Greg woke up and turned off his alarm. At exactly a quarter past seven, he strode into the toilet, picking up his toothbrush. One minute on the top, thirty seconds on the bottom, fifteen seconds on his tongue. He gargled his mouthwash, dressing in slacks, a blue shirt, and a tie. His usual Wednesday outfit.

Then he went to his computer.

He opened a private browser, set the time frame to a week, and then typed in the search term, his fingers following the familiar pattern of keys: Alicia Martinez.

No results popped up.

Greg closed the laptop, adjusting his pinstriped tie. It was fine. He could be patient. One day, a search result would pop up.

And when it did, he would know what to do.

"So," Rory said. "I've had an idea."

Max looked up from the table. They were sitting in a penthouse in Los Angeles, an array of croissants, berry jams, melon and cheese spread out before them. Outside, the ocean stretched out like a blue ribbon, dotted with tanned Americans bobbing on surfboards. Theo set down his book, arching an eyebrow.

"A good idea?"

"A brilliant idea."

Theo smirked. "Brilliant like the time that you suggested skiing backwards down that hill in Toronto?"

"No, no." Rory waved him off. "Far better than that. And it won't end in a trip to the emergency room." He paused. "At least, I don't think it will."

"Well, go on, then," Max said dryly. "Don't keep us in anticipation."

Rory gave a rather dramatic pause. Then he splayed his hands on the table.

"We should go visit Ollie."

Max and Theo exchanged a look. Oh, god. This was like the time they had gone to a haunted mansion, and Rory had almost cried in the clown room; the other boy was so excited when they finally made it through that Max had felt terrible explaining to him that, in fact, there were several more clown rooms to go.

Rory really had cried after that.

Max set down his newspaper. "But Ror," he said gently, "Ollie's in Scotland."

"I know that."

"And we're recording our album next week," Theo added.

"So?" Rory popped a piece of melon into his mouth. "It's not like we can record it without Ollie. He can fly back to the States with us."

"I don't know." Max pushed around his fruit. "I don't think Ollie wants to see us."

Or rather him, specifically.

Max didn't blame him; he sure as hell wouldn't have wanted to see Oliver, if the positions were reversed. But Rory merely shrugged. "I bet Ollie's bored to tears by now." He reached for another piece of melon. "He'll be excited to see us. Trust me."

Theo frowned. "Isn't Scotland freezing?"

"We'll pack sweaters," Rory said.

"And I get sick on planes."

"Pop an Advil, then."

Max gave him a long look. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Nope." Rory cheerfully ripped off a piece of flaky croissant. "Don't worry; I've already cleared it with Margaux and the rest of our managers."

Max sighed. He knew when he was beat; and right now, he might as well have tried talking the sun into setting in the East.

"Alright, then," he said. "When do we fly?"

Brooks liked to think himself a reasonable person.

But right now, he was furious.

He paced around the living area of the suite, deliberately stomping as loud as he could. Brooks wasn't feeling generous enough to let Oliver sleep in. Not today, anyway.

He flipped on the kettle. Then the compactor. Then the television, just for good measure. Hell, Brooks would have turned on a lawn mower and a chainsaw, if he had them both handy. What the hell had Oliver been thinking?

Obviously, Brooks reasoned, taking a calming sip of tea, he hadn't been; only a mad man would rip out his earpiece in an unsecured building after his bodyguard specifically warned him against it. It had taken all of Brooks self-control not to storm into the observatory.

No, not all of it, actually; Brooks had needed some more self-control later, when he had driven back to the hotel to find Oliver already happily asleep in his room, snoring away with a pillow clutched in his arms.

Well, Brooks thought darkly, Oliver wasn't going to enjoy his beauty sleep much longer. Not if Brooks had any say in it.

He cranked the television volume up. Then he added another ten decibels. It was only when the sound was practically rocking the suite that Oliver stumbled out of his room, his dyed hair sticking up in clumps.

"What the bloody hell is going on out here?"

"Oh good," Brooks said. "You're awake."

"I am now." Oliver flopped on to the sofa like a petulant child, a white fluffy blanket wrapped around his shoulders. "I know you love Made in Chelsea, mate, but do you really need to listen to Spencer Matthews slag girls off at this volume?"

Brooks ignored this. "Last night."

"What about it?"

"Your earpiece, Hogarth." He couldn't keep the exasperation out of his voice. "You had one job. Literally one job."

"Oh, that." Oliver had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Er, it fell out." His eyes landed on the tea, and he brightened. "Did you make tea? Thank god."

He grabbed the cup, taking a healthy swig. It was the last straw for Brooks.

"You idiot," Brooks snapped. "You could have been killed. What would you have done if someone attacked you? Or if Alicia turned out to be a trained assassin?"

"That would be kind of hot, actually."

"Hogarth!"

"Look, I'm sorry, Brooks," Oliver said, taking on a placating tone. "I didn't mean to worry you. But no harm done, right?"

Brooks scowled. Except for all of his premature grey hair. But never mind. That wasn't the point. "You could have texted."

"I was busy."

"Yes," Brooks said dryly. "I could see that from the car."

Oliver shrugged, looking absurdly pleased with himself. Brooks sighed. You know what? Screw it. He didn't have to put up with Oliver swanning about the flat with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. He seized his wallet.

"I'm going into town," he announced.

"Now?"

"It's my day off, remember? Charles will be taking over."

"No, I just mean that it's..." Oliver consulted his watch. "Nine o'clock in the morning. Nothing will be open."

"Coffee shops will."

"You're going into town," Oliver said slowly. "To drink coffee."

Well, sort of. Brooks also had a romance novel to finish. He had just been getting to the part where Lady Contessa was kidnapped by bandits when Oliver's date ended, and he had to know if she would fall for the devious but charming Italian mafia king. Not that Brooks would ever admit this out loud.

"I like coffee," he said, shrugging. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone, alright?"

"Noted."

Brooks followed the winding streets into town. Well, he used "town" in a very loose sense; most of the shops in St Andrews were gathered on Market Street, a bustling, cobble-stoned road boasting window displays of kilts, Scottish fudge and local candles. He was just about to push into a coffee shop when someone called out.

"Brooks!"

He turned, and then immediately forgot how to think.

Hattie was hurrying up the road, her frizzy blonde ponytail swinging behind her. She was dressed in a navy peacoat and black boots, and her cheeks were red with the cold. She looked adorable. Absolutely bloody adorable.

Speak, Brooks urged himself. Like a regular human.

"Hilo," he said, and then winced.

Christ almighty.

"Hi," Hattie said, looking amused. "And hello."

"Fancy running into you here."

She gave him an odd look. "I mean, it is a town with less than eight thousand people. And there's only a few coffee shops."

Right. Brooks shuffled his feet. God, this was awkward. Why did he get like this around her? Brooks had felt this magnetic attraction since the very first day, when he had hidden in a bush outside of Hattie's flat and watched as she came to the door.

He paused. Actually, that sounded quite creepy out of context.

Best not to mention it to her.

Brooks nodded at her bulging bag. "Are you doing some coursework?"

Hattie frowned. "What do you...?" Her expression cleared. "Oh! I'm not a student. I'm a designer." She smiled sheepishly. "Well, an aspiring designer, anyway. I'm just a bartender, at the moment."

Brooks paused. He didn't know much about fashion, but he assumed that you went to big cities like Manchester or London for that. Certainly not a Scottish fishing village. Hattie must have seen the look on his face, because she elaborated.

"They put on a lot of student fashion shows here. But good ones. British Vogue does a massive feature on FS every year, and they're always being sponsored by Prada or Burberry or something. And—" She cut off, flushing. "Sorry. Am I boring you?"

"No," Brooks said, surprised. "Of course not. Why?"

"Oh." She nibbled her lip. "You must just have one of those faces."

"What do you mean?"

She screwed up her face into a scowl. "You're looking at me like this."

Brooks stared at her for a moment. Then he chuckled, shaking his head. "I don't suppose you'd want to join me for coffee?"

"You know what?" Hattie beamed. "I'd love that." She yanked open the shop door. "But only if you promise to order something fun. I can't stand men that order black coffee just to seem masculine."

"Trust me," Brooks said wryly, thinking of the romance novel in his bag. "You won't ever have that problem with me. I guarantee it."

Alicia was in love with everything this morning.

She loved the salted butter that she smeared on her toast. She loved the lazy sunshine that streamed into the kitchen. And she loved that she could sing showtunes, uninterrupted by Hattie, who had gone into town.

It was just such a lovely day.

Of course, Alicia reflected, a lot of this had to do with the night before. With Oliver. She smiled, taking a bite of her toast. His navy wool coat was still hanging on a chair, filling the room with the comforting scent of lemon soap.

He had kissed her.

Two weeks ago, Alicia wouldn't have thought she'd be able to kiss anyone again. But Oliver was different somehow; she hadn't realized how much her past had been weighing on her until she had set it free, watching it curl up into the stars last night. He had helped her do that, she realized. He had given her that gift.

Yes, Oliver was good for her. And they could take their time with it, Alicia reflected. No outside pressures. No external influences. Nothing to interrupt the—

The doorbell rang.

Alicia smiled. Hattie must have forgotten her keys again, the silly girl. She hopped to her feet, floating down the stairs to the door. She yanked it open. "Hattie, you're so lucky that I wasn't in the—"

She broke off, gaping.

Her mother smiled at her. "Hello, mija. How lovely to see you."

A/N: Eek! Another little cliffhanger :)

No tidbit for you guys in this chapter, but I CAN confirm that fashion shows are a big thing in St Andrews. There are two nightclubs in town, and one of them is a restaurant that transforms into a dance floor in the evening, so we had to rely on a lot of events/polo matches/balls to keep ourselves entertained lol

Affectionately,

J.K.