This girl was trying to kill him.

Oliver clutched his drink, his mind racing. Dear god. He had never danced a day in his life. Actually, that wasn't quite true; he had briefly taken dance lessons ahead of their North American tour, fell off a box, and sprained his wrist. After that, the boys generally stuck him in the back.

No.

He couldn't get up on that stage.

And yet.

He looked at Alicia. Alicia, who was sitting in her tight little black dress, looking at Oliver hopefully. How on earth was he meant to say no to that face?

"Well," Oliver hedged. "I would do it, normally. But I pulled my shoulder last week playing golf." He shot Antony a hard look. "Didn't I?"

"Did you?" Antony's face was the picture of innocence. "Ah, yes. But I remember you saying that it was fine after you iced it."

"It's true," Brooks chimed in. "You felt much better."

His bodyguard smiled at him serenely. Oliver imagined lunging across the table and repeatedly smashing his face into the wood.

"Oh, please?" Hattie pouted. "It would save my arse, Ollie."

Oliver took a deep breath. He could feel Alicia watching him with steady dark eyes, and he made the mistake of meeting them. There was hope in her gaze, but a challenge, too. It was the same look she had given him before they ran into the water.

"You'll really go out with me?" he asked.

"I will."

"Alright." He looked at Hattie. "Tell me what to do."

Which was how, twenty minutes later, Oliver found himself standing at the side of the stage, half-concealed by a large fruit bowl filled with oranges. On stage, Hattie turned on the microphone. She called for silence, and the crowd immediately went quiet, looking at the pair of them curiously.

"I'm sorry to announce that Adam Grey has cancelled tonight."

This was met with shouts and cries. Hattie held up a hand, waiting until the calamity died down to speak again.

"However," Hattie continued, "I have another amazing performance to offer you tonight." Her words were slightly slurred. "He's travelled all the way from the south of England to be here with us tonight."

Oliver frowned. Well. That wasn't strictly true, but whatever.

"Time magazine called him one to watch," Hattie crowed.

Okay. That definitely wasn't true.

"And he's even danced in a Rihanna music video."

Nah. That was an outright lie.

Hattie raised an arm. "Give it up for Oliver, The Hip-Hop King!"

He could feel sweat beading his palms. Hattie tottered off the stage, almost drunkenly pitching into a planter. She was wearing a shit-eating grin on her face. Well. At least one of them was happy, Oliver thought sourly. He felt like he was about to throw up.

Hattie flipped a switch, and the music began.

Oliver almost laughed out loud. Dear god; the world hated him this evening. Seriously, what were the odds? He recognized the song straight away, of course. It was an upbeat track off their latest album, Border Crossing.

He was dancing to his own music.

Oliver stepped forward, and the crowd gave an almighty cheer. He tried not to vomit, pass-out, or cry. No mean feat, given his current mental state.

Alicia, he reminded himself. That's who I'm doing this for.

He found her in the crowd. She beamed, giving him a thumbs-up. He vowed not to look at her for the rest of the performance.

And Oliver began to dance.

Well, "dancing" was a generous term. Oliver flailed his right arm. Then his left. He jumped up and down in a makeshift hokey pokey, occasionally reaching up to grab at the air. People did that, right? It was called the shopping cart or something?

He glanced at the clock.

Two minutes to go.

Oliver fell flat to his stomach. Then he star-jumped up. He grabbed the microphone, whipping it around like a snake. Then he hissed. Just for good measure. So that they would understand it was a snake.

He shook his body, Shakira-style, sashaying across the stage. His hips weren't lying. They were on fire, actually. Fire. That was a good idea. He gave a dramatic gasp, frantically patting down his arm, smothering the imaginary flames. Then he did the same to the other arm. Symmetry, and all that.

Twenty seconds.

Oliver's heart raced. Oh, god, he was out of ideas. He needed a pièce de résistance — something to signify that this shitshow was over. He tugged at his Arsenal baseball cap, and an idea struck.

Arsenal. Football.

Perfect.

He picked up an orange. He had only intended to kick the fruit about a little, like a dancing David Beckham, but the nerves must have gotten to him, because he slammed it. Hard. The orange left his foot, soared through the air, and abruptly smashed through a window.

The music cut out.

Stunned silence greeted him.

Then Antony stood up from his seat, clapping furiously. "Brava!" he called. "Magnificent performance, dude. Couldn't have done it better myself. I don't suppose anyone was filming that, were they?"

Oliver had to pay for the broken window.

All things considered, Oliver was thankful that was as far as the damage went; someone could have easily recognized him as a member of The Patriots, flailing around on stage to his own music. But amazingly, nobody had, and the only footage of his performance was too grainy to make out his face. It was a god damn miracle.

Alicia had been merciless in her teasing.

She had been in stitches when Oliver trekked back to the table, laughing so hard that there were genuine tears in her eyes.

"That." Gasp. "Was." Wheeze. "Complete shit."

From there, Alicia had hopped up from her seat, giving what was clearly supposed to be a rendition of Oliver's dance. In fact, he feared it might have been better than the actual performance.

Not that Oliver minded.

Alicia had agreed to a date with him. Finally. Which led Oliver to his next dilemma: where the hell was he going to take her?

Oliver briefly considered the Old Course restaurant (but, no; too stuffy). Then he thought about taking a tour around a local gin distillery (no; too public). And finally, it came to him: The Royal Observatory in Edinburgh.

Oliver couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before: a private tower where they could look at stars together? It was perfect.

Unfortunately, the security situation was harder to crack.

"No." Brooks shook his head. "It's too risky."

"How?"

"It just is."

Oliver frowned. They were sitting in his suite at the Hamilton Grand, drinking whisky by a large window that overlooked the green golf course. Well, Oliver was drinking whisky; Brooks refused to drink while he was "on duty," which seemed to be every moment of every day. He leaned back on the brown leather sofa.

"But it's a tower," Oliver pointed out. "There's only one entrance, just like St. Rule's. And you think that's safe enough."

"That's different."

"How?"

Brooks looked exasperated. "Because St Andrews is a fishing village, Hogarth; Edinburgh is a large city. It would be asking for trouble."

"What if you sat outside?"

"I wouldn't be able to see what was going on inside."

"So?"

"So," Brooks said, rising to his feet, "I wouldn't know if someone was hiding in a closet and jumped out with a knife."

Oliver paused mid-sip. "Does your mind always go to the worst-case scenario?"

"That's hardly the worst scenario. Trust me."

"So, what? You want to come on the date with us?"

Brooks paused by a marble pillar, clasping his hands behind his back. His face said that was exactly what he'd like to do. Oliver swirled the caramel-coloured liquid around. "What if I promised to scream if someone attacked me?"

"I wouldn't be able to hear you."

"I have an excellent lung capacity, I assure you."

"No." Brooks frowned. "Not good enough." He paused by the heavy blue drapes, staring out the window. "Unless..."

Oliver leaned forward. "Unless?"

"Well, we could wear earpieces." He could see Brooks thinking it through. "We used to wear wireless ones during training exercises sometimes. It helps you stay in contact with your partner, but it's small enough that it doesn't attract attention."

"Yes." Oliver raised his glass. "Brilliant. I love it."

He would love anything that got him alone with Alicia, actually. Brooks could have suggested dragging a monstrous, three-headed guard dog into the tower with them, and Oliver would have happily agreed.

"I'll expect you to check in," Brooks warned him. "Every ten minutes, at least."

"Fine."

"And if something goes wrong, then I'm coming up there. I don't give a damn if it blows your cover to Alicia."

"Great."

"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this," Brooks muttered, collapsing into a chair. "You'll give me grey hair, Hogarth. I swear to god."

Oliver didn't waste any time. He shot a quick text to Alicia with the date and time, adding that he would pick her up. Twenty minutes later, her reply came through.

That's cutting it close to the end of my shift, but I'll ask Steve if I can skive off early. See you then, King of Hip-Hop x

A/N: GUYS. I've never actually made myself laugh out loud while I was writing, but I was literally chuckling to myself as I wrote the Oliver dance scene. The poor boy just really wants a date with Alicia, you know?

How do you think their date will go? Roaring success, or complete disaster? I can't wait to hear your thoughts!

Affectionately,

J.K.