Ophelia stood just inside the café.

Lady Windermere's was a riot of pink and purple flowers; crushed velvet loveseats were spaced out around marble tables, and neon letters on the wall spelled out "I love you a latte." Glass display cases showcased red velvet cupcakes, frilly cakes, and silky tarts with white chocolate ballerinas on top of them.

She had no idea why the hell she was here.

Okay, that wasn't entirely true; Ophelia had spent the night staring at her ceiling, unable to get the image of Digby winking at Louise out of her head. It was hardly Louise's fault that she was so damn personable.

But god, it stung.

They hadn't stayed long at the pub — only another thirty minutes, or so — and Louise had ended up going home with the grumpy bartender. She had patted Ophelia's shoulder as they waited for their cabs.

"I was never going to get with Digby, you know."

"Really?"

"Of course not." Louise had given her an odd look. "Not when you fancy him, obviously."

And Ophelia, who hadn't realized that it had been that obvious, flushed a blotchy red colour. Curse her pale skin. It really was the worst, sometimes.

Still, Ophelia hadn't planned to take Andrew up on his offer. He was a stranger, after all. A stranger that lurked in dark alleyways and cheated on his long-term girlfriend. Not exactly promising stuff.

But then Ophelia called her mother.

She loved her Mom. Really, she did; Carmen Prescott was the sort of mother that left notes in her school lunchbox and baked extravagant birthday cakes, usually in the shape of pirate ships or trains. But she also had a habit of treading blithely all over other people's feelings, usually without any awareness of it at all.

And today was one of those days.

"So," Carmen said brightly. "Your brother has a girlfriend!"

Ophelia froze. "He does?"

"Her name's Jen."

"Oh." Ophelia paused. "Right. Don't you think he's a little young, though?"

Jeremy was thirteen-years-old, although Ophelia personally thought it was a miracle that her brother had survived through most of his childhood. Over the years, he had surfed down the stairs on a mattress, tried a handful of recreational drugs, and almost froze to death after setting off a carbon monoxide detector and running outside, shirtless, in mid-December.

And that was just the stuff that Ophelia knew about.

"Oh, don't be silly," Carmen said dismissively. "Thirteen is a perfectly normal age to date, Ophelia." She heard a wine bottle being uncorked. "Your father and I started dating in elementary school."

"I know."

"And we're happily married with children."

"Again, I'm aware."

"Just because you haven't dated anyone—"

"Alright," Ophelia said, nettled. "Point taken. Thanks, Mom."

Ophelia's dating life was a sore point. Even with the girls, she always felt uncomfortable when boys were brought up; Ella, Louise and Sophia had all slept with a handful of men by now. Ophelia, on the other hand, had only kissed three boys — and the first one had been in sixth grade, so it didn't exactly count.

So here she was. Hovering awkwardly inside Lady Windermere's stupidly pink café. Already regretting walking here in the first place.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

Ophelia jolted to attention. A plump waitress was looking at her curiously, a tray of pink lattes hovering in one hand. She swallowed.

"No." She was already backing up. "No, sorry."

This was a mistake. A terrible, horrific mistake, and if she could just get out of here without being seen then she—

"Ophelia!"

She winced.

Andrew was sitting at a table, his chino-clad legs crossed at the ankle. A sea of papers was spread out before him, and his long fingers were fiddling with a pencil. He looked oddly out of place amidst the sea of pink. Like an ink stain on a Valentine's Day card.

He waved her over.

"Take a seat," he ordered.

He didn't look surprised to see her. In fact, he looked rather smug, the bastard. Still, Ophelia complied, sliding into a chair.

"Can I get you anything?" the waitress asked.

"Oh." Ophelia's eyes flicked to the menu. "Um. Do you have bran?"

"Like the cereal?"

"That's the one." She paused. "And a latte."

Heaven knew she needed the caffeine. The waitress gave her an odd look, but wrote the order down regardless. As soon as she left, Andrew leaned forward.

"Seriously?" He arched an eyebrow. "No sambazon açaí bowl? Or green shakshuka?"

"Is that even English?"

"Bran," Andrew repeated, shaking his head. "From a box." He shuffled his papers, quickly whisking them out of her view. "You're so odd."

"I'm traditional."

Also, Ophelia's stomach was still rolling around like a pair of dice on a tilt-a-wheel. She couldn't stomach fancy eggs. Not after all of the tequila last night.

Andrew rested his arms on top of the stack of white pages. "You decided to take me up on my offer, then?"

Reluctantly, Ophelia nodded.

"Why?"

Ophelia fiddled with the menu. There was no way that she was telling Andrew about the phone call with her mother. He would get that superior look: the haughty, annoying "I'm-better-than-you" one that frustrated the hell out of her.

She shrugged. "Consider it an act of charity."

"It's mutually beneficial."

"We'll see."

Her bran cereal arrived in record time, and Ophelia leaned back as the waitress placed her food on the table. Andrew's paper caught her eye. She frowned. She had assumed that he had been scribbling notes for class — he looked about twenty-one, the same age as her — but now, she could see whorls and loops. A drawing.

"What's that?" she asked.

Andrew leaned further over the papers. "Nothing."

"Let me see."

She leaned forward, but Andrew was quicker; he stuffed the stack of papers into his bag, zipping it up forcefully.

"Try the coffee," he said. "It's delicious."

Ophelia arched an eyebrow. Admittedly, the coffee did smell pretty tantalizing, so she gave Andrew a pass for now. She sipped the latte. Immediately, the sweet taste of melted ice cream cones filled her mouth, and her eyes fluttered closed.

"Oh, my god," she moaned.

"Good?"

"Unreal."

She opened her eyes to find Andrew watching her with an odd expression. There was surprise on his face, and something else. Something that made her cheeks warm.

"What?" She touched her mouth. "Do I have foam on my face?"

"No," Andrew said. "You just look so familiar." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Are you sure you're not a singer?"

"Only in the shower."

Too late, Ophelia realized that they were both now picturing her naked, standing under a stream of water. Her cheeks flamed again. Was it her imagination, or did Andrew's eyes darken slightly? He leaned forward, his thumb brushing her cheekbone.

"Hang on," Andrew murmured. "You have an eyelash."

Ophelia's heartbeat rocketed. She could smell spicy cologne clinging to his shirt, and his hand was cool against her skin. Having him this close to her was doing funny things to her body. Funny things that she wasn't entirely sure she liked.

Instinctively, she jerked backwards.

Coffee splattered across the table.

She cursed like a sailor, diving for napkins. Coffee was dripping everywhere: on Andrew's pencils, on his empty plate, on his chinos... She froze. The chinos. Oh, god; she didn't know much about expensive clothing, but those had to be designer.

She immediately grabbed a napkin, dabbing frantically at the darkening patch near his waistband. Andrew froze.

"Ophelia."

His voice was strained. She dabbed furiously, ignoring Andrew's protests. Stupid coffee. Stupid expensive chinos. Why was coffee so damn hard to get out?

"Ophelia!"

She jerked up. Andrew's face looked pained, and he caught her wrist, guiding her napkins back to the table.

"Leave it," he said hoarsely. "I'm fine."

"But the chinos—"

"Don't!" Andrew's voice was sharp. "Don't touch them again, okay?" He snatched up the napkins. "I can do it myself."

She blinked. God. Andrew was getting rather worked up about his pants, wasn't he? But then again, they did look rather expensive. Maybe he was just fretting over the dry cleaning bill. She didn't blame him.

Her phone rang.

She dove for it, grateful for the distraction, and then immediately groaned. Her cousin Sophia's face popped up. She would be calling to lecture Ophelia on the dangers of drinking, which was entirely unnecessary. The bran was punishment enough.

"Sorry," she said, switching it to silent. "It's just my cousin."

Andrew was staring at the screen.

"Your cousin," he repeated.

"Yes."

"Dear god." He set down the napkins. "That's your cousin? The Sophia that's dating Finn Hoag, the Canadian bareback rider?"

Ophelia frowned. "Er, yes?"

Sophia had met Finn while she was studying in Alberta last year, and the pair had been dating ever since. She paused in stirring her bran flakes. Hang on. Hadn't Andrew said he was a bareback rider, too?

Well.

It made sense that he and Sophia knew each other, then.

They had probably bumped into each other at rodeo events in Canada. It wasn't like England was exactly famous for its cattle roping.

Ophelia set down her spoon. She didn't look anything like her cousin — Sophia had mixed Asian heritage, while Ophelia was fair and redheaded — but Sophia could have mentioned her. Showed Andrew a picture, even.

Andrew was staring at her as if he was seeing a ghost.

"Do you know Soph?" Ophelia prompted.

"You could say that." Andrew tapped his pencil against the table. "I'm afraid she's not my biggest fan."

Ophelia froze. "Did you two...?"

Oh, god. She stared down at her bran cereal, poking at the soggy lumps. If Andrew and Sophia hooked up while he was competing in Canada, then she was calling this whole thing off. Immediately. Because, well...

Ophelia's stomach twisted. Because the thought of Andrew hooking up with Sophia annoyed her, for some reason. Weird.

Fortunately, Andrew chuckled.

"No." He looked amused at the idea. "We never got together. Hoag would have broken my nose, and I happen to like my face how it is."

"Oh."

Ophelia blinked in surprise. She had only met Finn a few times before, but he always struck her as a reasonable man; in fact, with his shaggy blond hair and quick smile, he reminded her of a large, zealous golden retriever. She couldn't picture him hitting anything.

Andrew must have a talent for pissing people off.

Even Finn.

"Probably best not to mention me, though," Andrew continued, clearly oblivious to her inner monologue. "The last time we spoke, she told me to fall in a cow patty."

Ophelia loosed a breath. "Right. I won't, then."

Which was a dirty lie. She was definitely asking Sophia about Andrew. Her curiosity knew no bounds. Presently, she cleared her throat.

"So." She sipped her coffee. "Where do we begin?"

"Hmm?"

"With this."

She gestured between the two of them, and Andrew gave her an odd look. Ophelia's pulse kicked into overtime.

"I mean our deal," she added quickly. "Where you help me get Digby."

"Ah." His expression cleared. "This weekend. At a polo tournament."

She stared at him. "A polo tournament?"

"Digby will be playing. Eleanora will be there, too."

Ophelia drained the last of her coffee. She didn't know much about polo, but she knew that it generally involved people sitting on horses and swinging wooden mallets. Behind a wooden fence. Far from the crowd.

"Okay," she said slowly. "What's the plan, then? I speak to Digby before he plays?"

Andrew scoffed. "Don't be daft. You can't talk to him yet."

"I can't?"

"Of course not." 

"So why are we going, then?"

Andrew smiled. It was a conspiratorial sort of smile, the kind that reminded her of midnight whispers and secrets swapped by candlelight. Andrew leaned forward, and her stomach fluttered a little.

"Because, Ophelia," Andrew said, "you're going to flirt with other men. Right in front of him."

A/N: Oooh Andrew! You saucy minx.

So fun fact: Lady Windermere's café is actually inspired by a very real place in London! Can anyone guess where it is? The answer is on my Instagram story today ;)

https://www.instagram.com/jkmaclaren/

Affectionately,

J.K.