When I’m with you the world feels right. Like all of those questioning voices in my head go quiet and there’s just bliss.”

Colin licked his lips.

“It’s bliss just being with you Pen. And I didn’t want to go another day without you knowing that. Whether that is as friends or… maybe as more than friends… which I very much hope you’ll consider… although I will take whatever you’ll give me, honestly.”

Before she could respond he broke off, looking over her right shoulder.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he said.

Both the irritable tone and the words were jarring. Pen turned to see that Felicity and Hyacinth stood by the cafe door. Hy held her phone up, clearly filming them.

“What the hell are you doing, Hyacinth Bridgerton?” he demanded.

“Snap chatting you,” she said without moving.

Colin scowled. “Why?”

Felicity grinned at Pen before she answered for her friend.

“Only capturing the most beautiful love declaration ever.”

“You really are a romance writer, Colin,” Hy added. She giggled. “Fizz Wiz in your heart.”

Pen turned back to him. His cheeks were completely flushed and he was frowning adorably (adorably?) at his sister. Colin hadn’t actually said he loved her, but that was a technicality it didn’t feel pertinent to point out right now.

“Please tell me that wasn’t a scene from one of your new stories,” she said. 

Colin stopped glaring at Hy and looked at her, his face softening immediately in a most gratifying way. 

“No, that was written just for you.”

She raised an eyebrow. 

“You wrote that down?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Just a draft outline in my notes app. I didn’t seem to be doing too well off the cuff today.”

Pen laughed. His face relaxed for the first time since he’d climbed out of the car.

“But now Hy has filmed it maybe I could take it and use it again.”

She stepped towards him.

“Don’t you fucking dare. Your Fizz Wiz is all mine.”

Pen reached up to grab Colin’s shirt just under the henley’s buttons and tugged him closer. She raised up on her toes and pressed her lips to his. Colin responded immediately, kissing her back with an eagerness that delighted her. And, no doubt, delighted Hyacinth, whose little video would get its own HEA.

His big hands first cradled either side of her jaw, then he wrapped his arms around her waist, gliding his hands along her lower back and hauling her body tightly against his. Pen’s hands were trapped between her body and his chest. She slid them up, savouring the sensation of his firm muscle beneath the fabric, up over his shoulders, up and winding her arms around his neck. One of his hands climbed its way into her hair and held the back of her head with his strong fingers while the other gripped her lower back. She tugged on the hair at the nape of his neck and he moaned into the kiss. Like it was a cliched scene in a romance novel; like they were ardent lovers on a page.

Pen didn’t know how many times she had imagined kissing Colin Bridgerton over the years but of course none of those dreams came close to reality. Time seemed to slip away as they clung to each other. She was open-mouthed and hungry for him, and he responded in kind, forgetting their sisters were likely still watching, forgetting Anthony and the crowded cafe and the rest of the world. She was vaguely aware that at least two passing cars had honked at their very public display. Eventually she pulled away and opened her eyes to see Colin beaming at her with a dopey grin. He nuzzled his nose against hers in a gesture so sweet she might have melted against him had he not still been holding her upright. 

“Will you stay, Pen?” he said softly.

“You do make a persuasive case, Mr Bridgerton,” she said.

Ignoring Hyacinth’s whoops, Colin kissed her again.

Chapter Text

Colin and Penelope crashed through the door of the hotel room with no grace or dignity, all fumbling hands and desperate mouths. Somewhere between the landing and their doorway Colin had picked her up, his long arms scooping and lifting her easily so she could wrap her legs around his hips. As soon as the door closed he turned and pressed her back against it, kissing fervently down the side of her neck, his tongue laving the crook of where her shoulder joined. His head started to move lower, kissing down her chest to the scoop neck of her dress and the curve of her breasts. 

He pulled back suddenly and met her eyes. 

“Pen,” he said, in between panting breaths, “You need to tell me… I don’t want to assume…”

“Yes,’ she said without hesitation. “Absolutely yes.”

“Oh thank god.”

He spun them so quickly she might have been dizzy had she not wrapped her arms tightly around his broad shoulders. While she was there she took the opportunity to slide her fingers through his curls and kissed the top of one ear. He carried her towards the three single beds as though she weighed no more than a tiny hedgehog, pausing between the feet of the first and second beds.

“Your place or mine?” he said.

Pen stopped nibbling down the side of his ear to giggle. 

“Mine,” she said.

Colin almost threw her onto the middle mattress in his eagerness, kicked off his boots, and scrambled on top of her. He braced an arm on either side of her body and gazed down at her. 

“You are so beautiful, Pen,” he said, his tone at once so soft and husky that Pen felt something tickle all the way down from her stomach to her cunt. 

“You are also beautiful,” she said. 

She had never seen anything as radiant as Colin’s face right then. His lips were dark red and glistening from their kisses and his eyes were - well his eyes were whatever romance authors meant when they said the hero’s eyes darkened. There was want and desire and admiration and also something else she’d never seen this close up before: Colin was nervous. Even though they’d spent the last twenty minutes kissing in the Aldwark car park before they came upstairs, there was something in his eyes that suggested he felt it wasn’t quite real. Like she might disappear at any moment, or say it was all a joke or a misunderstanding and she didn’t really want this with him. 

Pen snaked her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him firmly down towards her. That would not do at all. If Colin needed reassurance she would just have to give it to him. They resumed kissing and exploring each others bodies until she could see the doubt had disappeared and in its place there was only hunger and something that looked a lot like shivering bliss. The pile of clothes tossed to the floor grew as they stripped each other bare. Pen particularly enjoyed peeling off his blue henley, then taking her time to kiss each of his tattoos most carefully; surprised to see that now she was looking at it closely the one on the back of his left shoulder blade was actually a delicate mosaic of tiny blue violets and heliotrope. (Violets for faithfulness, some part of her brain helpfully supplied. And heliotrope, the flower that follows the sun, for eternal devotion. )

Colin edged himself backwards down the bed, kissing every centimetre of her naked skin as he went. Just as he was reaching her stomach Pen touched the top of his head, saying, “Colin, wait.”

He halted and looked up at her. Hell, she could get used to the view of that handsome face from this angle.

“What’s my favourite colour?” she asked.

Colin scrunched up his face in confusion.

“What?”

“What’s my favourite colour?” she repeated.

“I didn’t realise there was a password for access,” he said with a cheeky grin, resting his chin on her stomach. “But green.”

“Favourite book?”

“Pride and prejudice but also Persuasion,” he said instantly. “You love them equally but differently.”

Pen could feel her own silly grin forming as she gazed down at his adorable face and rumpled chestnut hair.

“Birthday?”

“April 8th,” he said.

“Best tea flavour?”

“Peppermint. Except in the mornings when you will inhale coffee.”

She turned her head sideways to glance at the little note Colin had written her first thing this morning, which she’d folded and carefully left on her bedside table but somehow forgotten to pack in the rush of leaving.

“Bloody hell, Colin,” she said.

He kissed the skin on her stomach just to the left of her navel and hummed questioningly.

“Once you run interference with mum at the wedding next weekend, you do realise you have ticked off everything on that fantasy man list we talked about? Well, almost everything.”

Colin’s eyebrows shot up and his grin broadened. 

“Really?” Something clocked in his brain then and he smirked. “Oh right. I get you, Featherington.” 

He ran both hands firmly down the side of her thighs and squeezed.

“l’d better get to work then.”

Pen laughed as he shuffled backwards slightly further. His fingertips drew circles all the way down the front of her legs to her ankles, and then slowly back up again. She realised she’d never actually laughed with someone during sex before. It felt strangely natural and actually rather nice.

Nice, she thought, as Colin lowered his head to run the flat of his tongue up the inside of one thigh. She had a sneaking suspicion her adjective use was about to escalate rather substantially. And it certainly did. Colin went down on her with the enthusiasm of a starving man. She’d come twice on his tongue and fingers before he wriggled up beside her again, looking rather smugly pleased with himself. Well, she supposed that was deserved.

Pen pushed him onto his back with slightly more force than she’d intended and they both giggled as he had to whip out an arm to steady them and stop himself from rolling off the single mattress. She clambered on top of him with slightly less grace than she would have liked, although she was fairly certain from the way his face lit up that Colin couldn’t have cared less. He held her steady with a large palm on either hip, gazing up at her with a hungry look that suggested he’d imagined seeing her from this angle before. He shivered as she placed a hand on either side of his belly button and pushed her fingers firmly up over the warm skin, skimming over his ribs and his pecs. 

Pen bent her head down towards him, intending to kiss him but instead deciding to nuzzle his nose softly with her own as he had done earlier. He held her gaze as she drew back, his dark blue eyes glittering with want. 

“Hi,” she said.

The corners of his lips tucked up into a small smile.

“Hi there,” he said softly. 

“Are you ready?”

Colin had moved his right palm to the small of her back and was now running his hand up and down the smooth skin alongside her spine. He smirked at her.

“Looking to break that dry spell fully, Pen?”

She arched an eyebrow at him.

“Are you?” she said

“Hell yes.”

“Definitely a yes, then, for me.”

He squeezed her hip with his long fingers. “Then shut up and fuck me like I know you want to, Penelope Featherington.”

She made a face of mock disapproval at him. 

“What happened to my sweet romance-writing guy with his sublime dialogue?”

Colin appeared to consider this for a moment.

“On vacation,” he said, leaning forwards to kiss her soundly.

With enthusiastic consent obtained, there was no sensible talking for quite some time after that.

***

The weather had turned fully as it always did in Yorkshire and the early evening rain that had first softly pattered on the window now thrummed with steady fervour.

Colin lay on his back with Pen cuddled into his side. He’d made a half-hearted effort to pull the bed sheet and blanket over them but had given up halfway and it only covered up to their thighs. Pen was running her fingertips over his chest, drawing tiny patterns on his skin with her fingers. Colin had one arm tightly around her waist and the other was idly tracing the skin of her upper arm.

“I think the trope is wrong,” she said into their contented silence. 

He hummed questioningly but didn’t respond.

“The one bed trope. Multiple singles is much better.”

He stopped caressing her arm and instead started playing with the ends of her hair. 

“Oh. Why’s that?” he said.

“There’s proper build up,” she said, “where you know they’re so very nearby but you’re not touching. Like you could accidentally touch in the Queen bed but in singles there’s a firm barrier.”

“Mmm,” he said noncommittally.

“No unwittingly clinging to each other in the night like cuddly dream monkeys.”

“Uh huh.”

“No waking up with a stiffy pressed against your butt as he ‘accidentally’ sleep spoons you,” she said.

“Pen!” he said. 

“I’ve been catching up on reading lately,” she said. “And then when you finally get your shit together you can christen each bed individually and then you get to be this close.”

Colin chuckled, whether at her comment or the fact they had, quite literally, tried out each of the beds before ending back in the middle one, Pen didn’t know. She savoured the feel of his chest vibrating against her.

“That’s true,” he agreed. “The snuggles are indeed very snuggly in a single.”

Pen slid her hand down to stroke his hip bone then wrapped her arm comfortably around his waist. She should have known Colin would be an enthusiastic cuddler. Not that she was complaining. 

“Yes,” she said. “New trope name: sexy snuggly singles.”

“Say that five times really fast.”

Colin kissed her forehead.

“So Agent Featherington,” he said, stroking her hair, “is this mission accomplished? Should I be debriefing you now?”

“Hmm?” Pen said drowsily. 

“You said pretending to be a spy was useful to pep you up if you were on a pick up mission.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling a warm satisfaction that Colin had remembered her words so vividly. “I guess I didn’t need any fake confidence today.”

Colin was still processing whether that was a compliment or not when she added, “Too focused on how keen I was to rip your clothes off, I suppose.”

He smiled. He’d take that. 

“Also,” she said, giving his hip a quick tickle, “Technically, I think you’ll find you’ve already thoroughly de-briefed me. They’re over there.”

She waved vaguely in the direction of the floor where the majority of her clothes were flung. Colin laughed and reached down to where her hand rested back on his waist and covered it with his own, squeezing it.

“The eagle has landed,” he said, trying but mostly failing to keep a tone of smugness out of his voice. 

“Hell yeah,” Pen said. 

“The package was delivered.”

She giggled.

“Control, I think we’ve been compromised,” he said. 

Pen snorted.

“Are you sure you don’t want to branch out into spy novels?” she said. 

“I suppose I could think about a spy romance.”

“I didn’t ask how your signing went earlier,” she said. “We got distracted.”

“Well I think. More people than I expected. Also I met your nemesis, Alfonso. And you can distract me anytime.”

Pen frowned up at him. 

“What?”

“You can distract me…”

“No, about Alfie.”

Colin shrugged.

“They let him back in and he waited patiently at the end of the queue.”

“You are joking, Colin.”

“I’m not,” he said. “I suppose it wasn’t me they were arguing over.”

“True. What on earth did he say?”

“He asked me very politely for an inscription for his girlfriend. And then he told me what a harpy you were. With specific examples.”

“Hmm,” Pen said. “And what did you write?”

Colin gently tucked a lock of hair back over her exposed ear. He shifted slightly, enjoying the sensation of their bare legs rustling together.

“I wrote ‘Thank you so much for reading. And don’t worry, Cress,  Penelope is all mine’.”

Pen laughed.

“You did not!”

“I did. Luckily he didn’t even read it. Not sure he’d have been thrilled. She’ll like it though.”

“Well,” she said, resting her cheek back down on his chest, “I’m glad his revelations didn’t put you off me.”

“No,” he said, kissing her head again. “Actually I was impressed. I just thought, ‘That's my girl’.”

Pen didn’t move, but he could feel her smiling against his skin.

“I’m your girl?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “In a not weird, non-possessive way.”

He hesitated then added quietly, “If you’d like to be.”

“I would very much like to be,” she said softly. 

“Well,” Colin said, wrapping both arms around her and pulling her even more firmly against him, “That’s bloody brilliant then. Because I am totally yours.”

He was silent for a moment.

“Your man, I mean,” he clarified, “not your girl.”

Pen smiled again against his chest.

“You are my very manly man, Colin,” she said. 

“Good,” he said, aiming for gruffness, but aware he likely sounded rather pleased indeed.

“Although…” Pen said, grinning up at him, and starting to shift against his body. “My memory is quite bad this weekend. Must be the stress of the convention drama. I think I need to check again.” 

“Oh?”

“Yes. Although… I mean…,” she huffed in annoyance, “Look I know people’s gender isn’t defined just by their biology. But saying that kind of spoils the joke I was trying to make about inspecting your cock.”

Colin snorted. “This is not the conversation I imagined we’d be having this weekend.”

Pen wriggled further down his body, sliding the sheet and blanket off both their bodies with her foot. She paused, looking up at him.

“How did you imagine us?” she said.

Colin froze for a moment at the sight of Pen, his goddess, hovering over his abdomen.

“Uh…” he said, “Actually, honestly, would you hate me if I said very much like this?”

Pen laughed, that beautiful joyful sound he so adored. 

“Okay then,” she said with a grin that could only be described as sinful. “Let’s make some dreams come true.”

***

Due to some very bad scheduling, that is to say a long session of after work shagging, Pen and Colin arrived quite late for Pru’s wedding rehearsal dinner on the Thursday evening. Due to their shared desire to get back to more of the same they also left as early as they feasibly could. 

So it wasn’t until the wedding proper on the following Saturday that any of the Featherington girls were able to corner Pen to interrogate her about the drama with her brief writing career. She had been, as was customary, dutifully ignoring the Featherington family chat groups but she was well aware they’d all seen footage from the convention. 

She’d been wrong about the hash tag. It wasn’t #LoveNotesTrainCrash in the end, rather #ButThatsMyPenName which briefly trended. Pen received a record 17 voicemails from her mum after she’d seen both the convention panel session and Hyacinth’s footage from outside the roadside cafe in York. She’d let them run in the background while she took a shower and had to say her favourite was Portia telling her not to worry because Jeffrey Archer allegedly lied about his A levels to get ahead and things turned out fine for him.

Pen’s plan of sticking like glue to Colin didn’t help as her tipsy siblings, plus a sober but smirking Felicity, cornered them both as they were leaving the dance floor. The bride herself was in an ebullient mood and held her champagne glass to one side as she gave Pen an uncharacteristic one-armed hug before also giving Colin a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“I really didn’t get a chance to say congratulations to you, Penelope,” she said. 

Pen shared an amused glance with Colin before saying, “I think we should be congratulating you, Pru. It’s your wedding, honey.”

“Yes,” said Colin, “Congratulations to you both. Harry is a lucky man.”

Pru tittered. 

“I didn’t mean on your wedding, silly. I mean on your writing career. Your novel. I heard it’s a hit.”

Now Pen looked confusedly at her other two sisters. 

“I don’t think she understood the video,” Felicity said helpfully. 

“No Pru,” said Pen. “The thing is, it wasn’t my writing after all. The novel was Colin’s. There was a mix-up and I was just helping him with PR.”

“That’s an interesting way to put it,” said Pip, who obviously had a clearer grasp of the true situation. 

“Oh!” said Pru happily, beaming at Colin. “So it was your writing?”

“Yes,” said Colin.

“Oh!” said Pru again. 

She giggled then took another sip of her champagne and then raised it towards Penelope in a toast.

“In that case, congratulations Penelope!” she said with a snort.

Pen glanced between her sisters very quickly and then back at Pru. 

“Oh!” she said, echoing her sister. “Thank you Pru, that’s very kind.”

Colin felt bewildered. Clearly there was some kind of Featherington telepathy going on he wasn’t privy to. Usually that would be something he was grateful for.

“But it was my book,” he said. “Why are you congratulating Pen again?”

The elder sisters both guffawed. Felicity, taking pity on him, leaned towards Colin.

“We are all well past chapter eighteen,” she said quietly.

Colin’s face turned beet red.

“I even loaned my copy to Albie,” Pip said brightly. “Not that he needs instructions, mind, but some fresh ideas never hurt, do they? Well, I suppose unless he…”

“Excuse me, won’t you,” Pen said, before Colin expired of mortification. “My plus one and I were really hoping to dance to this song. Lovely to catch up, girls.”

Without waiting for their response she seized Colin by the arm and drew him back onto the dance floor.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid the family does kind of come with the Penelope package.”

Colin grunted, but she could see he was holding back a smile.

“Could have been worse I suppose,” he said, “Could have been your mother saying it.”

“Give her a few more glasses of bubbly,” Pen said.

“I don’t think that was ever part of our deal.”

“Actually I’m sure we did explicitly discuss protection from my mother. You offered to be a pincushion, if I recall.”

“Not if there’s ribald innuendo afoot about my prowess.”

Pen hummed as she swayed against him.

“I guess it’s really over now, our deal? This was the last part.”

“How am I doing?” he asked, “As your holi-date?”

“Acceptably,” she said. “But I was still desperately hoping you might pass and ask Bernie or Joe for me.”

Colin snickered at that, knowing full well Pen would have little to say to either of his old school mates.

They danced for a while longer in silence. She loved dancing with Colin. Although he was much taller than her it always felt like their bodies fitted together perfectly. Colin also seemed to relish spinning her; although Pen’s favourite part was not the twirl itself but the look of pure joy on his face when he drew her back towards him.

As predicted he looked good enough to eat in his bespoke suit. This time it was a dark grey and double breasted. Pen wondered idly just how many suits he owned and also whether he might be willing to perform in a personal fashion parade just for her.

“Speaking of families though,” Colin said, “We’ve been invited to lunch at Ant’s tomorrow, if you’re free.”

“Any special occasion?”

“No, it’s just the regular family gathering,” he said. “We’ve been taking turns hosting nowadays. Mum didn’t say specifically but I think she finds it a bit much to be always at hers with so many people every week, as the family keeps growing.”

“Our first Bridgerton Sunday lunch as a couple. Historic,” she said.

“Prepared? It could get boisterous.”

“I’m not worried. The benefit of knowing your family a long time. I’ve tracked everyone’s weaknesses. And besides,” she added, “I’ve already talked at length with Eloise and she was the sibling most likely to have the weirdest reaction.”

“Did she?”

“No. To be honest she seemed more disappointed to find out I wasn’t really a writer than that I’m dating you.”

Colin seemed unsure what to make of that. 

“Why would she be disappointed you’re not a writer?”

Pen shrugged.

“She thought it was cool. She said I’d always been interested in stories. And maybe she’d thought that going into advertising was somehow a bit more corporate and less cool than being a starving artist.”

“She can talk… she’s a corporate acquisitions lawyer.”

“I imagine she’ll move into something less so once she’s done her time in the fancy firm.” 

“Mmm,” Colin said. 

He pulled her close and took the opportunity to kiss the top of her head. 

“Anyway,” Pen said, “I might be changing jobs soon.”

“Really?”

“I didn't get a chance to tell you I got a call from Kate this morning. The marketing team at Danbury’s is hiring and she wanted to know if I’d be interested in coming in for an interview. She said she’d put in a good word for me with them.”

“Are you going to?”

“It can’t hurt to try. If they can overlook my most recent behaviour. I have a strong portfolio ready. And I rather like the idea of having Kate as a colleague and Ms Danbury as a boss.”

“You don’t find them at all…” Colin fished for the right word, settling on “intimidating?”

“No. Actually, after seeing the way Kate threw out Alfie when she thought he might be bothering me, I’d love to see the way the firm deals with men who bully other staff.”

“True,” he said. “That sounds great, Pen. Really great.”

As the song ended they both glanced back to the side of the dance floor. Pru had disappeared but Pip and Felicity were still hovering, grinning like very well dressed hyenas. 

“Another dance?” Pen suggested.

Colin smiled and tugged her closer. 

“You just like touching me up in this fancy suit, don’t you, Featherington?”

“Yes,” she said simply, and put her arms around him again.

***

Despite yesterday’s bravado Pen felt a twinge of nervousness as they rang the bell of Anthony’s apartment. Ant had renovated one of the family’s city properties some years ago. It was now a stunning blend of gorgeous stonework, heritage architecture and modern comfort, located in one of London’s oldest and most prestigious suburbs. Pen sometimes forgot how much money the Bridgerton family really had until moments like this, standing in her M&S flats on the cool slab stone steps.

It was Daphne who opened the door. She pulled them each into a quick hug, giving Pen an extra squeeze as she did so. Pen was reminded then of how 17-year old Daph had grinned knowingly down the table at her so many years ago.

“I’m very pleased you’re happy, Penelope,” she whispered, not at all subtly, into Pen’s ear. “It’s about time.”

“You are the very last to arrive, brother,” she said to Colin, pressing his shoulder gently, “but I suppose that’s just as well. I can lead you in.”

“Lead me in to…” Colin asked, but Daphne was already striding away down the hallway. 

As if sensing Pen’s nerves, Colin took her hand in his own and gave it a tender press. They followed hand in hand behind Daphne towards the drawing room where the buzz of family voices jangled. 

“Sounds like pre-lunch drinks might be underway,” Colin said. “Excellent. There’s really no need for you to be…”

Pen felt the exact moment Colin stiffened on reaching the doorway. Strung across the handsome wallpaper of one of Ant’s drawing room walls was a three metre wide calico banner. Painted in block letters in black and red ink were the words:

CONGRATS COLIN ❤️ OUR WRITER!

WE R PROUD OF YOU

Dangling at each end were three of the largest helium-filled pink foil heart balloons that Pen had ever seen. Every head in the room turned towards them and the Bridgerton family burst into rowdy applause. While Greg’s whistle spluttered feebly, Ben hooted.

“You were supposed to give me a proper heads up, Daph,” said Anthony, slightly waspishly. “Oh, never mind.” 

He reached down to a silver ice bucket propped on the low coffee table and slid out a bottle of champagne. Daphne moved closer to start lining up and passing the flutes. As Ant popped the cork, Hyacinth bounded across the room to envelop Colin in an enthusiastic hug. 

“I’m so thrilled for you, Colin,” she said, “and also for me because I knew you were a novelist first. And I helped Ant make the banner.”

Colin squeezed her firmly.

“Thanks, Hy. Although technically, Pen knew first.”

“I mean of your siblings, idiot,” she said, finally letting go of him. “Not just of the people you love.”

Before either Colin or Pen could react to that Violet stepped towards them, politely all but elbowing her youngest out of the way.

“This is the celebration we should have had when you first signed the book deal. Oh my dear boy, I’m so very proud of you.” 

Colin opened his arms for a hug. Pen couldn’t help smiling as she watched them. Clearly everyone was going to line up to embrace Colin this morning. It could take some time.

“I can’t wait to tell my book club. Mrs Sewell has been irritatingly smug for months now about her daughter writing the script for the local primary school play,” Pen could hear Violet saying, as from the corner of the sofa Ben made a dirty joke to Fran and Greg about whether Colin might need an illustrator.

Eloise sidled towards Pen and drew her into her arms.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what’s this for?” she said.

“You’ve always been like another sister to me, Pen,” Eloise said gruffly into the shoulder of Pen’s pale blue jumper. “And now you pretty much are. I’m so bloody chuffed.”

Pen held her friend close.

“Thank you,” she said. “And thank you for not being spooked about this. I get that it might be a little fantastical.”

“It’s certainly weird you chose one of my brothers,” El said as she loosened her hold. “But it’s not fantastical that someone adores you, Pen. And it’s no stranger than me marrying a botanist. Or marrying at all, really.”

Pen gasped and pulled backwards from Eloise. Her friend’s eyes widened as she realised what she’d said.

“You what!” Pen hissed.

Eloise shot a quick look around at her siblings, sagging a little as she realised none were paying them much mind. 

“We’ll discuss that later, I promise.”

She squeezed Pen’s shoulder again. 

“But today is about Colin. Who I suppose is a good egg.”

Pen looked sideways at Colin who was clearly glowing with happiness at his family’s reception.  

“He is,” she agreed.

A beaming Anthony pressed a glass of champagne into each of their hands. 

“I took your very sound advice, Penelope,” he said quietly to her. “Quite literally.”

Pen grinned at him. 

“I can see that. With bold ink. In a nice large font.”

“Subtlety is not my strong point. And in this, best to be clear, yes? No more assumptions.”

Anthony glanced around at his chattering family and raised his voice.

“I should like to say a few words,” he said. 

“Of course you would,” said Hyacinth, groaning theatrically.

Ant smiled as Daph handed Hy a glass that clearly held barely enough champagne for one tiny sip. Pen and Eloise shared a knowing look. Ant’s lengthy family toasts were becoming the stuff of legends. Anthony held up his glass and looked around at his family. 

“Colin,” he said.

Colin, along with everyone else, watched with waning enthusiasm, anticipating a typical Anthony speech. Ant turned slightly and winked at Pen.

“I believe our sign says it all. Cheers.”

He wrapped Colin into a hug. His voice, muffled against the side of Colin’s head, was still crystal clear.

“Well done, brother.”

***

After lunch Pen lost sight of both Colin and Eloise. After some time waiting for them to return, she wandered through Anthony’s apartment until she heard their voices echoing from the kitchen.

“But why were you looking in the first place?”

“My phone was dead! I was checking the date for Auggie’s birthday. You know I’m terrible remembering all the nibblings.”

“You could have asked me. Or Daphne.”

“You need a much better passcode, Colin. Honestly, Pen’s birthday?”

“That really isn’t the point, El.”

Pen drew near to the door and was about to interrupt them when she heard Eloise say, “Have you scheduled the entire relationship, Colin?”

“No! Of course not! I just don’t want to fuck this up.”

Eloise was quiet for a moment. Pen could see them both then, leaning side by side with their backsides against the kitchen counter. Unlike the rest of Anthony's place, the kitchen shone with modernity; gleaming white cabinets, heavy marble, and the latest appliances. 

“You won’t, Colin.”

“How are you so sure?” 

Pen heard the vulnerable quiver in his voice. Eloise’s reply, however, was firm.

“Because I know everything. Have you forgotten that in your old age?”

Pen couldn’t see Colin’s face but she could imagine he was grimacing. El reached over to squeeze his upper arm.

“Also, because you’re you, Colin, I know you won’t fuck it up.” 

“How do you know?”

“I just know. And I appreciate this goes against the grain Colin, but trust me. Don’t overthink this one.”

Pen coughed. She had learned her lesson about snooping on Bridgertons. Best to tell them you were there early. They both turned towards her. 

“Ah!” Eloise said, “It’s the appointment herself.” 

She patted Colin on the shoulder and with a grin at Pen left the kitchen.

“Talk later,” she mouthed on her way past.

 Pen eyed Colin carefully. He was frowning down at his phone. 

“Should I ask what that was about?”

She moved towards him, pausing once their bodies faced each other. She hadn’t seen Colin look this uncomfortable since the night in the bar when he was explaining about the mix up with his pen name, screwing up his courage to ask her the favour that brought them back together. Surely he couldn’t have another secret quite so large?

“Um… El saw something on my phone.”

“Okay.”

That much was obvious.

“In my calendar.”

She waited but Colin didn’t say anything more.

“Am I going to have to guess?”

Colin shuffled his feet, his telltale fingers starting to twitch.

“I’m not sure how you’re going to take this Pen.”

Pen couldn’t quite read the expression on his face. Anxious, yes. Embarrassed. And something else. 

“There’s really only one way to find out.”

She watched Colin swallow, clearly weighing his options.

“Please Colin,” she said gently, “I’m trying to being cool about this but honestly, the longer we wait the more chaotic my imagination will get. Whatever it is can’t be worse than what I’m making up right now.”

Colin bit his bottom lip and thrust out his phone. Pen glanced down at the screen and saw that he was showing her a calendar item scheduled for the 21st of June.

It read simply: Tell Pen I love her.

Pen stared at the screen. That sentence. Those five words. Tell Pen I love her. An appointment to confess. Eloise’s comment made much more sense now. As much as something like this could be said to make sense. Colin loved her. He loved her! Also, Colin had planned the date in the future when he was going to say he loved her. Specifically, in three weeks. She wasn’t sure how much time passed while her mind recited those facts like they were rotating on an automated Lazy Susan. 

Colin’s voice was soft.

“I really need you to say something, Pen.”

“Right now? Or should I schedule my response?”

“Please don’t make fun of me.”

Pen gazed up into the worried face of this cinnamon roll of a man she so adored.

“I’m not. I won’t. Really. I’ve just never seen anyone timetable relationship reminders before. I mean… maybe birthdays and anniversaries.”

“I don’t need those,” he said. “I remember them already.”

Pen recalled how easily Colin had rattled off her birthday, her favourite colour, her favourite books and films, and felt a sweet agitation in her chest.

“But you do for this?”

“Yes.”

A light flush had started to diffuse over those beautiful cheekbones.

“Why? I can only assume it’s not because you think you’re going to forget your feelings. So…”

Colin sighed.

“So I don’t say it too soon and freak you out.” 

His voice was still gentle, as though he was almost ashamed of the words. Pen could feel her mouth fall open to reply but nothing came out. Colin licked his lips.

“Pen, I know we’ve only been together for a week but I’ve wanted to tell you since the moment I realised and thought that would be much too soon so I thought I should wait. And I did think for quite some time about how long was too long and how soon was too soon. Probably too long, actually, now that I think about it. Only I didn’t want to get it wrong. We’ve talked around our feelings but neither of us have said the L word yet. And I may have looked at a Reddit thread about love bombing, which actually was probably not helpful.”

His words tumbled out in a rush.

“And you decided a month was the sweet spot?”

He swallowed thickly.

“I thought a month might be a little bit soon but not overly too soon. Like you might just find it sweet I’m enthusiastic about you.”

Pen stared at him for a moment longer as his eyes flitted between hers.

“I think I need to look at your phone again to see what else you’ve scheduled in.”

“There isn’t anything else.”

“Really? You don’t have ‘go down on Pen’ in there. As a recurring appointment?” 

“You said you wouldn’t make fun,” he mumbled, dropping his chin.

Pen took the phone from him and slid it onto the bench top behind them, then held each of his hands in hers. His skin was warm as he twined his larger fingers between hers. Her faithful, devoted, beautiful man.

“It is sweet. And I do like your enthusiasm. But that’s a lot of thinking, Col. I don’t want you to worry so much about being wrong when it comes to us.”

“I can’t promise that,” he said quietly. “But I will try.”

Pen released one hand and reached up to smooth his forehead, as if she could brush away his anxiety with her fingertips. She wished it was that simple. She gently rubbed the crease at the top of his nose, between his eyes, and felt the muscle relax. There was no need for him to worry so. She was his, completely. She grasped his hand again and squeezed them both steadfastly.

“When did you realise? That you loved me?”

Her nervous tongue spliced the sentence into two.

“Last week at the hotel. Saturday morning, before lunch,” he said.

Pen raised her eyebrows. That was rather specific.

“10:47 am,” he added.

“Oh, Colin,” she said.

She dropped his hands and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, drawing him as close as she possibly could. Colin folded his arms around her and held her in a bear hug. Pen pressed her face into his t-shirt, inhaling the scent of his cologne and listening to his elevated heartbeat. Colin really was a great hugger.

Colin could feel both of their heartbeats thrumming together as he held Pen. He slid his fingers through her soft hair, sighing at the feeling of his fingertips stroking her scalp.

“I was walking down the stairs,” he mumbled into her hair. “And thinking about how happy you looked planning to do awful things to Alfonso. You were incandescent.”

Pen laughed and only then did she realise it was a wet laugh, thanks to a few tears that were trickling down her cheeks. She remembered how it had felt to sit beside Colin on the bed that day, as they had traded barbs about Alfie; and how much she had ached to reach out and touch his neck, his chest, his skin.

“I love you too, you big dork,” she said into the soft grey fabric of his t-shirt. “Utterly and completely.”

He loosened his hold slightly so he could look at her face. 

“Really?” 

“Of course. I love you, Colin. I think I have for a long time. How could I not? We’re Colin and Penelope. We’re star crossed lovers.”

Colin pinched his eyebrows together, frowning down at the woman in his arms. 

“Are we?”

“Yes. I’m the girl who on very rare occasions gets blood noses and you’re the boy who faints whenever he sees blood. How can we possibly make this work?”

He grinned, reaching out to swab the tears from her cheek with his thumb.

“We’re practically Romeo and Juliet,” he said cheerfully. “Lovers from warring dynasties.”

“Buffy and Angel,” Pen said. “The vampire slayer and the vampire.”

“Buffy and Spike,” Colin said. “Although maybe not, that was problematic.”

She laughed. 

“Our love story will be epic, Colin. True love conquering supreme obstacles. Maybe you could write it.”

Colin smiled down at her with that warm expression she so loved, his dimples popping.

“We should write it together, Penelope Featherstone.”

“Yes,” she said, squeezing his hips, “I would like that very much. And while we’re making important promises, I would also like you to come to an appointment with me. On Tuesday morning.”

Colin tilted his head to the side, his eyebrows drawing together again.

“Of course.”

“You don’t want to know what it is first?”

“No,” he said frankly. “I’d go anywhere with you, Pen.”

She cocked an eyebrow.

“Even queueing at the bank?”

“I’d love to queue at the bank with you.”

“It’s not the bank.”

“Okay. Although you got my hopes up there.”

“I'm getting a tattoo. In fact Ben is doing some sketches for me literally right now.”

“We really should start paying him.”

“We should.”

“What are you getting? You said you could never decide before.”

Pen slid her fingers up under the back of his t-shirt, savouring the sensation of his lovely warm skin against hers.

“A hummingbird,” she said.

It was Colin’s turn to feel tears threatening to spill.

“Oh,” he said. “Really?”

“Did you know,” she said, pulling him a little closer, “they have really big hearts, relative to the size of their body weight? In fact they have the largest hearts relative to body size in the entire animal kingdom.”

“Pub quiz?” he said. He rubbed his palms up and down her back. “And yes, I did know that. I looked them up once, for… I dunno… some reason.”

“Yes,” she said. 

And she leaned up for the first of many, many more kisses.

***

The End