Oliver surveyed the hotel suite.

It was exactly the sort of room that his father would love. Heavy velvet drapes. Brown leather furniture. And glittering chandeliers, suspended from the ceiling like a woman's earrings. Outside, he could see the Old Course unfurling like a green banner.

God, it was good to be back.

St Andrews was exactly what Oliver remembered: three streets snaking towards a ruined cathedral, dotted with gravestones and itchy grass; seagulls swooping down to steal fat chips from unsuspecting tourists; and a stone castle crumbling into the frigid water, dissolving into sea foam and history.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Oliver called. "It's open." A young man peeked his head into the room, and he paused. "Oh. Did I leave one of my bags in the lobby?"

"Er, no, sir." He rocked back on his heels. "I'm Brooks."

"Who?"

"Your new security detail." Brooks shut the door. "They told you I was coming, right?"

Ah. Oliver frowned. Well, yes, they had, but he hadn't been expecting this. He took in Brooks' close-cropped brown hair, his black tattoos, the spots breaking out along his chin. No, Oliver had been expecting someone a little...

Well. Senior.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty-two, sir."

Oliver winced. "Call me Ollie. Please." Christ; if Brooks insisted on calling him "sir" in public, he might as well send up a red flare with his name on it. "No offense, but aren't you a bit young for the job?"

"That's the point, si—" Brooks caught himself. "Er, Ollie. You want to blend in, right? I'm the only officer that can pass as your friend."

Oliver considered this. Then he shrugged, picking up a bag of golf clubs. "Fair play," he said. "Then I just have one question for you."

"Oh?"

He shoved the bag into his hands. "Tell me, Brooks: how good are you at golf?"

They stood at the edge of the Old Course.

Oliver watched as a group of students meandered towards the beach, carrying a picnic basket. They wore their red gowns down by their elbows. Fourth years, then. Students slowly disrobed throughout the years in a tradition fondly known as the "academic striptease;" Oliver had always found the whole thing bizarre, but hey — who was he to judge?

He shifted his golf clubs, glancing at his watch.

Any minute.

He ran a hand through his brown locks. He hoped that whoever Mary sent was discreet; the hair dye could only do so much.

Beside him, Brooks shifted nervously. "I should tell you, sir—"

"Ollie."

"Hogarth," Brooks acceded, which Oliver supposed was good enough. "I'm really not very good at golf." He paused. "Actually, I'm terrible."

"Well," Oliver said wryly. "I'm afraid that makes two of us."

"Oliver?"

He whirled around.

And stared.

A young woman stared back at him. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her lips — cherry red, chapped from the wind — were pursed. Her glove looked especially white against her tanned skin, and her legs were long as a grudge.

Good god.

This was who Mary sent? Oliver's mouth went dry. The woman was trying to give him a heart attack, clearly.

"I'm Alicia." She extended a hand. "Your caddy."

"I'm Oliver." He felt his cheeks warm. "Ah. Obviously."

Beside him, Brooks snorted.

They shook. Oliver searched her eyes for any flicker of recognition, but either Alicia was an incredibly good liar, or she lived under a rock. Not, Oliver thought quickly, that he was egotistical enough to imagine that everyone knew who he was. But his face was plastered across the side of multiple buses in London.

Oliver cleared his throat. "And this is my good mate, Rook."

His bodyguard looked amused. "Brooks."

"Right." Oliver gripped his clubs. "That's what I said. Brooks."

Alicia gave them both an odd look. Thankfully, she didn't question it further. "What's your handicap?"

Oliver's brain was fuzzy. "My what?"

"Your handicap," she repeated, more slowly this time. "You know. The number that determines how good you are?"

"Oh. Right. That."

There was an awkward pause as Oliver tried to remember how to converse in English. What the hell was wrong with him today?

"Fifteen," he said. "Er. We're both fifteen."

She winced. "Right."

"Is that bad?"

"Of course not," Alicia said, in a way that suggested it was very bad indeed, and that she regretted not bringing along a helmet. "Shall we tee off then?"

Oliver trailed her to first tee box. She handed him a driver, patiently explaining the layout of the course, the conditions of the grass, and the direction of the wind. He absorbed exactly none of it. All he could think about was the smell of her musky perfume. The way she tilted her head as she spoke, just a little to the left.

Dear god.

What was this woman doing to him?

Oliver spun the driver in his hand. He had never had this sort of reaction to a girl before. Not even Ella. He felt like someone had reached inside him, scooped out his insides, and wrung them like a washcloth.

Was this love at first sight?

No. That was madness. He was probably hallucinating from dehydration. Could salty air do that to you?

"Oliver?"

Alicia was staring up at him expectantly. It took him a moment to realize that she had clearly asked him something, and he — like a total idiot — had been gaping at her.

"What?"

"The ball." She gestured to the little white sphere. "You can hit it now." She looked back at Brooks. "Unless you want to go first?"

"Oh, no," Brooks said, looking far too amused. "Take it away, Hogarth."

"Right."

Oliver squared up to the tee, trying to remember everything Antony had ever taught him. Left arm straight. Weight in the feet. Keep your eyes on the ball, even during the backswing. He gritted his teeth and swung.

The ball veered violently to the right, landing in a small ravine of water. Alicia pressed her lips together as if she was trying not to laugh.

"Bad luck."

"No, I'm just a terrible golfer."

"You're playing well."

"And you're a terrible liar."

She smiled, for real this time. "I wouldn't worry about it; even pros get nervous on the first tee. I once saw Jordan Spieth shatter a hotel window."

"Do you say that to everyone?"

Alicia shrugged. "Everyone that hits it as badly as you just did." She nodded to Brooks. "It's your go, then."

Oliver watched in relief as Brooks stepped up to the tee box. At least he'd look better in comparison. He grew even more smug as Brooks selected a 3 wood — a complete amateur move. He'd never get enough distance with that club.

Brooks squared himself up to the box. Then he whacked it down the fairway, landing it neatly in the middle of the green.

Oliver gaped at him. Alicia whistled.

"What a beautiful shot," she said. "Come on, then, Oliver." She picked up his golf clubs, slinging them over her shoulder. "I'll go with you. Let's see if we can hit in the direction of the hole this time, shall we?"

The second hole went as badly as the first. The third hole went, if possible, even worse. And by the sixth hole, the only thing Oliver had succeeded at was convincing Alicia to let him carry his own golf clubs.

"I need the exercise," he reasoned. "To balance out the drinking later."

The next few holes went marginally better, although Oliver did nail a tree, a stray plastic bag, and even an unsuspecting seagull. Fortunately, the seagull was hit by a short put, so the bird was physically unharmed. Judging by the look that it gave him, however, Oliver wasn't sure if he could say the same for the bird's mental state.

Brooks, on the other hand, was having a whale of a time. His bodyguard had cleaned up on all of the holes, happily trotting around the course like a zealous golden retriever. Oliver would have been furious if the other boy didn't seem so genuinely surprised at his own good fortune. It was almost sweet.

Oliver followed Alicia to the eleventh green. The fairway stretched out toward an estuary, and the sea lapped at the long grasses. He could see several joggers winding along a narrow path. Or moving targets, if his golf ball had any say in the matter.

"You know what?" He eyed the runners nervously. "Maybe you should take this shot."

Alicia pulled a face. "Don't be silly."

"Seriously. I don't want to kill anyone."

"I don't think murder is on anyone's agenda."

"Not true," Oliver said, deadpan. "I just usually save my homicidal urges for Thursday afternoons."

Alicia smiled. It was a proper smile this time — bigger than the one that she had given him at the first tee box — and he couldn't help but notice that her chin dimpled slightly. It was possibly the cutest thing he'd ever seen.

He gave himself a mental shake.

Focus, Ollie.

"Fine." Alicia took out the driver. "But this is technically against the rules, for the record."

"Noted."

He watched as she squared up to the ball, her dark eyes narrowing. Her tongue darted out in concentration. Oliver's throat went dry. He had never thought of golf as a particularly sexy sport, but he was suddenly reconsidering. In a big way.

She swung.

The ball sailed in a smooth arc down the fairway, bouncing twice before rolling lazily on to the green. He stared at her.

"How the hell did you do that?"

She placed the club back. "Well, it's only a par three."

"That's mad." He shook his head. "Are you sure you're not a professional?"

Because if she wasn't, then Oliver planned to introduce her to Antony. Immediately. It would be like presenting a rare, dust-covered diamond to a jewel thief; Antony would probably fall to his knees and weep with joy.

Alicia's face changed. "I can never go pro."

"Of course you can."

"No."

"Did you see that shot?" Oliver picked up his bag. "If your putting is anywhere near as good as that, then I really think—"

"You don't get it." Alicia's eyes were fixed on the flag. "It's not about my ability; it's about the press. The public attention." She started walking, her long legs keeping a brisk pace. "It's hard to explain."

He had to jog to keep up with her. Her dark hair was coming out of its ponytail now, falling haphazardly around her face. Like a total creep, Oliver had the sudden urge to push it behind her ear, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. No. Bad.

"Maybe you'd get used to the crowds," he offered.

Alicia shrugged. "Maybe."

"You should give it a go."

"Alright, then." She crossed her arms. "What do you do? Apart from being a mediocre golf player and part-time career counsellor?"

"I'm a—"

Oliver broke off. Ah, hell. What was he meant to say? I'm a famous boyband member running away from my problems?

Unlikely.

He wracked his brains frantically. A singer? No; that was too close to a bassist. A biology masters' student? But, no; Alicia could be a budding zoologist, for all he knew. She would call him out in a split second.

Panic set in.

Later, Oliver would have no idea why he blurted out what he did. But in that moment, looking at Alicia's face, he said the first thing that popped into his head.

"I'm a dancer."

She blinked. "You are?"

"Oh, yeah." Screw it; he was doubling down. "Hip-hop, actually."

She looked at him skeptically. "No offense," she said, "but you don't really seem like you have the coordination for it."

He set down his clubs by the tee box. "Well, I'm still in training."

"I didn't realize St Andrews had a big hip-hop scene."

"Oh, yeah." He nodded fervently. "Massive."

Fortunately, Alicia seemed to accept this. They carried on in companionable conversation for the next few holes, only pausing when Brooks — still winning by miles — made a particularly good shot, or Oliver tried to kill more seagulls. He tried several times to get Alicia to elaborate on her fear of the spotlight, but she kept her lips clamped firmly shut. Which was her prerogative, obviously.

Even if it did annoy him.

For some reason, Oliver wanted to know everything about this girl. Her favourite song. Where she grew up. What toppings she put on her toast in the morning.

He was turning into a stalker. A complete and total stalker.

By the time they reached the final hole, Oliver was beginning to feel a rising sense of panic. Would he see her again? St Andrews was a small town, but there was no guarantee he would run into Alicia. Not unless he asked to see her.

Oliver squinted at the Swilcan bridge, rising from the green fairway like some prehistoric creature's spine. This was a horrible idea. For god's sake, he had come to St Andrews to get away from his dating problems — not to cause more of them.

And yet.

He looked at Alicia as she pulled out various irons, weighing them in her hands. Brooks was a few yards ahead of them, crouching down to survey the slope of the course. And before Oliver was fully aware of what he was doing, he spoke.

"Do you want to go out sometime?"

Alicia's head whipped up. She was holding a nine-iron aloft in her hands, and the scene would have been comical if he wasn't so bloody nervous.

"You mean golfing?"

"No." Oh, god, he could drown himself in the ravine. "For a drink, I mean."

"Like a date?"

"Exactly like that."

Alicia stared at him. It was the worst thirty seconds of Oliver's life. Or maybe it was ten hours; it was difficult to say. Finally, she set the nine-iron down.

"I don't date," she said.

"What do you mean, you don't date?"

"Exactly that." Alicia sighed. "Look, it's difficult to explain; it has to do with the same reason that I can never become a professional golfer. I'm sorry, Oliver." She passed him the nine-iron. "For the record, I think you're a really nice guy."

Oliver took the club with numb fingers.

"So that's a no?"

She gave him a small smile. "Let's finish the course, alright?"

And Oliver — trying not to show his wounded pride — squared up to the ball.

A/N: Oh, dear; poor Oliver hasn't got off to the best start! It's a good thing he became a bassist and not a golf pro, am I right?

What does everyone think of Brooks so far? Deadly hitman or total sweetheart?

Affectionately,

J.K.

p.s. I'm finding these author's notes super weird since I'm uploading this whole novel at once, so I'm just speaking to myself at the moment... hopefully some of you reply so this doesn't turn into a bizarre one-person monologue lol