You were used to having the world at your feet—everything you desired arrived wrapped in silk and served with a silver spoon. Your every whim was indulged, your every pout answered. The world, as you saw it, was yours to command.
Your father’s holiday villa in West Sussex was your kingdom for three months every summer. A grand estate nestled amid rolling green hills, where the scent of blooming wildflowers mingled with the sharp tang of the sea air. For years, your summers followed a predictable rhythm: arrival, leisure, and then the ritual of getting rid of the villa’s staff.
Some had resigned in desperation, others were dismissed with barely concealed irritation when they failed to meet your impossible standards. You wielded your privilege like a weapon, trained at the University to be charming and cunning, yet at home, your sharp tongue and impatience were legendary.
This year, though, was different.
When you arrived after your last university exams, flushed with the freedom of summer and the pride of victory over another academic year, your father had replaced part of the staff of the last summer.
Among them, Oliver Mellors was the new gamekeeper — your father’s latest hire after a string of failures. Unlike his predecessors, he was quiet, weathered by the earth, with a rough handsomeness that made you bristle with an unfamiliar kind of curiosity.
Of course, that curiosity didn’t stop you from going all in to get rid of him before the big party in mid-July. Your father may have been the one signing the paychecks, but over the years, you’d skillfully earned the loyalty of most of the staff. A few had simply learned to follow your lead—gently warned off the idea of crossing you, especially after what had happened to their predecessors. Others had been won over with little gifts, whispered favors, or the subtle promise of protection. But the gamekeepers? They were always the most difficult. Too proud, too isolated, too rooted in rules and quiet dignity. And Oliver Mellors, with his unreadable eyes and maddening calm, was proving to be the hardest of them all.
Your heel sank slightly into the fine gravel as you stepped out of the car, the sun catching the gold rim of your sunglasses as you slid them up to your nose. The scent of sun-warmed stone, lavender, and old roses hit you all at once—familiar, indulgent, and unmistakably home.
The villa stood before you in all its storied glory—not a mere country house, but a true manor, sprawling and dignified, its honeyed stone façade framed by centuries-old yews and creeping wisteria. Mullioned windows glinted in the sunlight, set into thick limestone walls that had weathered war, storm, and scandal. At its center, the great hall rose tall and proud with an ornate gable and chimney stacks like carved crowns, flanked by ivy-covered wings that reached into the grounds like open arms. The scent of cut grass mingled with the distant bray of peacocks. A gravel path split the manicured lawn with military precision, leading up to a great oak door ringed with iron studs—stubbornly original, like most of the estate.
The whole place exhaled heritage and authority. And despite everything, despite the heat, the long drive, and the end-of-term exhaustion still clinging to your shoulders—you smiled.
The estate was yours again and until the end of the summer.
Just as you bent to retrieve your weekender bag from where it rested on the leather armrest, the side door to the west wing creaked open—discreetly, as always—and out stepped Fletcher, the villa’s long-serving butler and, in truth, its quiet commander. Not merely a servant, but the estate’s unofficial steward, Fletcher had been managing the inner workings of the house since before you were old enough to know the difference between Bordeaux and Burgundy. Impeccably dressed in a tailored waistcoat despite the heat, he approached with calm efficiency, gliding over the gravel as though it never dared cling to his shoes.
“Miss,” he greeted with a faint bow of the head, his voice smooth as aged scotch. “Welcome back.”
You adjusted your sunglasses atop your head and gave Fletcher a small, knowing smile as you straightened up, bag in hand.
“Still haven’t retired, I see,” you teased, shifting your weight to one hip, voice laced with that practiced charm you wore like perfume. “Or do you secretly enjoy watching me ruin my father’s estate each summer?”
Fletcher didn’t so much as blink. “Retirement would be far too quiet, Miss. And your father insists I stay until he’s buried beneath the orchard.”
You arched a brow. “He’s been saying that since I was twelve.”
“And he means it more each year.”
He stepped forward and took the bag from your hand, tucking it under his arm with effortless grace. No protest. No fuss. Fletcher never asked permission to perform his duties. He simply did them, and you’d learned early on that trying to stop him was a waste of everyone’s time.
You made your way toward the entrance of the mansion, your heels clicking loudly against the dark marble steps.
“Your journey was comfortable, I trust?”
You shrugged lightly. “The usual. Two hours of bad radio and worse motorway drivers. I suppose the countryside makes it worth it, though.”
“Quite.”
There was a brief pause. Then he added, “Your cousins arrived yesterday afternoon. I’ve assigned them to the guest wing, as you requested.”
You nodded once, satisfied. “And the weather?”
He tilted his head slightly toward the horizon. “Hot. Possibly a storm by the weekend. Ideal for summer tennis, less so for evening gowns.”
You smiled again. “Nothing a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé and the right music can’t fix.”
Fletcher allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “I’ll have something chilled for dinner.”
You took a slow breath, eyes drifting toward the distant tree line where the woods began to thicken—the edge of the estate, where the old gamekeeper’s cottage lay. The light breeze carried the faint scent of rosemary and peat, freshly turned soil.
As if sensing your train of thought, Fletcher followed your gaze. A contrite and worried expression appeared on his face.
“There’s one other thing,” he said, clearing his throat. “Your father has hired a new gamekeeper.”
You turned your head slightly, lips curving with interest.
“Oh?”
“Yes, Mr. Oliver Mellors. Former military, I believe. Came with excellent references.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “They always do.”
You met Fletcher’s eyes, a glint of something almost wicked sparking behind yours. The butler paused ever so slightly—just long enough for you to notice—but nothing disturbed the calm, measured expression on his face. Of course, you didn’t expect him to flinch. Fletcher was nothing if not unflappable.
Still, you could tell he knew exactly what your interest in the gamekeeper meant.
He clasped his hands neatly behind his back. “He’s a quiet type. Keeps to himself, prefers the grounds to the company. Very thorough in his work. Prunes, manages, repairs—all with minimal supervision.”
You gave a noncommittal hum, watching a pair of doves disappear behind a high chimney.
“He’s done an excellent job these past months,” Fletcher continued with just a touch more emphasis, as if that might somehow dissuade you. “Competent. Discreet. I don’t believe he’ll cause any trouble.”
You turned your head slowly, arching a perfectly groomed brow.
“We will see.” you said sweetly, lips curving into the faintest smirk. “I suppose it’s time for me to introduce myself.”
There was a beat of silence before he gave a shallow nod of resignation, the ghost of a sigh buried in formality.
“Shall I arrange for him to meet you this evening?” he asked.
You turned back toward the house, the stone underfoot warm from the sun, your voice trailing behind you like perfume.
“No need. I prefer spontaneity.”
And with those words, you turned from the gravel drive and stepped down onto the wide stretch of lawn that rolled gently away from the manor like a perfectly manicured sea. The grass was still damp from the morning dew, the coolness seeping through the thin soles of your designer flats almost instantly. You didn’t care. The sun was already high enough to gild the landscape in amber light, and the soft breeze carried with it the scent of earth, wild mint, and something faintly smokey—burnt wood, perhaps, or peat.
You moved quickly, deliberately, not bothering to look back at the front steps or at Fletcher, who—no doubt—was watching your retreat in silence. If you had let him handle it, Mellors would have been warned. He would have tidied up, put on whatever mask he wore for your father, and steeled himself for a polite, forgettable conversation.
You weren’t going to give him that chance.
The grounds passed in a blur of familiarity—topiary hedges trimmed into strict lines, gravel paths fanning off toward the rose gardens and tennis courts, the centuries-old sundial in the courtyard that hadn’t worked properly in years but looked far too charming to replace. You passed the orchard’s edge, where the trees had just begun to fruit—too early for apples, but the bees already buzzed lazily between the branches.
You followed the curve of the southern path, down past the herb garden and into the older part of the estate where the grounds dipped, where trees thickened into a proper wood. It was quieter here—cooler, too, the sun filtered by canopy. A pair of doves cooed somewhere overhead.
And there it was.
Tucked into a clearing at the edge of the woods, surrounded by low mossy walls and half-wild hedges, stood the old keeper’s cottage.
Your father had overseen the renovation of the gamekeeper’s cottage some four years ago, insisting—almost obsessively—that even the estate’s more remote corners reflect a certain standard. The interior had been modernized discreetly, fitted with proper comforts: a spacious bathroom with brass fixtures, a sleek, contemporary kitchen tucked behind rustic cabinetry, and new flooring laid beneath the old timber beams to preserve the charm without sacrificing function. The stone walls, once flaking and damp, had been carefully repointed, the roof re-slated. Though it still wore the unassuming silhouette of a traditional Sussex outbuilding, the cottage now resembled a modest yet thoughtfully appointed home—just shy of a hundred square meters, compact but complete
Your pace slowed as you approached.
There was no movement outside—no visible sign of Mellors yet—but a set of muddy boots sat neatly by the front step, and a faded linen shirt hung on a nearby hook, drying in the sun. The, somewhere behind the cottage, you heard the creak of wood and the faint metallic ring of a spade being struck into earth.
Someone was there. Working.
With a smile, you rounded the side of the cottage with measured steps, careful not to disturb the gravel too loudly underfoot. The garden stretched out ahead of you in a narrow strip of sunlit soil, lined with low brick beds and half-grown vegetables—courgettes, tomatoes, trailing beans, all neat but unpretentious.
And there he was.
Oliver Mellors stood with his back to you, stripped to the waist, driving the head of a spade into the earth with quiet, practiced ease. His muscles shifted with the movement—shoulders broad, tanned and dusted with the fine sheen of sweat, back strong beneath the sun. He wore plain work trousers, the waistband slung low on his hips, and his hair—thicker and light brown—was tousled like he’d run his fingers through it instead of bothering with a comb.
You cleared your throat, soft but intentional.
He straightened almost immediately.
Didn’t jump.
Didn’t startle.
He turned slowly, deliberately, squinting just a little as his gaze landed on you. One hand still resting on the spade’s handle. The other falling to his side, relaxed.
For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other.
Your summer blouse, your pressed linen shorts, the fine gold chain at your collarbone.
And him: shirtless, sun-bronzed, smelling faintly of turned earth and crushed rosemary, with eyes the color of a stormy sea. Watching you.
He said nothing.
So you offered a slow, disarming smile.
“Mr. Mellors, I presume?”
His gaze flicked briefly over you—assessing, unhurried—and back to your face. His mouth curled, but it wasn’t quite a smile.
“Yes, it's me. And you are?”
Your smile cracked slightly but you straightened it again almost immediately.
“I am the one who owns this place.”
“Oh, you must be Boss's daughter, then. Nice to meet you, Miss.”
The accent was there—Northern, clipped and grounded—but softened by time. Not quite rural. Just… plainspoken.
“Fletcher said you were competent,” you continued, stepping forward, letting your sandals crunch softly over the path. “Quiet. Not one to cause trouble.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Depends on how you define trouble.”
Your smile deepened but you didn't answer him.
You stopped a few feet from him, crossing your arms loosely, watching the way the sun gilded the curve of his jaw, the glint of sweat along his collarbone.
“You’ve been here… how long?”
He shrugged. “Almost a year now.”
“Hm.” Your father had taken cover rather quickly after the last escapee.
He glanced toward the garden behind him, then back at you, probably wondering if the conversation would go on any longer.
“Not very talkative, are you?”
He wiped his brow with the back of his arm, finally resting the pale against the fence. “Not when I've nothing useful to say, i'm sorry.”
That answer caught you off guard.
Just for a second.
You tilted your head and took a slow step closer. Just enough to let him notice the perfume on your skin. Something floral, expensive, unmistakably deliberate.
“I’d like to get to know the staff this summer,” you said, letting the words fall easily from your mouth, as though they weren’t loaded. “Build a bit more… unity.”
He didn’t blink. “Unity?”
“Trust. Familiarity.”
He wiped his hands on a nearby rag, then folded it once, neatly.
“Funny,” he said, still not looking away, “most people don’t start with the gamekeeper.”
“No,” you said, voice low, stepping right into that final sliver of space between you, “but I’m not most people.”
This time, his eyes narrowed. Not aggressively—just enough to show that he saw exactly what you were doing. Every word, every movement, every calculated breath.
“I know what this is,” he said, calmly.
You smiled, lashes low. “Do you?”
“I know how and why the last lads left,” he said, matter-of-fact. “They weren’t all incompetent.”
You arched a brow, letting the air between you thicken. “You believe a lot of the things you are told, y'know.”
“I don’t need to,” he replied. “The pattern speaks for itself.”
There was no malice in his tone. No raised voice or accusation. Just plain, unadorned observation. You hated how still he was. How quiet. How unshakeable.
You crossed your arms loosely, fingers trailing along your upper arm. “So?”
He didn’t flinch.
“Will you simply agree,” you asked, voice syrup-smooth, “not to cause me any trouble during my summer holiday?”
He straightened slightly, shoulders broad, voice steady. “With all due respect, Miss—I answer to your father, not to you.”
A beat.
He said it without condescension. Without a trace of defiance. Just truth.
“And your father’s been quite clear,” he added, “about what you are and are not permitted to do while you’re here.”
You laughed—light and practiced—but there was something tight at the edges of it.
“Well,” you said, brushing your hair behind your ear with too much grace, “this is… a real shame.”
You weren’t going to give up just because Mellors was polite.
Polite could be cracked.
You had done it before—many times. Men far older, far stricter, far more resistant had folded beneath a steady current of subtle sabotage and well-placed sweetness. And they hadn’t looked half as interesting doing it.
So, you began.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing overt.
Just small things. Tests.
The first one was harmless enough.
At breakfast the next morning, you sent Fletcher a note—written in your softest, most polite handwriting—requesting Mellors accompany your cousins on their outing to the village that afternoon. Your father had made it clear Mellors was not to leave the grounds during working hours. You knew that. So did Fletcher. But the request was phrased as if your father had already approved it.
You waited.
But by mid-afternoon, your cousins returned alone, sweaty from the sun and annoyed.
You were lounging in the drawing room, a book open but unread on your lap, when the door creaked open and footsteps echoed across the parquet floor.
“I thought the keeper was meant to come,” Lisa grumbled.
“He never showed,” said Henry, the older of the cousins, tossing his sunglasses onto the sideboard. “Said he wasn’t leaving the estate without a direct order from your father. As if we were plotting to rob a bank.”
Amelia dropped onto the divan beside you, fanning herself with an abandoned postcard. “Honestly, how dull. You’d think a man who spends all day chasing pheasants would be glad to see the city.”
You looked up from your book with a delicate pout of concern. “Really? That’s so disappointing. I’d hoped he might enjoy a bit of civilization.”
But you were impressed.
He hadn’t taken the bait.
Two days later, you tried again.
The air was heavy with heat that morning, the kind that clung to skin and made linen feel like wool. A haze lingered over the fields, and everything smelled faintly of sun-warmed hay and roses past their prime.
You rose early—earlier than usual, even by Fletcher’s rigid standards—and dressed deliberately down for your morning walk. Not quite the picture of aristocratic perfection: practical shoes, breezy blouse, hair pinned up with just a touch of disarray. Innocent. Unremarkable. Almost helpful.
Fletcher met you at the east steps, as he always did on Tuesdays, clipboard in hand, the faintest sheen of perspiration at his temples betraying the heat.
“Are you joining me today, Miss?” he asked, his tone neutral but attentive.
You nodded with a faint smile, slipping on your sunglasses. “Let’s begin with the fencing. I want the grounds spotless before the guests arrive for the party.”
Fletcher fell into step beside you without comment.
You made idle conversation as you walked—about the weather, the state of the kitchen garden, and a passing note about a wasps’ nest near the old dovecote. Fletcher, for his part, responded with the usual dry professionalism, taking notes with his pencil, never indulging in your little provocations unless he had to.
And then, as you neared the wooded edge of the deer enclosure—the western fence, quiet and shaded and far from the house—you slowed your pace.
You didn’t even need to check the gate again. You had done it already, just after sunrise, fingers working at the old brass hinge until it sagged just slightly, giving the illusion of wear. Just enough slack to suggest oversight. Not sabotage. Just… carelessness.
You let your gaze fall on it now, brow knitting in practiced concern.
“Oh,” you said lightly, gesturing toward the latch with your hand. “That doesn’t look quite right, does it?”
Fletcher followed your gaze. His eyes narrowed, just slightly. He stepped forward and crouched to examine the hinge, running one gloved finger along the edge where the pin sat loose.
“That could be dangerous,” you continued, careful not to overplay it. “I suppose the new keeper hasn’t quite gotten the lay of the land yet. If the animals were to slip through…”
You trailed off, letting the sentence hang. Unfinished, but unmistakable.
Fletcher didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he adjusted his glasses and leaned in a little closer.
And then you saw it.
A length of fine wire—taut and expertly knotted—looped discreetly around the hinge bracket, securing the loosened joint with practical precision. It was nearly invisible from a distance. Even up close, it was easy to miss unless you were looking for it.
Fletcher straightened, brushing a speck of dust from his trousers.
“It’s been seen to,” he said calmly. “A temporary repair. Well-executed. I imagine Mr. Mellors noticed it and intended to replace the hinge properly this evening once the animals were brought in.”
You blinked once, then looked again—this time pretending to notice the wire for the first time.
“Well,” you murmured, “how… thorough of him.”
Fletcher glanced at you sidelong. There was no judgment in his eyes. But there was, unmistakably, awareness.
“I believe he takes his position seriously,” he said quietly. “And shows initiative, even in the less obvious details.”
You pressed your lips together, not smiling. Not quite.
Another step ahead of you.
Another failure.
And then came another, and another, and yet another.
By the end of the first week, the staff was whispering again. But not about him. About you. Which wasn’t new—but this time, it grated. Because no matter how subtly you shifted the playing field, Mellors kept finding a way to reset it.
With grace. With restraint.
Without ever accusing you of anything directly.
And that, more than anything, unnerved you.
Because he wasn’t winning with power. He wasn’t beating you with words. He was just… enduring you. Silently. Skillfully.
Meanwhile, mid-July was approaching, and Oliver Mellors was still too loyal a pawn to your father.
The ball veered sharply to the left and slammed against one side of the goal post, violently knocking it out of place before rolling crookedly into the lavender hedge. The harsh clang echoed through the warm summer air.
“Shit!” you snapped, the croquet mallet dropping from your hand with a sharp thud. You raked your fingers through your hair in frustration and then crouched beside the scorched grass, catching your breath.
You could feel the sweat beginning to gather beneath your collarbones, the stick of your linen shirt to your skin. The West Sussex sun wasn’t particularly cruel today, but your temper made everything feel hotter than it was.
Henry whistled low, clearly enjoying himself far too much. He rocked lazily on his heels near the refreshment cart, glass of iced lemonade in one hand, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest like some trust-fund pirate.
“You seem tense, cousin,” he said with maddening amusement. “Relax. It’s a party, not a coup d’état.”
“Relax?” you barked, straightening up and gripping the metal table beside the court with both hands. “It's in two weeks, Henry, and I still haven’t solved the main problem.”
From her perch on the sunlounger, Amelia didn’t even bother to lift her sunglasses.
“The cocaine?” asked Henry dryly, yawning as he prepared to hit the ball with the racket.
“No, idiot,” you snapped, your tone sharp enough to draw the three attention. “Mellors.”
You dropped onto the edge of the table, one leg crossing over the other, the metal still warm from the sun beneath your thighs.
Amelia adjusted her bikini top and propped herself up on her elbows. “Oh, for God’s sake. Just seduce him already.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“You heard me.” She reached for a cherry from the bowl on the side table and popped it into her mouth with infuriating elegance. “Fuck him. Then report him. Get him fired the old-fashioned way.”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Lisa, who had been on the sidelines until then, buried in her phone, turned sharply toward her, her mouth half-open in disbelief. “Jesus Christ, Amelia. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What?” she shrugged. “It would work.”
“That’s not working—that’s sociopathic,” she said, taking a long sip of her drink like she needed it suddenly more than ever. “And disgusting. You can’t just use someone like that.”
“I’m just saying it’s effective.”
“You’re just saying something fucked-up.”
You sat still, oddly quiet as you watched them bicker, your pulse drumming steadily in your ears. The suggestion hadn’t landed with outrage. It had landed like a seed.
Henry turned to you suddenly, his voice lower, more serious. “You’re not actually thinking about it, are you?”
You met his gaze evenly.
And smiled.
“Of course not,” you lied.
You reached for your sunglasses, sliding them smoothly over your eyes. Then, without another word, you leaned back on your elbows and turned your face to the sun.
That afternoon, when your cousins had retreated to their rooms to relax, you decided to go see the gamekeeper on your own.
You’d watched his routines over the past days, mostly in silence—Mellors never strayed far from the horses after breakfast, especially in the late afternoons when the sun was kind and the stalls were warm and humming with quiet.
He seemed to visit the stable often. Perhaps he liked horses, and perhaps it was the place where he felt most at peace in the entire mansion.
You intended to take advantage of that moment.
If he wouldn’t bend to irritation, perhaps he’d bend to something softer—something that looked like humility but wasn’t. Not entirely.
The stables stood at the edge of the lower fields, tucked behind the stone garden wall and shaded by two old beech trees. You approached with purpose, every step deliberate, your heeled boots silent on the old stone path. You adjusted your cuff once, smoothing the linen of your blouse, and squared your shoulders.
The scent of hay and saddle soap hit before the door even opened. Familiar. Warm. Clean.
You stepped inside.
He was there, of course. Standing beside your father’s black gelding—Nero—methodically brushing down the horse’s flank. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing tanned forearms, his hair slightly damp from exertion or the early wash of evening.
He didn’t look up at first. But you knew he’d heard you.
“Good evening,” you said evenly, pausing just inside the door.
Mellors turned, slow and quiet, like someone who didn’t waste movement. His expression was unreadable.
“Miss,” he said.
Polite. Neutral. He placed the brush down beside a saddle blanket, then stood straighter, hands loosely behind his back. Not military—but close.
There was a pause.
You stepped forward, the wooden floor creaking beneath your boots. Your eyes went briefly to Nero’s coat—gleaming, clearly well cared for.
“I’ve been told he’s looking better than ever.”
Mellors nodded. “He’s a good horse. Just needed regular work.”
You hummed in acknowledgment, then looked back at him. “I came to speak with you.”
His brow lifted just slightly. “Is that so.”
Not surprised. Not intimidated. Just… watchful.
“I realized,” you said calmly, hands loosely clasped behind your back, “that I may have approached things poorly between us.”
He tilted his head slightly, but said nothing.
You continued. “I misjudged your role. And your intentions.”
That was as far as you’d go—for now. You wouldn’t unravel yourself for him. You wouldn’t plead. But you could offer just enough softness to shift the air.
You let a pause stretch between you, then added with quiet precision, “You’ve done your work well, despite… obstacles.”
His mouth twitched—just slightly.
“I try to,” he said.
You took another step closer, stopping just beside the stable door. Dust motes floated in a shaft of sun near his shoulder, gilding the edge of his profile.
“I imagine you don’t trust me.”
Mellors let that hang for a moment. Then: “With respect, Miss… I don’t have the luxury to trust many people in your position.”
Your jaw tightened—briefly. “Because I'm part of the aristocracy.”
“Because you’re in charge when your father is not here.” His voice didn’t rise, didn’t sharpen. “And people in charge don’t usually apologize.”
“I didn’t apologize,” you said coolly.
He looked at you, evenly. “No. You didn’t.”
A beat.
You studied him again. The tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers flexed when they weren’t doing anything. Always ready to move, to act, to defend.
“I might have,” you said finally, “if you’d accepted it.”
Oliver blinked a couple of times, not expecting this turn of events, and looked first at you, then at the horse you had your eye on.
“I could,” he began, unsure whether to risk it. “If you help me.”
You frowned, the shift in tone catching you off guard. “Help?”
He nodded toward Maggie, your horse, standing a few meters away from you.
“I’m not in the right clothes for that,” you said with a faint smirk, glancing down at your crisp blouse, clean boots, the pearl-stud earrings.
Oliver looked at you, patient. Not mocking.
“I don’t think your horse will care,” he said. “The question is: do you?”
You held his gaze. You weren’t used to people turning your own words back on you. Or your logic. You weren’t used to being challenged without a trace of defiance.
And that’s what made him dangerous.
You approached the mare with determination—because you refused to look unsure—one hand steady on her powerful neck to calm her nerves and let her feel your closeness and presence.
Maggie stood calmly between you, a soft shimmer in her silver-grey coat beneath the bright light slanting through the open door. You reached up, taking the brush from Mellors’s outstretched hand, the bristles worn smooth with use. Your fingers met the warmth of his for only a breath, but the touch sparked something—fleeting, charged, unacknowledged.
Then, you turned your attention to Maggie.
You ran the brush along her flank, firm and even, mimicking the motion you’d seen him use moments before with Nero. Dust rose in small, shimmering clouds, catching in the sunlight like gold powder. Maggie released a long breath through her nostrils, relaxed and half-lidded, then gave you a gentle nudge with her muzzle—nothing insistent, just recognition.
“Good girl,” you murmured under your breath. “I forgot you’d like the brush more than me.”
Your voice held the faintest trace of something different—something softer, like a long-lost memory.
The rhythm of brushing settled into you unexpectedly. It was strange how quickly your shoulders loosened, how the world narrowed to just the sounds of her breathing, the creak of the wood beneath you, the soft thump of the brush. You focused, as you always did, on getting it right—on doing it well.
“I used to do this, you know,” you said after a time, eyes still on the rise and fall of Maggie’s side. “When I was younger.”
He said nothing at first, while he continued his work on the other animal. The silence wasn’t judgmental—it felt like he was waiting.
“I’d wake up early just to beat the stable hands,” you added, brushing gently along Maggie’s shoulder. “I thought it made me indispensable.”
“How long’s it been since you did that?” he asked. His voice was low. Not challenging. Just steady.
You stopped brushing for a moment. Your hand stilled on Maggie’s coat.
“Too long,” you answered. You didn’t mean to sound like you regretted it—but you did.
He nodded, and his gaze drifted toward the mare, who was blinking sleepily.
“They notice,” he said.
Your eyes flicked to his, cautious.
He didn’t look at you when he added, “Not in the way people do. Not disappointment. But they remember who you were—what it was like to be cared for.”
You looked away, back to the brush in your hand. The weight of it. The quiet repetition of its motion.
“When you used to lead them out at dawn,” he said, voice softer now, “water them yourself. Tuck the stalls before breakfast. They remember that version of you.”
The heat in your throat came quick, unexpected. You swallowed hard, blinking once.
“I know,” you said quietly.
You weren’t enjoying the feeling at all.
It had crept up on you, soft as dust and twice as irritating — the sensation of comfort. Of something dangerously close to connection.
Mellors was quiet, as he always was. Watching your mare with that maddening attentiveness of his. You couldn’t tell if it was a habit of the trade or if he simply cared — about her, about the moment, about what had just passed between the two of you.
But whatever it was, you didn’t want to be in the middle of it anymore.
You straightened up, the brush still in your hand. Your movements had become a little too slow. Your tone had lost its usual sharpness. You’d let the silence stretch too long, as if inviting it to grow roots.
And that wasn’t you.
So, you did what you did best.
You stood a little taller, cleared your throat softly — nothing dramatic — and said, with perfect, practiced poise, “I think I should go now.”
You didn’t look at him as you spoke. Instead, you placed the brush — not roughly, but not tenderly either — on the wooden shelf near Maggie’s stall.
“I have to stop in town,” you added, voice light. “Some errands.”
Mellors shifted slightly, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw the slight movement of his arm as it lowered to his side again. Perhaps it was an offering. His hand was reaching for the brush. To take it directly from you.
But you ignored it.
You didn’t hand him the brush. You didn’t offer a look, or a nod, or even acknowledgment.
Instead, you left it behind. Just as you left behind the warmth, the softness, the unguarded thing that had threatened to open up inside you.
Your boots clicked softly on the stable floor as you turned.
“Have a good day, Mr. Mellors,” you said crisply, already halfway to the doors.
There was a pause. Then his voice followed you — low, even, with a strange trace of gentleness that only made the tightness in your chest worse.
“Have a good day too, Miss.”
The words chased you to the threshold — quiet enough not to echo, strong enough to stay.
At first, spending time with Oliver Mellors had been part of the plan. You approached it like a slow, calculated game—each shared morning, each accidental conversation, each task you offered to help with, was a move designed to lower his guard. You were patient, methodical. You knew charm, you knew strategy. You’d done this before.
But with Mellors, nothing worked quite the way it should have. Not even that.
He didn’t flirt. He didn’t flatter. He didn’t bend to provocation or melt beneath silences. He was respectful, distant, frustratingly unreadable. And yet—he never dismissed you. He never turned you away.
Days passed. Then a week.
You found reasons to seek him out. Small ones, at first. Questions about the horses. About the fields. About his life and the choices he had made. You learned that he had been married, once, and that he had indeed been a soldier who retired after a harrowing mission.
He always answered—briefly, plainly, but without condescension. You walked with him across the estate under morning clouds, sometimes silent, sometimes throwing barbed remarks that he always parried with cool indifference or quiet wit.
You bickered often—lightly, half-serious, like verbal fencing. You accused him of being too stiff. He accused you of trying too hard to impress the world. You called him arrogant. He called you spoiled. Neither of you backed down.
But beneath the arguments, something else formed.
You began to notice the way he paused before speaking—as if he was deciding to really open up to you. You noticed how he remembered things you said, even in passing. How he adjusted when you were tired. How he didn’t treat you like someone delicate or dangerous, but like someone real.
And slowly, without realizing it, your sharpness dulled around him. Your questions stopped being performances. Your silences stopped being tactics. You laughed with him once—really laughed—and didn’t catch yourself until it was too late. You let yourself stand closer than you meant to. You let him see you hesitate.
You were still proud. Still guarded. But there were moments—small, quiet ones—when your walls thinned. When you stopped trying to manipulate, and just were.
And, suddenly, Mr. Mellors became Oliver.
A couple of days before the fateful party you reached him at the usual place.
He was already there, leaning against the ancient oak, arms crossed, watching you approach with that unreadable calm in his eyes. His brown hair caught the pale light, strands catching fire in gold.
“You are late,” he remarked dryly, as you walked closer, hands tucked deep in your pockets.
“Be perfect takes time, sweetheart” you said instead, matching his measured tone.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, brief and almost amused, like the hint of a sunrise. “Right. That’s what you tell yourself.”
The two of you set off together, footsteps crunching softly on the gravel path leading deeper into the wild gardens beyond the formal estate grounds. You traded barbs—light, clipped, the way you always did—circling each other like wary dancers, words like sparring weapons.
“You don’t seem the type to appreciate art,” you said, nodding toward a twisted, ancient yew. “Nature’s sculptures, or whatever.”
“I prefer things that last,” he answered, voice steady, “not fleeting decorations.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. It was easier not to.
Minutes passed, and the forest thickened—oak and ash giving way to wildflower meadows stretching under the early sun. Then, almost without warning, he stopped. Pulled you off the path.
There was a clearing.
And what lay before you stole your breath away.
A small pond, mirror-still, reflecting the sky in perfect clarity. Around it, wildflowers nodded in a gentle breeze—bluebells, foxgloves, and delicate white lilies. Dragonflies skimmed the water’s surface, their wings shimmering like stained glass. The air smelled of damp earth and blooming life, mingling with the soft buzz of morning insects.
Oliver didn’t speak right away. Instead, he sat down on the expanse of grass by the water’s edge and pointed without looking up.
“See that?” he said quietly. “The way the light hits the lilies just before the sun fully rises? It only lasts for a few minutes.”
You crouched beside him, knees brushing soft moss. You studied the scene—too perfect, too alive, as if the world was holding its breath just for this moment.
“I've been coming here for years and I never thought to stop and watch,” you admitted, voice low.
“Most don’t,” he said. “Too busy chasing things that don’t matter.”
You frowned, a flicker of something unspoken threading through your chest.
“Maybe I’m too used to always moving forward,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “Always needing the next thing, the next win, the next distraction.”
He glanced at you then, sharp and direct, but his voice stayed soft. “And does it get tiring?”
You hesitated, then nodded once, sharply.
“I could stay here forever,” you said after a long pause, surprising yourself. “Just like this. Watching the light shift on water. Nothing else to do but be.”
You leaned down beside him, letting your weight rest on the hands pressed gently into the soft grass. The earth was still cool beneath your palms, the scent of dew and crushed clover rising up between your fingers. Oliver didn't move much, just shifted slightly to make room, his forearm brushing against yours as he leaned back on his elbows.
It was quiet—almost reverent—the way the air held still around the pond, the water glinting with shifting light. Dragonflies skimmed the surface. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a blackbird was singing.
Your hands touched.
Not entirely—just barely. The sides of your palms, a brief kiss of warmth and skin. You could have moved. Should have moved. But neither of you did.
The contact was subtle, delicate, the kind of thing you could pretend hadn’t happened—if it weren’t for how present it suddenly felt. You stared at the water for a moment, pulse steady but audible in your ears.
Then you felt it.
The gentle brush of his little finger against yours. Once. Then again.
Not confident, not planned. It was instinct, or something close to it—an unconscious act of softness. A barely-there movement that felt louder than anything either of you could have said.
Your breath caught, but you didn’t pull away.
Instead, you turned your head and looked at him.
Oliver was still watching the pond, jaw relaxed, in peace. You saw the way the light carved along the sharp line of his cheekbone, the slope of his nose, the soft curve where his mouth settled in thought. His lashes were dark and full, casting faint shadows beneath his eyes. His jaw, rough with the faintest trace of stubble, moved slightly as he swallowed, and for some reason, that small, quiet motion made your breath slow in your chest.
You caught yourself wondering how good your hands would look around his neck.
You imagined the feel of his skin, warm and alive beneath your hands. Imagined the shift of his breath beneath your touch. Imagined him looking up at you—excited and needy—without moving away.
It was ridiculous.
It was intimate.
It was dangerous.
You looked away and you moved from his touch—too quickly—and told yourself it was just the sunlight making you restless. The quiet playing tricks.
What the hell was your head even trying to do?
You stared at the mirrored surface of the pond, its reflection trembling slightly in the breeze, just like your thoughts. That flicker of warmth in your chest, that strange ache in your hands to touch him—to touch Oliver Mellors—wasn’t just confusing.
It was offensive.
To your sense of control.
To your perfectly arranged world.
To your pride.
Your gaze slipped to him again—still beside you, forearm brushing faintly against yours, his profile turned toward the water. He looked like part of the landscape. Not ornamental. Rooted. He wasn’t supposed to affect you like this, and yet…
You cleared your throat, suddenly needing to speak, afraid of what would rise between you if you let silence linger too long.
“So,” you began, your voice carefully neutral. “The day after tomorrow is the party.”
He didn’t turn, but you felt his attention shift toward you. Just the weight of his awareness made your breath feel shorter.
You continued, trying for casual but overcorrecting. “You already know, of course. It’ll be loud. People coming and going. I assume the usual number of minor infractions.”
There was a beat of pause.
Then Oliver looked at you—just out of the corner of his eye. A subtle glance, but enough to carry weight. He didn’t look curious. He looked… disturbed. Or maybe skeptical.
You hated how warm your cheeks felt under that look.
Still, you pushed through. “What I’m saying is… will you let me go through with it? Without running to my father about the details?”
His brow ticked up, faintly. “Is that what you think I’d do?”
You met his gaze, chin tilted. “It’s what your contract says you should do. That you report any… ubnormal things, let’s say.”
There was a pause.
Then—he snorted. Not loudly. Not mockingly. Just a brief exhale, almost like a laugh trying not to exist.
“Will you cause any damage?” he asked, deadpan.
You considered it. “If it were to happen, I’d take the blame. Or replace everything faster than the next sunrise.”
He tilted his head toward you then, finally giving you a full glance. “Will someone die?”
You blinked. “What?”
“Death,” he repeated plainly. “Overdose. Stabbings. Poison in the punch.”
You rolled your eyes. “Where do you think we are, The Riot Club?”
He didn’t answer, just kept looking at you with that unreadable calm of his. The silence pushed you to add, more softly, “Everything will be fine.”
Another pause.
Then, a single word: “…Fine.”
But that word held weight. Not just reluctant agreement, but something else—acknowledgment. Trust. The kind of trust he didn’t give easily. The kind that had to be earned through battles and silences and arguments that weren’t really about what they seemed.
You looked back at the water, trying not to show the flicker of relief that rose in your chest.
He was letting you do it.
Not because he had to.
But because he was choosing to.
The party was running like a well-oiled, impossibly expensive machine.
From the second guests arrived—some in towncars, others in blacked-out SUVs—it had moved with rhythm. The kind of rhythm that made everything look easy but cost weeks of planning, quiet bribes, and iron-clad control.
Drinks flowed effortlessly: custom-mixed cocktails passed on silver trays alongside cold-pressed citrus shots and perfectly measured pours of rare champagne. The music shifted seamlessly between curated house sets and low, pulsing mixes—just loud enough to blur private conversations if they wanted to move away across the meadows.
Cigarettes were smoked, joints passed carefully under string lights in the garden. Someone’s sister danced barefoot by the edge of the pool while her boyfriend filmed her on something that cost more than most people’s rent. Neon bracelets glowed faintly under the dim outdoor lighting, and laughter echoed in the air like wind chimes.
And you—of course—you were in the center of it all.
Wearing something minimal and effortlessly expensive, drink in hand. You smiled, laughed, had fun playing stupid games.
But beneath all of it, you were on edge.
Because you hadn’t completely trusted Oliver Mellors.
Every time the laughter peaked a little too high, every time someone dropped a glass or a flash from someone’s phone hit your peripheral vision, you half-expected it: the door opening, one of your father’s men stepping in, starting to make the guests spend.
But it never happened.
The night stretched on, as humid and heavy as summer silk, and no one came to stop it.
Oliver kept his word.
You didn’t see him—not once—but you knew he was out there. Probably in his house, waiting for someone from the staff to run to him with news of some problem. You doubted he had gone to bed already.
That thought should’ve brought you comfort. Or relief. Or satisfaction.
Instead, it curled in your stomach like heat.
Because your mind kept returning to him. Uninvited. Unchecked. Like a song stuck in the background of a playlist.
Between compliments and casual smirks, between dances and sidelong glances from boys you could twist around your finger in seconds—you still found yourself glancing toward the darkness outside the villa’s windows, wondering what he was doing alone.
Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted it—a still-sealed bottle, glinting under the dim garden lights, abandoned on the service table like an afterthought.
You smirked.
Without bothering with glasses, you plucked it up, cradling the neck between two fingers with effortless ease. You didn’t even check the label—you already knew it would be good. Everything tonight had been. But this wasn’t about the bottle.
It was about the person you were bringing it to.
If you’d learned anything about Oliver Mellors over the last few weeks, it was that he didn’t give a damn about polished silver or etched glass. He’d probably drink it out of a chipped mug if that’s what was closest—or not at all if he didn’t see the point. And somehow, instead of irritating you the way it once would have, that thought… amused you. It even warmed you, in the strangest way.
You cut away from the lingering noise of the house and walked toward the edge of the estate, an half-drunk smirk on your lips, where the staff quarters and the old gamekeeper’s cottage sat quietly beneath a soft pool of yellow porch light.
Of course he was still awake.
You could see the faint glow of lamps through the windows. You imagined him sitting at the kitchen table—book open, shirt sleeves rolled up, elbow on the wood.
Maybe you’d barge in, bottle in hand, and mess with him—tell him someone slipped and cracked their head open by the pool. That an ambulance was on the way. Watch the way his eyes narrowed just before he realized you were full of shit.
You were already smiling at the thought when—
A pair of arms wrapped suddenly around your waist.
Tight. Familiar. Unwanted.
You froze, the bottle tipping slightly in your grip but not slipping.
“There you are, babe,” a voice breathed near your ear. Warm. Cocky. Annoyingly recognizable. “I’ve been looking for you all night.”
Your entire body stiffened.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been avoiding me.”
You sighed through your nose, rolling your eyes before he could see it. “Actually, I am.”
Jeff laughed—soft and smug—pressing his chest against your back like nothing had ever changed. “Come on. You’re not still mad about that little slip-up, are you?”
You pulled your arms forward, breaking his grip without a word. Turned around just enough to face him, your expression flat.
“Jeff,” you said, as if the name itself required effort, “I’m not mad.”
He blinked. Smiled, uncertain.
“I just realized,” you continued coolly, “that you’re a complete idiot.”
He winced. Just slightly.
You took a step back, the bottle still casually dangling in your hand.
“Go back to the party, Jeff.” you said, voice flat. “There’s a girl in a mini dress somewhere who’ll listen to you cry about your commitment issues.”
He didn’t move. Instead, he just looked at you—glassy-eyed, slow—like he didn’t quite believe this version of you was real.
You resisted the urge to sigh again, to roll your eyes—until you felt the sudden heat of his body pressing against yours. His arms came around you in a clumsy lurch, and then he dropped his head between your neck and shoulder like a dead weight, exhaling cheap vodka and too much cologne across your skin.
The disgust hit instantly.
You stiffened. “Jeff,” you said sharply, “let go.”
But he didn’t. He kept mumbling nonsense—something about the past, about your skin, about how “soft” you were. His grip tightened in a way that was no longer friendly. No longer tolerable.
“Let go,” you said again, louder now, trying to pry yourself from his arms—but then you felt it. His hand, brazen and clumsy, sliding lower, fingers groping your ass like he still had the right.
Rage exploded through your chest—sharp, cold, precise. Your hand clenched around the neck of the bottle like instinct. You didn’t shout. You didn’t scream.
You simply raised your arm, preparing to crack the glass across his skull without hesitation.
But you didn’t have to.
Because before you could swing, his weight shifted—and then it vanished.
Jeff stumbled backward with a grunt, dragged off balance by a fist clenched tightly in the collar of his designer shirt. His feet scraped through the damp grass, heels dragging, until he was yanked two steps away and dropped with an undignified thud.
You blinked.
Oliver stood between you and Jeff, not speaking, not posturing. Just standing there, solid and calm, breathing slow and quiet like he’d only just stepped out of the woods.
Jeff gaped at him, half-drunk and stunned. “Who the fuck—?”
“Get out of here before I kick your arse, boy.”
The words came low. Even. No need to shout.
But something in his tone—that unshakable, ice-wrapped calm—struck harder than any yell could have. It wasn’t a bluff. There was no panic, no adrenaline. Just the cold confidence of someone who knew exactly how far they were willing to go, and how quickly they’d get there if pushed.
The final word—boy—landed like a slap.
Jeff didn’t move. Not right away. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was pride, fragile and pathetic, trying to find footing.
He looked up at Oliver, blinking stupidly like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or challenge him. A mistake.
Oliver took a step forward, aggressive.
That was all it took.
Jeff scrambled back like a kicked dog. His hands sank into the grass behind him, feet sliding as he clumsily tried to reverse course. He tripped over himself, got upright again, and without a word, turned.
He didn’t even look at you.
He disappeared into the dark path back toward the house, slinking away with all the dignity of a coward who finally realized he had nothing left to lean on.
You were silent for a moment, just breathing, chest rising and falling with a tight sort of exhilaration.
Then you laughed.
Low, dry, and sharp enough to sting your own ears. It cracked open the tension still hanging in your shoulders. The sound startled you a little. Maybe it startled him, too.
Oliver turned his head toward you, slowly. He hadn’t moved from where he stood, not since Jeff had retreated. The tension hadn’t left his shoulders yet, but something in his expression was shifting—softening in parts, darkening in others.
His eyes flicked over you, reading, like he wasn’t sure if you were laughing because you were fine… or because you were seconds from breaking.
“You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now. Measured.
His tone wasn’t distant, but it was careful, like he didn’t want to push you too soon. He took a step forward, slow but certain. The crunch of the grass beneath his boot sounded louder than it should have in the hush between you.
There was something unsteady behind his composure now—barely there. A flicker of uncertainty hiding beneath all the steel. You weren’t used to seeing it on him. Oliver Mellors, usually so contained, so unreadable, suddenly looked like a man who was concerned. Genuinely. For you.
You straightened, clearing your throat.
“I’m fine,” you said, casual and clean. You reached down and lifted the champagne bottle like a prize, tilting it toward him with a mock toast. “You just saved your bottle.”
He arched a brow.
“I was going to smash it over his head,” you added, with the shadow of a grin. “Right before he got handsy.”
Oliver dropped his gaze for a moment.
“Is that why you came here?”
You looked away from him for the first time, toward the trees beyond the pond.
And for once, you didn’t lie.
“That,” you said softly, “and to thank you. You kept your word.”
Something in his face shifted. The hardness smoothed at the edges.
Instinctively, you held out the bottle. A peace offering. Gratitude. A way to say more without saying anything.
He reached for it.
But at the last moment, something in you pulled back. Just slightly. Just enough.
The confusion in his eyes lasted only a second—but it was there.
And it delighted you.
“Well?” you teased, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Why don’t you pour a glass? Champagne’s not meant to be drunk alone, y'know.”
He stood still, silent, weighing you again like he always did.
“I think you’ve had enough,” he said, and it would’ve sounded like disapproval if not for the faint smile ghosting at the corners of his mouth.
You raised an eyebrow. “You think too much.”
He didn’t argue. He just watched you.
So you did what you always did when someone wouldn’t play your game—you upped the stakes.
Without a word, you turned on your heel, your boots sinking slightly in the wet grass, and ran lightly toward the pond. Your laughter trailed behind you—taunting, wild. You dropped to the ground beside the water, your dress bunching at your thighs, the dew clinging to your skin like silk.
The champagne bottle thudded softly to the earth beside you.
You leaned back on your elbows and looked at him across the lawn, bathed in moonlight.
“Come on,” you called. “Loosen up.”
You patted the ground beside you, chin tilted in mock invitation.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Just stood there, half in shadow, arms crossed like he was debating something. You expected him to turn and walk away. He didn’t like your games. He never had.
But then—he took a breath. One you heard, even from here.
And he moved.
Slowly, steadily, like a man deciding not to overthink something for once.
He crossed the grass and sat down beside you.
The glass was cool in your hand, beads of condensation forming against your skin. You twisted the foil and wire with practiced ease until the cork gave a soft pop—surprisingly gentle, given the anticipation buzzing in your veins.
The release of pressure echoed quietly across the still pond.
Without waiting, you brought the mouth of the bottle to your lips and tipped it back. The champagne was cold and bright—sweet, but dry, a kind of gold that fizzed behind your teeth. The taste bloomed across your tongue, making your head hum.
When you lowered the bottle, you glanced sideways. Oliver’s gaze met yours, unreadable in the moonlight, and you realized suddenly how close he felt without even touching you. You held the bottle out toward him, an eyebrow raised in offering.
He shook his head once.
“I’m good.”
You tilted your head, playful. “Don't tell me you're disgusted.”
“Not at all.”
You studied him for a moment, watching how his eyes lingered—not on the bottle, but on you. Not quite boldly. Not shyly, either.
The bubbles were making you bolder than usual. That, or the fact he hadn’t left. That he was still here beside you after everything.
You turned toward him more fully, crossing your legs, letting the hem of your dress slide just a little higher without thinking. Then you brought the bottle back up—not to your lips this time, but to his.
He blinked at you as the glass hovered just inches from his mouth.
“Open for me,” you said softly.
It wasn’t meant to come out like that.
Not that tone.
Not that low, velvety edge to your voice—the one you used when you wanted someone to obey.
But it did. It slipped out, intimate. Confident in a way you hadn’t rehearsed.
You felt your face heat instantly and your throat tightened as he turned his face slightly toward you—never breaking eye contact—and parted his lips.
You tipped the bottle carefully, the champagne pouring in a soft, controlled stream into his mouth. He drank without looking away from you, throat working quietly as he swallowed.
The moment felt ridiculous.
You could’ve made a joke. Teased him.
You didn’t.
Instead, you let the bottle drop just slightly and watched the faintest trace of champagne glisten at the corner of his mouth. You reached without thinking.
Slowly, you lifted your hand, brushing your thumb across his lips to catch the tiny rivulet of champagne before it could fall. His skin was warm, his stubble rough beneath your touch. You felt him go completely still.
Without looking away, you brought your thumb to your mouth.
And tasted it.
Your tongue catching the bright, golden trace of champagne. The weight of his eyes watching every move you made.
You looked up at him from beneath your lashes.
And what you saw in Oliver Mellors’ face made the air thicken around you.
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t blinking. He looked… lost.
His mouth parted slightly, breath slowing as he leaned forward, drawn toward you like the space between your faces had suddenly turned magnetic. His gaze flicked to your lips—then back to your eyes. He didn’t hide it. He didn’t rush.
And for a single suspended moment, it was like everything else faded—no music, no party, no past.
Just him. And you. And whatever this had become.
But just before his face could touch yours—just before your noses could brush—you stood.
The grass whispered under you, cool and damp as you rose to your feet in one smooth motion, leaving him behind on the ground, caught in the breath you’d both been holding.
You walked toward the pond.
Leisurely, very leisurely.
Like you meant to be watched.
Your fingers found the thin strap of your dress and slid it off your shoulder. Then the other. The silk pooled at your waist, then slipped lower, gravity taking its slow pleasure until the whole thing puddled at your feet.
You stepped out of it, bare under the moonlight.
Not just naked—but untouched. Unafraid.
The water lapped softly at the edges of the pond, catching the moon in mirrored fragments as you waded in without pause. First ankles, then calves. The surface shimmered around your thighs like liquid silver as you moved deeper, until your body vanished beneath the surface and only your shoulders and collarbones caught the light.
Behind you, Oliver had risen to his feet.
“Get out of there,” he said finally, voice low but edged with something firmer now. Not panic. Just tense. “It’s dangerous at night.”
You turned your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. A smile ghosted at your lips.
“If you want me to leave…” you sank slightly deeper into the water, the cool slipping across your skin like a secret. “…you’ll have to come get me.”
You saw it—just for a moment.
That flicker in his jaw. The clench of restraint. The way his hands curled slightly at his sides, like part of him wanted to dive in after you, and another part still warred with what it meant.
“I won’t,” Oliver said quietly, his voice a low line in the dark.
You only smiled.
Then, without another word, you let yourself sink.
Your body slipped beneath the surface like a shadow swallowed by moonlight. Cold kissed your skin. The water curled over your shoulders, your throat, your mouth—until silence pressed in around you like velvet. It was quiet beneath the pond, muffled, still. Time didn’t seem to move there.
Above the surface, Oliver stood still.
His arms hung still at his sides, fists just slightly curled—not in anger, but in anticipation. You had vanished beneath the water with that same irreverent smile you’d always worn when you wanted to test the limits of someone’s patience. He knew that smile. He’d seen it in arguments, in flirtation, in the way you skirted rules like they were clothes you could slip in and out of.
He had expected you to pop up after a few seconds, laughing. Maybe with another quip. Maybe already swimming to the other side like a challenge thrown down just to keep him off balance.
But the water stilled.
The ripples softened and collapsed into glassy silence.
Ten seconds passed.
Then fifteen.
Still nothing.
He shifted, posture stiffening. “Hey—”
His voice cracked across the pond like a stone.
No answer.
He stepped forward, the weight of his boots crunching into the muddy bank. One of them sank, water licking at the leather. He didn’t notice. His eyes were trained on the water’s surface—now darker, deeper, the moon rippling fractured patterns across it.
The hollow ache of dread started to form in the center of his chest.
“All right,” he said, louder now, but his voice had lost its evenness. “That’s not funny.”
Still nothing.
Not even the sound of your breath breaking the surface.
No laughing. No splashing.
Just silence.
The pond, so still only moments ago, suddenly felt too big. Too dark. Too deep.
His stomach twisted.
Something primal clicked in his jaw, locking down tight. Panic threaded into his ribs like wire. He stepped into the water without thinking, the cold rushing around his ankles, up his calves.
“Enough,” he snapped. “Come up.”
Still no answer.
The dread had turned to something else now—terror, raw and silent. He remembered how fast things went wrong in water. How fast someone could disappear. You weren’t just being reckless—you might be…
A blur of movement broke the surface behind him.
And before he could turn—
You crashed into his back, laughing, and shoved him forward with both hands.
He stumbled into the water with a splash that drenched the grass behind him, arms flailing for balance, and landed half-submerged, coughing and furious.
You joined him in the water a second later, laughing breathlessly. Genuinely. The sound bubbled up from your chest as you brushed wet hair from your face.
“Did I scare you?” you grinned, breath hitching.
Oliver turned, shirt soaked, hair plastered against his brow, his eyes wide with the leftover surge of fear and adrenaline.
“No,” he said stiffly.
You swam toward him, lazy strokes cutting through the surface. “Oh, no?”
A grin tugged at your lips as you reached him, now close enough that your breath mingled. You placed your hand firmly on his chest, right over his heart.
It thundered beneath your palm.
You looked up at him through wet lashes. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
Oliver swallowed hard, but didn’t back away. His eyes dropped to your hand, then rose to your face.
And you saw it—again.
The restraint.
The war inside him between letting go and holding the line.
Your body was inches from his now, naked under the water, the skin of your breasts that almost touched his soaked shirt. You leaned in, voice velvet.
“Please, don’t do it,” he whispered.
The change in his tone made you still.
You blinked slowly. “Don’t do what?”
His jaw clenched. You could feel it beneath your fingertips now, where they ghosted up to his throat, to the sharp edge of his beard.
“Don’t play me.”
The words were almost a breath. Fragile.
A plea.
You looked at him for a long moment—really looked.
Not at the strong jaw, not the shoulders beneath the fabric. But the man underneath.
You lifted your hand to his cheek, brushing your thumb along his jawline, wet from the pond, warm beneath the cold.
“Do you think I’m playing?” you whispered.
His eyes didn’t waver.
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said. “But I know what I want it not to be.”
Your hand stilled.
Then, without warning, you leaned in—and kissed him.
And...wow.
You’d kissed men before.
Plenty of them.
Some were too eager, others too practiced—mouths that pressed with confidence but not care, all tongues and urgency, as if kissing was a game they’d already assumed they’d won. Their lips were often rough, cracked at the edges, tasting of cigarettes, cocktails, and impatience. Hands would grab too fast, pulling you close like a trophy, like they were owed something just for being there. You’d let them.
But this—
This wasn’t like any of that.
When Oliver Mellors kissed you back, it didn’t feel like possession.
It felt like freedom.
His lips moved against yours with a kind of reverence. Soft—not only in touch, but in intent. There was no rush in the way he pressed into you, no hunger masked as affection.
And it shook you.
The gentleness of it.
You’d expected him to be hard, restrained, cold even—someone who’d kiss like he was bracing for it to end.
But he didn’t.
His lips were warmer than the water around you, his mouth parting with deliberate slowness, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he didn’t want to miss a single second.
You felt his hands under the water, settling at your waist—steady. Just there. A silent grounding in a world that felt like it was suddenly turning upside down.
You kissed him back, deeper now, and his breath hitched faintly through his nose.
That sound…
It made your stomach twist in a way that wasn’t power, wasn’t control—it was need. The quiet kind. The kind that curled inward. You wanted more of that sound. Of him. Not because he was hard to reach, not because he’d resisted for so long—but because this felt real in a way that nothing else had in a long time.
When you pulled back just slightly, your foreheads nearly touched, breaths mingling.
“So…” you murmured, your voice a low curl of breath between his lips, “shall we continue somewhere more private?”
Your legs had wrapped around his hips without thought—your bare skin slick against his soaked shirt, the waterweight of it clinging between your bodies. You felt the tension in his muscles, not just from the exertion of treading water but from the nearness.
Your arms circled loosely around his shoulders, fingers threading through the damp strands at the nape of his neck. His breath hitched against your mouth, then steadied.
Oliver didn’t answer with words.
He kissed you again—just once, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that left your lips tingling long after he pulled away.
Your gaze drifted over his shoulder toward the nearby cottage, its warm light glowing faintly behind rain-dampened windows.
Oliver followed your line of sight and smiled faintly against your cheek.
He adjusted his grip beneath your thighs, firming his hold, and began walking slowly through the shallows, each step deliberate. The water cascaded down your bodies in rivulets, moonlight catching on every curve of your skin. You tucked your face into the warm slope of his neck, hiding the sudden, unexpected flush that rose to your cheeks.
But then you remembered—“Wait—”
He stopped just at the edge of the pond.
“The dress,” you said, laughing under your breath. “Take the dress. And the shoes. Before someone finds them and tells my father I’m skinny-dipping with the staff.”
Oliver huffed a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
“I’m more than staff,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
Still, he shifted his weight, carefully balancing you against his chest with one arm. You tightened your grip instinctively—legs around his waist, arms over his shoulders—as he bent slightly at the knees and reached down with his free hand.
You watched his hand skim the dew-damp grass, collecting your slumped dress and the delicate slingback heels you’d kicked off moments ago. He held them loosely, and once they were secured, he rose back to full height and started walking again, slow and unhurried, the soles of his boots squishing softly with each step.
You tilted your head, watching the way his jaw tightened with the effort of carrying you like that, the way the muscles in his arms flexed beneath the wet shirt.
You bit his neck lightly, unable to resist the urge, making him grunt slightly.
Oliver crossed the threshold of the cottage with you still held close, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality that sent a shiver down your spine. The air inside was warm, heavy with the scent of pinewood, old leather, and something that was unmistakably him—earth and smoke and quiet restraint.
Without a word, he let your wet dress and shoes fall from his hand, forgotten in a heap near the door. His boots thudded softly on the wooden floor, echoing in the stillness as he carried you down the short hall.
The room was small, dimly lit by a light near the bed. The sheets were rumpled, the window cracked slightly open to let in the sound of wind in the trees. Everything was simple—clean, lived-in—but it felt safe. It felt like him.
He lowered you gently onto the bed, the mattress giving under your weight. His shirt clung to him like second skin, soaked from the pond, the fabric translucent in places. You propped yourself on your elbows, watching him as he stood over you, jaw tense, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.
Still, he didn’t move too quickly.
He was watching you, too—measuring this moment like it mattered more than he could admit.
Your hand reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his shirt. “You’re dripping all over your floor.”
“So are you.”
The edge of your mouth curved. “I’m not the one wearing half a lake. But I'm feeling terribly kind today, so I'll help you get rid of it.”
He gave a soft, short laugh and knelt down, leaning forward until his face was close to yours neck again. His fingers trailed from your arm to your collarbone, featherlight, barely there.
Your fingers found his buttons easily. Each one came undone with steady purpose, your touch confident and unshaking, even as his mouth trailed along the curve of your neck.
His lips were hard, teeth grazing the delicate skin just below your jaw, tongue sweeping the hollow of your throat. It wasn’t hunger—not entirely. It was something more layered. Like he was trying to read you in the dark. Learn you, not take you.
You slid his soaked shirt off his shoulders, and it peeled away from his skin with a satisfying sound. Your palms followed its path, exploring newly revealed skin.
He didn’t stop kissing you, didn’t pause—not until your hands reached the waistband of his trousers.
Your fingers worked quickly, unfastening what remained between you, but not without noticing the way his breath stilled. The way his chest rose slightly beneath your palms.
But before you could slip your hand inside his boxers, he pulled back slightly with his hips, sliding his mouth over your chest. His hands never stopped, groping and massaging your thighs and hips until one reached and cupped one of your breasts.
His mouth was warm when it closed around your nipple—soft at first, lips brushing over sensitive skin before his tongue flicked out in a slow, deliberate stroke. He circled it once, twice, then drew it fully into his mouth, sucking just enough to make your back arch.
Your fingers threaded into his hair, and a shaky breath escaped you as the pull of his mouth sparked fire deep in your belly.
Then he pulled back, lips glossy, breath warm against your skin. His gaze lifted to meet yours, hooded but clear.
“Is this good?” he asked, voice low and teasing, the faintest curve of a smile on his lips.
You groaned, head dropping back against the pillow, frustration curling in your gut like a second heat.
“Fuck… you know it’s good,” you growled, voice rough, need sharpening your tone. Your hands pushed at his shoulders, trying to guide him upward. “Fuck me already.”
But he didn’t budge.
He stayed where he was, steady and unshaken, the weight of his body holding you down in more ways than one. His hands moved to your hips, grounding you. His mouth ghosted over the swell of your breast again, just enough to make you shiver.
“Patience,” he murmured, his voice like silk wrapping around a blade. “I’m not rushing anything.”
He kissed the valley between your breasts, then looked up at you with something deeper in his eyes—something that made your breath catch.
“We have the whole night,” he said. “And I’m going to take all of it.”
His fingers found your folds with unerring precision, gliding through the heat of you like he’d been memorizing this moment. Every stroke was maddeningly slow, relentlessly gentle—more worship than touch—as he dragged his fingertips along the soft swell of your labia, coaxing shivers from deep within you.
The burn inside you had shifted. No longer fury—no longer frustration. That fire now bloomed into something darker, sweeter. Need.
Oliver’s gaze dragged down the length of your body, eyes hooded and hungry, watching every twitch, every breath you couldn’t control. His fingers slipped lower, parting you with deliberate care—two fingers teasing at your entrance without crossing the threshold, just hovering, spreading your wetness like he was painting with it.
“So wet for me,” he murmured.
He circled the tip of one finger just at your opening—taunting, barely there—collecting the slick that had gathered from minutes of slow torture, of careful, patient teasing that left you trembling for more.
You bucked your hips, wordless and he didn't make you wait.
He finally pushed his fingers in.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Two of them, thick and unhurried, sinking into your heat like he had all the time in the world. The stretch was just enough to make your breath catch — not from pain, but from the delicious, maddening pressure of it.
Then he began to move.
In and out.
Measured. Teasing.
A steady rhythm that was somehow more torturous than if he’d gone rough — because he was enjoying this. Drawing it out. Humming low in his throat, clearly satisfied with the soft, broken sound he’d just stolen from you.
You couldn’t take it.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, sharp and sudden, dragging his face up to yours. You kissed him hard, biting his lower lip, hips grinding into his hand, trying to make him move faster—to give you what you knew he was holding back.
“You’re a fucking tease,” you whispered, breath hot against his mouth.
He smiled against your lips — slow, smug, infuriating.
“And you’re so hasty, love,” he murmured, pressing a kiss just beside your mouth. “Good things come to those who know how to wait.”
Then—
He tilted his fingers just so.
And found it.
That spot inside you that made your hips jerk, your head fall back, and your breath catch in your throat like he’d pulled the air right out of your lungs.
“There it is…” he whispered, voice almost reverent.
His fingers didn’t falter.
He kept the pressure steady, slow at first, coaxing every response from your body with a kind of focused devotion that made you ache in more than one way. His forehead rested lightly against yours now, breath mingling with your own, the heat between you impossible to escape.
“You feel that?” he murmured, his voice a soft rasp. “That’s you. Opening up for me.”
Your legs were shaking now, thighs trembling around his hand, and your grip in his hair tightened — not to pull him, but to anchor yourself. You were spiraling fast, and the way he looked at you — grey eyes fixed, drinking in every twitch of your body, every sound you made — pushed you closer still.
“You’re doing so good, love,” he said, barely louder than a breath. His thumb stroked gently over your clit now in slow, circling motions, syncing perfectly with the curl of his fingers inside you. “Just let me take you there.”
Your breath caught, chest heaving.
He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your mouth — featherlight, like you might break apart if he kissed you too hard.
“Oliver...fuck, Oliver, I—”
The pleasure crested hard and fast — a rush of heat and light that took your breath and your words and left you open, trembling, undone.
You came around his fingers with a soft cry, your body clenching and pulsing as he held you through it, murmuring sweet nothings against your ear.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Good girl.”
He slowed his movements, coaxing every last wave from you with such unbearable tenderness it nearly brought tears to your eyes.
Oliver pulled his fingers from you gently and brought them to his lips, tasting you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then he kissed you again — soft, slow, reverent — as if thanking you for letting him see you like this.
As soon as you've recovered enough, you pushed yourself up on shaking arms, wrapping trembling fingers around the waistband of his boxers and tugging him back to you.
His breath caught.
You palmed him through the fabric, and he squirmed—his body curling into yours, lips dragging along the column of your neck with a whimper that sounded needy and desperate.
Unlike you, he had no pride left to guard.
“Love, please,” he gasped, voice frayed at the edges. “I need you—just let me—”
He started to move again, fumbling to slide away, likely to reach for the condom.
But you didn’t let him.
Your legs wrapped tight around his hips, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him flush against you with a strength born from sheer, aching need.
“I’m clean,” you breathed. “And I take the pill. Don’t make me repeat myself. I’m getting angry. Do you truly need it?”
He blinked down at you—blown pupils, flushed face—caught somewhere between awe and pure, horny panic.
“No, I...Okay—Jesus,” he laughed breathlessly, pressing a kiss to your temple like he couldn’t believe this was real.
And then Oliver Mellors gave in.
He dipped his hips, slow and careful, dragging the length of his cock along your soaked folds—groaning low as you coated him in your slick. He lifted his head, eyes locked to yours, and kissed you as if he was already inside you, as if the seal of your mouths could make it deeper.
Your breath caught as the flushed, weeping head of his cock finally pressed past your entrance—tight and hot, your body parting for him in a stretch that made you shiver.
The sound he made was filthy, pure relief laced with reverence.
“So fuckin’ tight and wet for me, Miss,” he whispered against your lips.
“Oliver,” you whimpered, thighs trembling as your hips tilted forward, trying to pull more of him in.
He stared at you—right into your watery eyes—and something shifted in him. His fingers clamped around your hip, grounding himself in your softness as he began to press in deeper, inch by inch.
You gasped when he bottomed out.
The fullness stole your breath—the stretch just at the edge of too much—but he didn’t move yet. He just watched you.
Watched the way your lips parted, the way your brow creased in pleasure that bordered on pain. He felt you flutter around him, your body clutching him tightly like it never wanted to let him go.
“Holy fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked.
He wasn’t prepared for how good you’d feel. How warm, how real, how much it felt like something deeper than sex was happening—like something was being claimed.
And as you clenched around him again, lips parted in a broken moan, he growled low in his throat.
And began to move.
Oliver moved inside you with slow, steady strokes — not hard, not fast — just deep. Deliberate. Kind.
His mouth never strayed far from yours, brushing your cheek, your lips, your neck like each inch of your skin deserved attention, like he had all night just to love you properly.
And he did.
He fucked you like no one ever had.
Not just with skill, but with intent — like he wasn’t trying to get off, but trying to show you something. That you could be worshipped. That this didn’t have to hurt. That someone could touch you like this — gentle, focused, breathless — and not take, but give.
Your fingers threaded through his hair, and he leaned into your touch like it anchored him. His thrusts stayed slow, precise, dragging out the heat between your hips until your thighs trembled around him.
“God, you feel so good,” he breathed against your shoulder, voice warm and cracking. “So fuckin’ perfect.”
He shifted, angling his hips just right, and you gasped as he brushed a spot that made your body sing. He caught the sound with his mouth, kissing you again, one hand sliding between your bodies to press soft circles over your clit — patient, tender, until your breath hitched.
“C'mon,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your cheek. “Let go for me.”
And when you did — when your body shivered and clenched again and you cried out his name with your arms around his back — he followed you seconds later.
His rhythm faltered, and his whole body tensed.
“Fuck—fuck, I’m—” His words dissolved into moans as he pressed deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt. You felt the warmth of his release spill inside you as his mouth found your ear.
Beautiful little whimpers slipped from his throat — broken, sweet, undone.
And when it was over, he didn’t leave you.
He stayed pressed close, catching his breath in the quiet space between your bodies, before slowly pulling out and murmuring, “Don’t move.”
He returned with a warm towel — gentle as ever — carefully cleaning between your thighs, kissing your knee, your hip.
You curled into him as he joined you under the sheets, warm and clean, his arm draped over your waist.
“Wake me up before seven tomorrow,” you mumbled sleepily into the pillow. “I have to vacate the villa before my mother’s visit.”
He chuckled softly, pulling you closer, his hand brushing over your side beneath the blanket.
“All right, Miss,” he whispered with a lazy grin. “Now rest.”
And then, with the softest care, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.
You closed your eyes to the steady beat of his heart, wrapped in arms that felt like home.
Summary: Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.
Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader
Length: 7.7k
Warnings: fluff, so much flirting, and an italicized oh
Going on a first date on Valentine’s Day is unarguably the worst possible idea that anyone has ever had.And while the sure to be terrible, no good, horribly bad idea hadn’t been yours, you weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking when you’d even agreed to it in the first place.
The guy you were planning to meet tonight was cute enough, even if you were still undecided about the mustache. And while the chats between the two of you had been pretty good as far as it goes getting to know a literal stranger, you were hopeful that it could be even better in person. The fact he was in the Navy was still a bit of a consideration for you, but not a deal breaker.
In retrospect, the name of the bar should have been your first clue and the location paired with the causal beachy exterior covered in planes should have been the second.
You had been expecting to see more than one girl all done up in pinks and reds tonight, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. And you swear to god, somewhere you hear a record scratch as you step into the Hard Deck, because you are surrounded by nothing but a sea of olive green and khaki and denim.
And you have never been so clearly out of place in your entire life.
There was nothing about your ensemble that was even remotely fitting for the literal Navy bar you’d found yourself in.
The ice pink mini slip dress you’d dug out of your closet was admittedly a little much for a first date, but since it was Valentine’s Day you figured why not lean into it a bit. And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.
Or so you’d thought at the time, because now it was a decidedly you problem.
The silhouette was simple enough, with the gentle drape of the cowl neck and the barely-there spaghetti straps, but the shiny sheen of the fabric made a statement of its own. It wasn’t something you got to wear very often for as much as you loved it.
But then you’d gone ahead and paired it with the tallest, most ostentation heels you had. The effort had been worth it though because the pearl encrusted block heels made your legs look like they went on for days. Even if it had been a feat trying to get the dainty buckle done with the way you’d been rushing out of the house with your beaded bag in tow.
The whole look was something you’d sure would come with Cher Horowitz’s seal of approval. However, the patrons of the Hard Deck you were less sure about. And even though there were civilians- like yourself- scattered about the bar, none were anywhere near as dressed up as you.
There are more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you stand there with your feet glued to the uneven wooden floors, as the door with its porthole-shaped window slowly closes behind you with a squeaky creak. The twinkle lights above your head felt more like a spotlight, illuminating how out of place you are in this moment.
Your hand is still clutched on the handle unsure whether you’re going to make a run for it or not. You are more than a little tempted to hightail it back to the parking lot and text your date to claim a bout of food poisoning from the safety of the driver’s seat in your car.
But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.
“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, trying not to panic. Officially a victim of your own bad decision making.
You take a quick scan of the room, trying to decide what your next move should be. There’s a woman behind the bar with kind but clearly inquisitive eyes. A blonde with a wolfish smile eyes you from where he stands next to a man with broad shoulders bent over what must be the pool table, hidden behind the paneled half wall. By a dart board, there are a couple men with their heads turned towards you, the game seemingly forgotten as they discuss the spectacle that is you.
There are hundreds of planes dangling over the bar, patches and plaques littering the walls and rafters, rounders suspended from the ceiling laden with too many ceramic mugs to count. It was all done with a heavy-handed, maximalistic approach that you’d take a moment to appreciate under any other given circumstances.
When you spot an open table tucked away in the corner of the room it feels like life raft to the iceberg of a situation you’ve put yourself in. Mindful of the scuffed, uneven floors- because the last thing you need is to eat shit or twist an ankle in front of room full of curious onlookers- you hustle over to the spot in hopes of having a moment to regroup.
Once you’re situated- shrugging off the ivory cardigan you’d topped your outfit, trying to keep the nervous sweat that wanted to break out over your body at bay- you pull out your phone and check the time only to realize you’re devastatingly on time. Five minutes early, to be specific.
So you wait.
And check your phone again and the notifications in the dating app, just in case you missed something.
And wait.
You try to play it cool, skimming posts on Instagram and replying to some overdue texts. Finding anything you can to keep yourself occupied to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach the longer you sit there. Alone.
Now you’re not just simply embarrassed, you’re mortified.
You can still feel the eyes, the energy steadily shifting from curiosity to sympathy over the last thirty minutes you’ve been waiting all alone in the corner of a Navy bar you had no business being in for a man who clearly wasn’t going to show.
So much for doing it for the plot, you think to yourself with a shake of your head.
Another minute ticks by with no message and you decide you’re more than ready to hightail it out of there. Fully aware that you’re about to become a topic of conversation that won’t have to be restricted to only covert glances and muffled whispers. But hopefully, they’ll at least wait until the door closes behind you before the chatter starts up for real.
With a sigh, you reach for your beaded bag, just as a large body slips into the chair across from you, with an ease that is in contrast to the bulk of muscles you catch in your peripheral vision.
“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.
It’s the smile that you catch first. Not quite a grin, but something familiar and friendly and charming in the way it crookedly pulled to the left. Followed closely by the rich chocolate brown eyes that were squarely trained on you with a look that was just as earnest as it was playful. But what surprised you the most was the way he was sitting in the stool across from you just as comfortably as if he was supposed to be there all along.
There was no way you could have prepared yourself for the sheer level of attractiveness of this man.
He was in a league of his own with those curls and wide shoulders. The white and olive green stripped crochet shirt he was wearing didn’t hurt either, especially the way the top buttons were undone giving you glimpse of a chain around his neck and the chest underneath it. He didn’t need to be in uniform- or even in a Navy bar- for you to tell he was a military man. Not with the confident way he held himself.
Even if the mustache he was sporting made it feel like the universe was playing tricks on you, but he more than wore it well.
You huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “What gave it away?” you ask. “The way I’ve been watching the door? Or just the general look of regret and embarrassment?”
“Embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about?” His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. He shakes his head like he disagrees with even the suggestion of it. “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is the guy who is missing out on sitting across from you right now.”
You give him a soft smile of your own in return for the cinnamon sweet words. There’s a genuineness in his tone that makes some of the tightness that had settled in your shoulders from the moment you’d walked in release.
“That’s kind of you, but I think I’m going to head out,” you say, nodding to the door you never should have stepped through in the first place.
He gives you a teasing tsk. “And let a dress like that go to waste? Now that would be a shame.”
The appreciative look in his gaze that sets off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. And then his eyebrow ticks up, just a little. Part invitation, part dare. And you can’t say you’re not intrigued.
There’s a decision to make.
You could leave now and cut your losses. There was a reason you had a back-up pizza in the fridge and had left you well-loved copy of You’ve Got Mail sitting out on your coffee table.
Or you could stick around and see what happens next.
You tilt your head at him, just as teasing. “Would it now?”
“It would,” he states, sincerely.
Before you can reply, your phone lights up with a new notification, pulling you out of the whisky haze you’d found yourself in.
His eyes dip down to your illuminated screen. “Is that him?”
“It is,” you confirm, almost regretfully. You open the app and skim the message. And then read it again.
There’s no sorry, no apology for cancelling a half an hour after the time for the date that had been his idea in the first place. And then he’d even had the audacity to tack on a cavalier maybe another time at the end.
Unbelievable.
He lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”
“Apparently, I should have been the one to remind him that the fourteenth of February is a calendar holiday and a fan favorite day of the greeting card companies.” It’s so ridiculous you’d laugh if you weren’t so annoyed by the lack of consideration and the not-so-subtle blame he’d tried to shift on you. “Even though I did double check if he was sure about meeting up today, I guess I didn’t realize I actually needed to spell out ‘Valentine’s Day’ for him.”
The man across from you doesn’t bother holding back the less than impressed look on his face. And you decide you like that about him, that he wears his thoughts so openly. It’s refreshing.
“Do you mind if I take a look at his profile?”
You shrug and pass your phone over. You were planning on blocking West the second you had a moment anyways. You see him roll his eyes and guess it has something to do with the amount of shirtless gym selfies.
He snorts as he scrolls, “Please, his mustache has nothing on mine.”
An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”
“Fair enough,” he concedes good-naturedly, as he hands you back your phone. “But am I at least a close second?” There’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice.
You hum and take full advantage of the opportunity to look at him unabashedly, mapping the contours of his face because you can.
To simply call him handsome would be an understatement.
The way the golden light of the sunset is hitting him you catch some sunkissed strands in those soft looking waves of his hair. There’s the beginning of some crinkles around the edges of his eyes. You notice the scars on his face, some that look long healed and others that are still a light pink- like the one on the side of his neck and beneath is ear. And that mustache on him worked for you, one hundred percent.
There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he lets you assess him that leaves no question as to whether or not he’s been flirting with you. You like the way he’s looking at you and the way he’s easily made you forget about being overdressed and how uncomfortable you were even just five minutes ago. You’re having fun. And while you still haven’t answered his question from earlier, you have no doubt that he’d show you a good time if you let him.
“Maybe not a close second, but yours is certainly up there,” you tease.
He grins. “I can work with that.” There’s something about the way he adds on for now that has a spark dancing up along your spine. And then he sticks out his hand, “I’m Bradley.”
It’s a good name. It suits him. It’s one you think you’ll enjoy the way your tongue will curl around the letters of it in your mouth.
When you give him yours in return, he sits up straighter in his seat, like he’s won a small victory.
You don’t doubt that he’s the chivalrous type, the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come over to try and turn this evening around for you says more about him than any dating profile with nonsense questions and overthought answers ever could. But with a man like him, one who’d swoop in to save the night of a stranger because she looks like a damsel in distress, there’s an answer to a question you need to hear first.
“Bradley, this isn’t a pity thing, is it?” You were right, you like the way saying his name feels. You drop your hands into your lap, as you search his eyes. “Because if it is, that’ll make me feel worse than being stood up did.”
The way the words were sitting out and open on the table between the two of you made you feel vulnerable in a way you didn’t like. But you’d rather know now before anything goes further. Doing it for the plot or not, your ego could only take so much bruising in one evening.
He pins you with a look so serious that you feel it down to your toes. “Trust me, this is furthest thing from a ‘pity thing’, as you put it,” Bradley says, his tone slipping down a few gravelly notes. “Because if I’m being honest, if that asshole had actually shown up, I don’t know if I would have played fair.”
Oh.
A thrilling rush of warmth courses through you as your cheeks heat up.
You nod, trying to not look as affected as you feel. “Ok, I believe you.”
“Good,” he smirks, his gaze dropping down and lingering on your lips. You didn’t realize you’d trapped your lower lip between your teeth, you release it immediately. “Because you should know, I would have come over sooner- the second I saw you, actually- if I’d known. That’s some dress, sweetheart,” Bradley continues, “Plus, you’d be doing me a favor.”
You couldn’t help but be curious, so you lean in closer. “Oh, how so?”
Bradley mirrors you, crossing his thick forearms over each other and leans in that much closer. “I haven’t had a Valentine in years,” he says it like he’s letting you in on a secret.
For the first time all night, you don’t regret wearing the dress. You don’t regret the ostentatious shoes or the glimmering beaded bag. You don’t regret walking through that creaky door. You don’t regret showing up tonight.
How could you when you’ve just been served the best plot twist you’ve possibly ever experienced? A meetcute you never could have seen coming.
You realize just how close your faces have gotten and lean back in your seat, from fear of thinking you might do something stupid, like kiss him. “Will you stop with the big cow eyes, if I agree?”
Those crinkles around his eyes deepen, “Good to know they still work, I wasn’t sure if I still had it.”
You press your lips together trying to hide your smile, all too thoroughly charmed, but the corners of your mouth curl up all the same.
“Trust me, you have plenty.”
And Bradley’s own smile gets even wider.
Anyone in the bar can see how pleased with himself he is at your words. It rolls off of him in steady waves and swirls around your shins and ankles.
He makes a show of settling further into his seat, now that it is officially his seat. “What’re we thinking? One milkshake, two straws?”
You play along and pretend to ponder the offer for a moment. “That seems more like a second date type of activity, does it not?”
“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?”
“I’ll allow it.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
There wasn’t a menu or anything on the table when you sat down, so you aren’t sure what all is offered here. You thought you might have caught a glimpse of a laminated stack near register when you’d first walked in, but you hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to yourself at the time by getting up again and wandering around and reminding people just how out of place you’d been.
You look around and see a mix of ceramic steins, pint glasses, beer bottles, and a few stems of wine on tabletops and in the hands of the other patrons.
The noise of the bar had become a faint white noise in your ears as the two of you talked, but it comes back in full force now.
“If they have rosé, I’d take a glass of that.” It isn’t hard to miss the hesitation in your voice, feeling a little silly defaulting to your usual go-to. You don’t imagine they go through a ton of pink wine here. “But, uhm, anything on tap would be fine too, if they don’t.”
Bradley’s lips twitch up. Not in a smirk, but something caught between amused and something else you can’t quite describe.
You try not to fidget under his warm gaze, “What?”
He slides out of his stool and rounds the table, setting a big hand on the armrest near your elbow, “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart.”
“And what’s that?” you ask, more than a little breathlessly. Feeling a little high off of the smell of his leather and vanilla cologne, and something underneath that that reminds you of kerosene in a way that makes you want to breathe him in even more.
Bradley dips down close, his lips just a whisper from your ear, and murmurs, “Pink is my favorite color.”
Your head tips back on its own as you laugh. Its unabashedly loud and bright and delighted thing that fills the nooks and crannies of the corner you’d tucked yourself away into. And if a few heads turn your way because of it, that’s alright with you.
You don’t believe him, not one little bit. But that’s part of the fun. The back and forth, the flirting, the banter, the teasing. He’s so quickly turned this night around for you, you already know your cheeks are going to hurt by the end of it.
The sound of Bradley’s own laughter chases after yours. It’s warm and raspy and boyish, and you like the sound of it. You like him.
“One rosé, coming up,” he says, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he steps out of your space. “There’s nothing I like more than a girl who commits to a theme.”
You catch his wrist, his skin warm under your palm. “Wait, what’s it really?”
“Red,” Bradley says, then gives you a slow once over, making your pulse spark in your veins. “But you’ve got me second guessing myself now.” He gives you a wink and then heads towards the bar.
You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.
When he comes back, only a few minutes later, he has glass of familiar pink wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And oddly enough, a straw tucked into the pocket on his shirt.
“It’s almost a perfect match,” he notes, when he sets it in front of you.
“At least I won’t have to worry about staining if I end up spilling on myself.”
Bradley chuckles and moves his stool in closer to yours, sitting back down with more smooth grace than a man with his build has any right to move. He tips the neck of his beer towards you, and you lightly tap your wine glass against it.
You take a sweet sip. “So.”
“So,” he repeats, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.
“What’s your move?” you ask, running a glossy tipped finger around the rim of your wineglass.
“My move?” And there’s that grin again, one he doesn’t try to hide as he takes a sip of his own. “‘m pretty sure I’ve been showing you my moves since I sat down. I’ve never been good at being subtle.”
Bradley pulls the straw from his pocket and taps it a few times against the shellacked woodgrain table top. He takes the flimsy wrapper carefully starts twisting it, a little furrow of concentration forms between his brows, spiraling it until it’s pulled taut against itself.
You set an elbow on the edge, resting your chin on your hand as you study him. “But what’s the big move? I know you have one,” you press further.
His hands are big, calloused and rough, but capable. You want to know the story behind the scar that’s near the base of his thumb. You note that he wears his watch on the right instead of the left, and you pocket that new discovery for yourself the way a kid enthusiastically collects rocks in a park.
Bradley takes that piece of paper and folds it in half before twisting it again.
You watch in fascination as that pleased grin transforms into a confident smirk, like he’s enjoying even just the thought of showing you his big move. He looks like good trouble.
Bradley’s eyes slowly lift to yours, his hands pausing whatever he’s doing with that wrapper. He shoots a thumb to the left towards the end of the oval shaped bar. “You see that piano over there?”
“Mhm.” It’s an almost purr.
“That’s my big move.”
You feel your eyebrows lift in surprise. Bradley gave off such hometown golden boy vibes, you’d never have expected that he’d be the musical type too. The idea of seeing those hands fly over a set of black and white piano keys made your stomach tighten deliciously in anticipation.
“Am I going to get to see it?”
His gaze is steady on you when he replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll show you my move.”
A grin stretches across your face and you feel downright giddy, as you wiggle your shoulders in triumph.
Bradley shakes his head amused, and then refocuses his efforts on the task he’d started with the straw wrapper. He struggles only for a moment- those large fingers getting in the way- as he tries to open the end just enough to slip the tail though. He gives it one more final twist, securing the loop, before inspecting his handiwork.
“Now, since we’re valentines and all, it seemed only fitting that I get you- well, make you- a little something.” Bradley gives you a soft, boyish smile as he holds out his palm towards you, and in the center of it is a perfectly crafted paper ring. “Sorry, I couldn’t find you a Ring Pop on short notice.”
The words escape you for a moment at the sheer sweetness of the gesture.
Gently, you take it from his outstretched hand, and slip it onto the pointer finger of your right hand, adjusting it with care until you have it situated just right.
“I usually wouldn’t be able to accept something so grand on a first date. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” you say, liltingly. “Thank you, Bradley.”
You look down to appreciate it again, more than a little tempted to take it off and tuck it securely into your purse for safekeeping. For as much as you liked your dress and bag and your shoes, that little paper ring was now your favorite piece of the outfit you were wearing.
When you glance back up at him, his cheeks have the faintest pink hue to them. The little nonchalant shrug he tries to give you does nothing to hide how pleased he looks. “I make a mean daisy chain too. We might have to wait a couple months for Spring, but I’m good for it.”
Your mind flashes with an image of you and him in a park with a picnic basket sat between the two of you, and those large hands of his threading celery green stems together. It’s a pretty picture.
“Well, aren’t you just a regular modern day Renaissance man.”
“I’m a man of many talents,” he rasps, silky smooth. It makes goosebumps raise along your arms. “Now, I’ve told you mine. Can’t say I’m not dying to know what your big move is. Am I going to get to see it, sweetheart?”
“Maybe,” you muse, lifting your glass to take another sip, “If you’re good.”
Bradley hooks a foot under you stool and tugs you just a few inches closer. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your position on kissing on a first date?”
You bend forward towards him and think you hear his breath hitch, you smile. “I’ll keep you posted.”
You’re still looking at his lips when a shout from across the bar startles you both.
“Bradshaw!”
Bradley mutters a string of curses and then blows out a breath, giving you a smoldering look that tells you that the conversation is far from over. You’re more than willing to let him try and change your mind about where he lands in the mustache rankings.
You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?”
“Unfortunately.” A mischievous look coasts over his face. “But I’ll get you all the Ring Pops you could ever want if you say that to his face.”
You laugh. “I’m holding out for that daisy chain.”
Another holler rings out from across the room, the same Southern drawl as before.
“Seems like he wants your attention. Is he a Leo?”
He snorts. “You know what, he just might be. But more like he’s been waiting for the right moment to annoy me since I ditched him to come talk to a pretty girl instead.”
You try not to preen at the compliment.
“The relentless type, huh?”
“You don’t know the half of it. I think I’m about thirty seconds from him queuing up “You Make Me Feel So Young” on repeat just to fuck with me,” Bradley explains. There’s a story there and you want to know more. “I know I still owe you the big move, but is it alright if I try to show off a little for you now? Just to get off my back for the rest of the night, then I’m all yours.”
You feel like you’ve just pulled an ace from your pocket.
“What are the stakes?” you ask, intrigued.
“Two hundred dollars and a whiskey,” Bradley replies.
You let out a low whistle, trying to school the catlike grin that wants to overtake your face. “That’s a lot of Ring Pops.”
The corners of his mouth curl up. “I was thinking dinner for our third date,” he says. “I’m buying for our second, of course. But it’s only right that we split the spoils of war.”
The sound of a brass band rings out over the staticky speakers and Bradley hangs his head down and lets out a long-suffering groan. You playfully pat his shoulder in faux commiseration.
You pretend to consider it for a moment, but you already know your answer. “Okay,” you agree, “Just as long as you’re okay with a little respectful ogling. You like my dress, and I like those jeans you’re wearing.”
He laughs, it’s a throaty rich sound. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”
You gather for you purse and sweater as Bradley stands. His hands come to your waist, helping you off the chair, your bodies closer than close. It’s a forward move- he knows it, you know it- but with him, you don’t mind at all.
Bradley offers you his hand and you take it in yours; his fingers slip between yours easily like the two of you have already done this before.
The two of you only make it a few steps before you tug on his hand, waiting until he looks at you from over his shoulder before asking, with a lifted brow, “Bradley Bradshaw?”
He huffs out a not-so-exasperated sigh, “I blame it on the 80’s.”
“Whatever you say, Brad-Brad.” It’s the one and only time you’re ever going to say it, you decide. You like saying his name too much to shorten it. And his back may be turned to you now, but that now familiar chuckle still makes its way to your ears.
Bradley leads you to the bar first, where he buys another glass of rosé and a beer for himself. When you try to pass your credit card to the woman behind the counter, he takes it, and rasps into your ear, “Let me.”
He tucks it right back into your purse as the sound of brass instruments starts up yet again.
“Like a dog with a goddamn bone,” you hear him mumble. And you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Sure, you’d rather be seeing his big move, but you can’t claim not to be amused by all of this.
He nods to a group of people in the corner near the popcorn machine when the two of you enter the alcove with pool table. Some of his other friends of his you assume.
You send them a little wave, one that they return in greeting. You can tell they’re curious, but you’re grateful when they resume their conversation instead of making you feel like your date with Bradley had become a spectator sport for their viewing entertainment.
The first thing Bradley does is introduce you to his friend. It’s a little thing, but he does it without prompt or awkwardly leaving you to take the initiative yourself. You appreciate the way he is still prioritizing your comfort the way he’s been doing it since he first sat down across from you.
The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is.
Jake rests a hip against the table. “Sorry to interrupt your date, but Bradshaw and I had some unfinished business.”
You wave him off, it’s not a big deal. Not when you’ll have the rest of the night with Bradley. Plus, you’re eager to watch this play out between them, curious about their gameplay.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with,” Bradley rumbles, as he arranges the balls in the rack. And you wonder if he lost the lag before he’d made his way over to your table for one.
He comes back over to you, and leans on the ledge next to you as he chalks his cue. You’d thought about slipping your sweater back on, with the outside chill pressing against the line of glass windows at your back, but Bradley had more than enough warmth radiating off of him that you didn’t need to.
“You that eager to be out a couple hundred, Bradshaw?” Jake grins, as he leans over the side of the table. He turns his gaze to you and sends you a wink right before he breaks, sending the cue ball barreling into the others with a resounding clack, scattering them across the table.
And then they’re off.
It’s a rapid fire of back-and-forth banter between the men as they take their shots. Mostly good natured, but undeniably competitive. Smirking when they land their shots, and snarking over fouls. Clear that neither of them wants to lose.
Jake is all confident posturing, playing low over the cue with a lightly too tight grip. It’s the only thing that gives him away that he’s not the easygoing player as he wants people to think he is. Choosing higher risk shots that would highlight his ability versus some of the more straightforward options laid out for him, and skilled enough that it pays off most of the time. But after a couple rounds you note he’s too quick to stand up after taking his shot, not enough follow through because he’s too eager to see if his gamble pays off.
Bradley is all loose-limbed ease, clearly comfortable in both his skin and at the table. You can tell he’s probably playing quicker than he normally does, clearly trying to hurry up the game for your sake, even though he doesn’t need to. Although he does take his time as he positions himself around the table, only adjusting his bridge every now and then. Always with a 1-2 shot, a warm-up stroke followed by a steady hit. Watching him you catch his tendency to throw out his elbow of the follow through.
The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.
When Bradley’s not up to play, he’s by your side, right at your elbow. And when he is, it’s your eyes he’s looking into the moment he stands back up, seeking out your reaction. But more than once you feel his eyes on you as you watch them play.
True to your word, you to admire him in those snug fitting jeans. And when he catches your appreciative gaze, he sends you a wink before lining up his next shot.
Jake sinks another solid into the pocket he’d called only moments ago, and turns his dimpled smile at you, “You still sure about your date with the old man, chickadee? I bet I could show him up in that department too.”
The way he says it, you know he’s just teasing, probably just to rile you date up and get a reaction from him.
“Unfortunately for you, I think I have a thing for mustaches now,” you toss back, unbothered. And Bradley smiles into his drink.
You watch as Jake lines up his next shot and hits the white with a compact stroke.
“Double hit,” you declare.
“Dammit,” Jake curses.
You look over to see Bradley looking at you with a focused look on his face. Like there’s a theory clicking into place, one he needs the answer to. Wordlessly, he hands you the cue.
“You sure?” you ask.
“Two hundred dollars sure,” he states.
You take it from him with a sly grin.
Bradley’s thighs brush against the front of your knees, you know if you parted them even a couple inches, that he’d fit just right between them. His hands landing on your waist again as he assists you off the stool you’ve been perched on. And you’re starting to think he just likes an excuse to touch you, not that he needs one because you already more than like the feel of his hands on your body.
You walk the pool table, running a finger around the rails as you do. Evaluating the balls on the table like they’re chess pieces. The slow clip of your heels on the floor like the tick of a clock as you take your time deciding your approach.
“You’re the stripes,” Jake offers helpfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you have a free shot.”
And you can’t help but laugh because this is going to be fun.
“Bradley?” you ask, leisurely chalking your cue.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Do you mind?” You gesture to the spot behind you, and he catches on quick with a not-so-subtle glance at the short hem of your skirt.
He sets his beer down and comes to stand behind you, there’s just enough space between the two of you that you don’t have to worry about hitting him with the cue, his broad from proving you the coverage you needed to bend over the table. While you don’t think you’d mind Bradley seeing the silk thong you had on underneath your dress, you weren’t exactly up for flashing the whole bar.
You haven’t played in a while, but it’s a muscle memory at this point, as you map out your moves. Seeing the lines and angles and arcs in your mind’s eye before anchoring your bridge.
You look at Bradley from over your shoulder, only to see his eyes are trained on the ceiling with his tongue pressed against his cheek. A gentleman, albeit not an unaffected one. A tendril of smokey gratification curls its way along your spine. You turn your head back to the pool table looking between the cue, target, cue ball, target.
It’s a smooth stroke with a satisfying crack. A clean three-rail shot that lands the striped five into the pock you’d intended for it.
“Damn” is all Jake says. His eyes you up, clearly impressed.
“You sure about that free shot, Jake?” You stand up and smooth out your dress, just for the show of it. “Or do you want to make it double or nothing instead, Malibu Ken?” You hear Bradley snort from behind you.
And just like you thought, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, “Deal.” Jake turns to Bradley. “I just let your girl hustle me, didn’t I?”
“You sure did,” Bradley says with a grin, but his eyes are on you.
Neither are surprised when you sink your next shot too. The six sailing into the left corner pocket.
On your next shot, you may or may not deliberately foul. A tactical choice that sets Jake up with a less than ideal position on the table, knowing it’ll be a difficult shot for him to make.
“Now you’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Jake grouses.
You just smile and take a sip of the rosé that Bradley hands you, neither confirming or denying.
Surprisingly, he banks it. But his good luck only lasting through that one play. Because on his next, the ball glances off the side rail at too acute an angle to reach the intended pocket and he groans.
Not quite ready to be done, you ease off a little. Enough that they both know you’re going easy on him to extend the game longer, just so that he can catch up to you.
But soon enough, soon there’s only your eight ball left on the table.
“Looks like you’re about to be out four hundred dollars, Jake,” you say with a self-satisfied smirk.
“Just put me out of my misery already.”
You turn to Bradley, who has been carefully positioning himself behind you the whole time. You hold out the cue to him and ask, “Do you want the honors?”
He shakes his head. “Go on, finish him off, sweetheart. I’m enjoying the show.”
And when your final ball tips into the side pocket, Jakes resounding groan is drown out by the whistle Bradley lets loose between his thumb and pointer finger, as you turn towards him beaming.
“The atm’s by the restroom.” Bradley sounds only too happy to remind Jake as he closes the gap between the two of you.
You look over his wide shoulder, “As for the whiskey, something expensive please, Malibu Ken.”
Jake huffs a grumble but nods all the same as he goes to round up your winnings.
“Scored four hundred dollars and a valentine, that’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” you preen to Bradley.
“Think that might have been the best thing I’ve seen all year,” Bradley announces. “The hottest too, if I’m being honest.” You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. His finger slips under the thin strap of your dress that had fallen off your shoulder somewhere along the way. He slides it back up and into place, treating it like some delicate thing the same way he did that paper wrapper. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”
Normally, this is when you’d rerack, but you’ve never had a Bradley Bradshaw looking at you before.
“I took a class in college over the summer as an elective credit, and it turns out I had a knack for it,” you explain with a playful little shrug.
“I’ll say.” He takes another step closer. “Did you just show me your move, sweetheart?”
“One of them,” you grin.
You don’t have to press up to his height, not with your pearly heels.
You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours for a kiss. A sound of surprise escapes from his throat. You feel the curve of a smile before his hands slide around your waist to pull you closer.
The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected.
“Think you just snagged that number one spot of my list of favorite mustached men,” you say against his lips.
“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps.
You inhale the amusement of his light chuckle, letting it go to your head like champagne bubbles, before he slips a hand around the base of your neck and pulling you in close once again.
A couple hours later, you find yourself at home on the couch. Your cheeks a little sore from how much smiling you’d done tonight, as Tom and Meg trade words over a plate of caviar on screen.
It was only much later that night you’d gotten to see Bradley’s big move.
He’d surprised you with his voice and the talented way his fingers glided over the white and black keys. An expensive glass of amber colored liquor sitting atop the old piano as he played, and four hundred dollars tucked safely away in your purse.
You’d given him your number when he’d walked you to your car, only distracting you for a few extra minutes with his mouth, before you’d left for the night, hoping that you’d hear from him soon.
A notification lights up your phone, and a ribbon of thrill unspools through you.
You sigh when you see that it’s a notification from your dating app. You’re wary to open it, not wanting anything to color your night, but you figure now is as good of time as any to block the guy who had nothing on the one you’d spent your evening with.
When you see the name of the person who’d sent you a message, you click into his profile with lightning-fast fingers, skimming all the details to things you hadn’t had a chance to learn yet.
𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰
𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟓
𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭
𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥: 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚
𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥
𝐙𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫
There is a picture of him in uniform, grinning to someone out of the frame. And another one of him shirtless on the beach, surrounded by some of the faces you’d seen tonight at the Hard Deck.
But it’s the answers to the prompts that he’d picked, that set your heart fluttering.
And you can’t help but grin to yourself as look at that paper ring still on your finger. Because you know, this app won’t be on your phone for much longer.
Not now that you’ve met him.
Happy Hearts Day, friends! Thank you for reading!
And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!
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