My prince has come.

Sure, his image is distorted by the peephole in my front door, but it would take more than a fishbowl lens and a face mask to dull this guy's appeal. Messy dark hair, intense blue eyes, hard body – even convex and a little blurry, he's undeniably hot.

Let's face it, he could be hideously ugly and I would still adore him in this moment. It's a Friday night during Stage 4 lockdown. At this point, the only thing more attractive than a guy delivering alcohol would be a guy delivering a vaccine.

Jude bends to leave the small cardboard box on my buttercup yellow 'hello world' doormat, raps his knuckles against the glossy black door and turns away. I stare at his butt as he heads for the stairs.

I'm fully aware that unashamed butt-ogling through a peephole is creepy. I don't care. Jude Carlisle's socially-distanced, black denim-clad backside is one of the few joys left in my life right now.

I wait until he's out of sight before opening the door. When I do crack it ajar, my rhubarb daiquiris await in all their mason jar-filled goodness – two bright splashes of pale pink pretty at the end of an otherwise grey week.

Come inside my lovelies...

Taking the stairs down from Meg's apartment two at a time, I start to regret the spontaneous note I left with her drinks.

It didn't seem like a big deal when I scrawled it on the back of the coaster and tucked it between the jars. Just a question asked of a friend whose opinion you value. Except that Meg and I aren't friends. We're barely acquaintances. She only has my number because that's how people order drinks from us now.

When the first lockdown started, my brother Vince and I had to find a way to pivot Tower Bar's operations or shut up shop. If we'd only had ourselves to worry about, I might have voted for calling it quits. But most of our staff are on working visas and aren't eligible for government support if they lose their jobs, so folding didn't exactly feel like an option.

Our first night as a 'takeaway and delivery only' business, Vince asked me to "run two expresso martinis up to Meg". I had no idea who he was talking about.

"You know – Meg. Blonde, legs for days, black-rimmed glasses like a naughty school teacher?" Vince prompted.

I shook my head and he raised an eyebrow. The eyebrow was sceptical. Sceptical, or maybe just amazed by my complete lack of game. Vince and I might look alike but our approach to relationships has always been very different. I'm into long-term and monogamous, Vince – not so much.

"She's in here all the time, mate. Usually sits at the bar with those two friends of hers. The hot Japanese chick and the redhead Samson's seeing? Seriously, J. You gotta get your head back in this. I know things got messy with Shannon but it's time to move on."

I cringed at the mention of my ex-fiancé and took the drinks up the narrow stairs to the apartment I'd known was there but had never paid much attention to.

Despite the thoughts of Shannon swirling around my head, I paid attention when Meg opened the door. Not just because Vince had instructed me to, but because she was wearing workout gear that clung to her curves and because her smile was killer. Her grey eyes – manga large behind her glasses – caught mine. She bit her lip.

I've been crushing hard ever since.

Which is great and all but it doesn't change the fact that sending notes to female customers is kind of stalkerish, right? The note isn't shady. I just asked her to text me and let me know what she thinks of the drinks. But maybe I've crossed some sort of line? She lives by herself and I'm the guy from the bar downstairs. What if the note freaks her out?

Shit.

I'm an idiot.

I cradle the box tenderly, like it's made of puppies and newborn babies, and carry it across the living area into the small tower room that gives the bar downstairs its name. The jars are like miniature art pieces, with little black and white 'drink me' tags and a delicate line sketch of the building on their labels. For absolutely no reason, looking at them makes me want to cry.

It's fair to say I'm not really coping with this #lifeinlockdown thing.

I love my apartment and I've always been adamant that I love living by myself. Turns out my craving for alone time had a lot to do with rarely being alone. Between a marketing job that takes as much as it gives; friends who treat 'I'll sleep when I'm dead' as a lifestyle choice; and a close-knit family who fret if they haven't seen me for three days – my days have always been full of people.

Now they're full of just me.

During Lockdown 1.0, alone was novel and kind of fun. I was all about Zoom drinks and 'me time' and the solidarity to be found in #togetherapart. I got a kick out of wearing lounge wear and my Ugg boots to virtual meetings with the CEO. My enthusiasm for short-term sacrifice knew no bounds.

Now that Lockdown 2.0 is in full swing – with its 8pm curfew and mandatory mask-wearing and eery resemblance to those zombie apocalypse movies my friend Claire loves (and that give me nightmares) – my enthusiasm has well and truly skipped town.

I'm lonely.

I want to hug my Mum. And my sisters. And my besties. And maybe a random stranger on a dance floor.

My apartment, with its whitewashed wooden floors and massive north-facing windows, is starting to feel like a beautiful jail cell. This tower was meant to be my haven of relaxation. Now it's my home office and I'm trapped in it.

To avoid going completely batshit crazy, I've invented fun little "don't fret Meg, you are completely sane" rituals. Like Friday night happy hour. It's my way of clearing the work week spirits from my tower with two perfectly mixed drinks I haven't had to make myself.

I lift the mason jars reverently from the box and place them on the table. They join the pre-chilled crystal cocktail glass and the tiny ice bucket that my friend Becca gave me for my last birthday. I'm about to discard the cardboard box when a flash of red catches my eye. It's a coaster for a popular brand of boutique beer and there's something scrawled across it.

Hey Meg,

Hope you've had a good week. This one's called 'The Rapunzel' because Friday night drinks are all about letting your hair down. Text me and let me know what you think.

x Jude

Holy moly. The bar Adonis wrote me a note.

We're busy tonight – thank F*** – we really need it. I've been fielding texts since 4pm, ringing people back to take payment, distributing the food orders to the kitchen and the drinks orders to Vince and Samson at the bar. Aurelie and Nico, who used to work the floor, are our delivery drivers, ferrying cocktails and bar meals around the surrounding suburbs.

Signs of our new normal are everywhere. The black, velvet-covered booths that used to be crammed full of people are now crammed full of boxes of mason jars and takeaway containers and candied orange peel in single-serve paper bags.

The gold velvet rope that once sat across the private function area now separates the 'in' and 'out' takeaway lines. Hand-stencilled, socially-distanced love hearts tattoo the polished concrete floor between the door and the cash register. According to Vince, they clearly tell the world to "stand on a heart, show the love, and stay the F*** away from each other".

This time last year, my brother and I were suited and booted and downing over-priced beers in a bar much like this one. Vince was an investment banker (total corporate wanker); I was an up-and-coming architect who, at 25, had already won his first award (probably also a wanker). Great in theory, but the dark circles of exhaustion under our eyes were as deep as our wallets.

Tower Bar was conceived on a drunken whim when we concluded that our part-time bartending days had been our best life.

Hard to claim I'm living my best life now though. 2020 sucks.

My relationship came to a swift and ugly end, global pandemic is the new black, and tonight I put my balls on the line and wrote a note to a girl who seems to have ignored it.

Not gonna lie – every text that's come in over the past eighty minutes, I've hoped would be from Meg.

None of them have been.

Vince is right, I'm so far out of the game I can't even find my way to the field.

When the real estate agency underneath my apartment was replaced by a bar, you'd have thought I'd won the lottery – that's how excited Claire and Becca were.

"Oh my God, Meggles," Claire squealed. "This is fate telling you that you need to spend less time working and more time being 24 and irresponsible. I can't believe you haven't even bothered to check it out yet."

"No, it's fate telling me that I'm never going to sleep again."

"Don't be such a killjoy, Megsy," Becca said, fixing me with her 'I mean business' stare. "C'mon, let's go down now and check it out. Claire and I'll buy you a bar-warming drink." She was already shrugging into her leather jacket and heading for the door, Claire right behind her.

In a fair fight, I can take either Claire or Becca down. When they gang up on me, I know I might as well give up.

Five minutes later, I was plonked on a bar stool, sipping a G&T while trying hard not to stare at the bartender's butt. Okay, so maybe I wasn't trying that hard. In my defence, he was standing on a stepladder unpacking bottles. His butt was totally at eye level and really, really nice to look at. Every time his arm raised above his head, his worn grey tee-shirt rode up, baring a sliver of tanned skin. Seriously, a girl can't be expected not to admire that.

"Oui, we just opened yesterday," the other bartender was telling Becca and Claire, his French accent strong and lilting. When he smiled, his white teeth shone bright against his beautiful dark skin. Claire was looking at him like she was contemplating what to name their firstborn. "I'm Samson, and this is Jude."

The guy on the step ladder turned and flashed us a smile. It was quick, sort of halfhearted, like he was preoccupied with other things. But it had dimples and the bluest of blue eyes. It did funny things to my ovaries.

I've been crushing hard ever since.

Not that it's done me any good. Before now, Jude has never given even the slightest indication that he might be interested.

Which is why I've already polished off the first daiquiri and half a wheel of double cream brie cheese before I can bring myself to attempt to draft a response to his note.

Normally, I'm an above average flirt but nothing about this is normal. I'm living a weird pyjama-clad existence where weeks are measured in online shopping deliveries and bras are optional. Even the smallest of events take on an otherworldly significance.

Jude's note could be something or it could be nothing. I'm likely too lockdown-loopy to be able to tell the difference.

The 'Hey' at the beginning is super casual. But he ends the note with an 'x' – a kiss implies some kind of intimacy. Doesn't it?

But then he could just be doing a feedback blitz? Maybe he wrote dozens of these notes to the bar's regular customers?

But then there's the fact that I'm a girl trapped in a tower by the evil witch that is COVID-19 and they've called the drink 'The Rapunzel'. Complete coincidence? Or is there a tiny sliver of a chance that Jude created this drink and then named it for me?

Aggggh, this is impossible.

Come on Munro, it's just a simple text message. Put your big girl pants on and write the bloody thing.

And stop talking to yourself. It's weird.

Love the drink, Jude. Would definitely let down my hair if I wasn't trapped in my tower alone x Meg

Delete. Delete. Delete. I sound like a crazy cat lady. A sleazy, crazy cat lady. A sleazy, crazy cat lady who doesn't even own a cat. Try again.

Rapunzel delicious. Perfect mix of tart and sweet. The Cinderella still my fave though. How's your night going? x Meg

Hmmm. Better, I think? Potentially flirty but not obviously so. The casual, open-ended question is good. The only thing is, to 'x' or not to 'x'? Should I swap it for an emoji?

Before I can overthink this more than I already have, I slam my finger down and send the message.

Here goes nothing.

Meg finally sent me a text and it doesn't say "Leave me alone you pathetic stalker". Progress.

Before I can second guess myself, I punch out a response. Time to get brave Carlisle.

I might have had a certain tower maiden in mind when I mixed the Rapunzel 😉 Busy night. Hearing from you a bright spot. Why Cinderella your fave?

"Why are you grinning like an idiot, J? You're not rebound sexting with Shannon again are you?" My brother frowns disapprovingly from behind the bar.

I flip him off.

It's fair to say that Vince was not a fan of my ex-fiancé and Shan didn't try to hide the fact that she couldn't stand my big brother. He accused her of being domineering and superficial (to her face, Christmas two years ago) she claimed he was an irresponsible man-child (to his face, the same Christmas).

Vince's opinion of Shannon plummeted into a black abyss when she threatened to call off the wedding if I quit my job and opened Tower Bar. Apparently, she "agreed to marry a breadwinner not a bartender".

I'm here and Shannon's dating ChristheActuary so I guess you can tell how the rest of that story went.

Good times.

The second rhubarb daiquiri has vanished. I'm prettily pink infused and feeling the beginnings of liquid courage. Jude's text makes me grin like a fool with a crush. A hot boy designed a cocktail for me – that's like the holy grail of lockdown romantic gestures.

Too tipsy to play it even vaguely cool, I write straight back.

Can't go past a gin base. Plus, I like a girl who knows what she wants and Cinders was determined.

I wait twenty seconds and then tap out a follow up like it's an afterthought.

PS I'm also a sucker for a guy with a cocktail shaker.

Text flirting like a boss.

The three little dots come up in the message thread almost immediately. And then continue to dance and dance like frustrating fairies.

What the heck is it taking him so long to say?

Prince Charming 101 – when the girl you like tells you that she likes a gin-based cocktail and you are sitting across the room from a bar fully stocked with gin, you do the right thing and you get the girl a gin-based cocktail.

"J-Dog, what are you doing? Vince and I have these orders under control." Samson's broad forehead is wrinkled in confusion but he moves aside without complaint as I start pulling bottles off the shelf.

I grin at him but don't say anything.

My brother stops mid-mix and watches me silently, tattooed arms folded across his broad chest and gaze thoughtful. Not much escapes Vince's attention.

"Who are you mixing that for, J?" he asks me. His tone is casual, his piercing stare is not.

"None of your business, V," I tell him in a sing-song voice I know will annoy the crap out of him. Vince hates the idea of missing out on anything.

"Oooh, does our Jude have a new girlfriend?" Aurelie's voice is as sing-song as my own (though her Columbian accent is clearly much cooler than my Australian one). Just my luck that she chose this moment to walk back into the bar.

"Nope, no girlfriend, just a girl in need of a drink," I acknowledge.

"Where do you want me to take it?" Aurelie asks.

"Nowhere," I tell her, as I pour the freshly mixed Cinderella into a jar and twist on the lid. "I've got this one. Back in a few."

Vince snorts but he's also smiling and I'm pretty sure he's worked out where I'm taking the drink.

Four minutes later I send Meg a text.

Check your doormat x

Be still my beating heart.

A guy left me a present.

And not just any guy – THE GUY.

The one who caught my eye long before this hairytale of a lockdown lifemare began.

I sip my Cinderella slowly as Jude and I text back and forth. He asks me questions about me and tells me funny stories about the bar. We create a list of the best things about living in our neighbourhood and rank them. He tells me about his favourite local restaurant and I admit that I've never eaten there. He asks if he can take me to dinner when eating out becomes possible again. I say yes. He sends me firework emojis.

At 11pm, when Tower Bar closes, my phone rings.

"Hey," the husky note in Meg's voice as she answers the phone does something to my gut. Something hot and addictive that I haven't felt in a long time.

"Hey yourself," I reply.

For a moment, neither of us says anything else. I'm standing on the pavement outside the bar. The streets are still and tranquil. So are we.

"I had a lot of fun tonight," I tell her. Even as I say it, I know it sounds odd, like we've been on a first date when all we've done is message each other. Such is the new normal, I guess.

"Me too," she replies immediately.

"Can I call you when I get home?"

She laughs. "Aren't you calling me now?"

"This is to show you something. Later is to say goodnight."

"Of course, makes perfect sense." She's teasing me now.

"Hush, you" I tease back. I can hear the grin in my voice. "Can you open one of your tower windows please, Princess Rapunzel?"

I hear the soft creak of the old wooden sash above my head. Long pale hair catches the moonlight as it leans out the window. Meg's wearing lurid orange flannel pyjamas covered in bright pink flamingos. It's a sign of how much I already like this girl that I think she looks sexy as hell.

"Look up," I whisper and she does. "The Moon, Jupiter and Saturn are in perfect alignment tonight."

"It's beautiful," she says softly.

"Yeah, it really is." Complete sap that I am, I'm not talking about the sky.

True to his word, Jude calls me as soon as he and his brother get back to their apartment. I can hear Vince giving Jude grief in the background. Jude just laughs. He has a great laugh. It's deep and sexy and always sounds like it's catching him by surprise.

"You still there, princess?" he asks me, as he closes his bedroom door.

"Still here," I assure him, curling on my side under my quilt.

We talk about everything and nothing until neither of us can keep our eyes open. When we finally say goodnight, it's with the promise that we'll chat again tomorrow.

If I was Cinderella, I'd already be a pumpkin. If I was Sleeping Beauty, I'd have fallen asleep long ago. Luckily, I'm a modern-day Rapunzel – still stuck in my tower but feeling just a little less trapped than I did when this night began.

Will Jude and I live happily ever after?

Who knows. 

Tonight, in this moment, 'happily right now' is the best feeling in the world.