Hattie frowned. "You can't put peanut butter on a scone; that's criminal."

Across the table, Brooks grinned. She wrinkled her nose as he applied a lethal dose of the salted nut butter, smearing it all over his perfectly nice scone. He didn't say anything as he did it, but then again, Brooks rarely did; he was a man of few words. And many smug facial expressions, as she was beginning to find out.

"Disgusting." Hattie shook her head. "Butter and clotted cream are the only acceptable toppings. And jam, obviously."

"Wrong."

"I can't believe I've agreed to be seen with you in public."

He shrugged. "I'm just here for the scones."

They were sitting at a small café at the end of North Street, a plate of scones and a pot of English breakfast tea set on the scrubbed table. Students sipped Nutella lattes, frantically writing essays that they had put off over the weekend. Outside, a banner cheerfully advertised the café as the place where Prince William and Kate once met for coffee.

Hattie smirked. "Oh, I'm just here for the romance novels." She held out a hand. "Let's see which one you're working on today."

"Are you mad?" Brooks looked alarmed. "There are people about."

"Still."

"And this cover is really very bad."

"Well," Hattie said, "now I really have to see it."

Reluctantly, Brooks brought the novel out of his bag. Hattie snorted. He hadn't been joking; this week's Harlequin romance really was very bad. A damsel in a pink gown was fleeing a castle, her face twisted into an expression of terror. Her bodice, Hattie noted with a critical eye, was also ripped in half, although it had some wonderful herringbone needlework down the side. Very Gothic chic.

"I still can't believe you read these," Hattie mused, flipping it open at random. "I feel like they get worse every day." She cleared her throat. "Belinda watched in terror as the Count drew closer, his muscular arms pushing her back on to the bed. His dark eyes crackled with a wild, animalistic electricity—" She paused, smirking. "Really? An animalistic electricity? What is he, a dolphin?"

"Alright!" Brooks snatched it back. "That's enough."

His cheeks had gone a brilliant red. Her smile widened. This was her favourite part of every day: teasing Brooks. Not that Hattie got to actually see him every day. He was often very furtive about his life, especially about why he could only see her once a week. They were friends now, though; they texted almost every moment of every day. And if Hattie was honest with herself...

Well, she could see being more than friends.

So long as Brooks felt the same.

"How are your studies going?" She added a touch of butter to her scone. "You said you had a lab this week, right?"

Brooks paused in chewing. "I did?"

"Yeah." She frowned. "For biology, right?"

Brooks had clarified that he was a second-year undergraduate student, although for the life of her, Hattie could never pin him down on exactly what he studied. He seemed to take modules in everything: international relations, French, chemistry... It changed daily.

He set down his scone. "Look, Hattie, there's something I need to tell you."

"Do I have crumbs all over my face?"

"No, it's not that." Brooks looked almost nervous. "It's..." He fiddled with a napkin. "Well, it's difficult to explain."

Hattie wiped her mouth. Her stomach was tightening, and she had a feeling it had nothing to do with the scone she'd just devoured. Oh, god. Was he about to confess his feelings? She'd not mentally prepared herself. She was excited, obviously, but it was out of nowhere.

"Brooks," she said carefully. "You're making me nervous."

He tore a chunk off his scone. Set it down. Picked it up again. By the time he'd actually eaten it, Hattie was on the edge of her seat. Literally.

"Look, let's go to the Hamilton Grand," Brooks said finally. "Oliver's staying there." He took out his wallet. "He can help me explain."

"Oliver?"

"It will all make sense soon." Brooks pulled out his card. "I promise."

And Hattie — who had no idea for the life of her what was going on — let him pay for their scones and then followed him out the café.

Oliver could count the times he had been stunned into silence.

Firstly, when Oliver fell off a play structure and broke his leg when he was eight years old. Secondly, when his cousin Rupert called to say that he was engaged. And finally, when Ella told him that she wasn't in love with him.

And right now.

"Bloody long plane journey," Max groused, pushing past him. "It doesn't make any sense to fly private overseas." He flopped on the couch. "You have to stop for petrol a million times. And there's no sleeping pods."

"Good snacks, though," Theo added. "Shame I get motion sick." He wheeled a suitcase into the room. "I stole some of the chocolate bars for later, though."

Mercifully, Oliver's tongue began to work. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Rory paused in filling a glass of water. "We're surprising you. Obviously."

"You need to go," Oliver croaked. "Right now."

Theo frowned. "But we just got here."

"No, you don't understand." Oliver crossed to the door, panic zipping through him. "I'm expecting someone any minute."

"Can't we meet him?"

"No!" Oliver was horrified. "Absolutely not. Look, can you just—?"

There was a knock on the door.

Oliver half-closed his eyes. He ran through a number of creative words in his head, most of which rhymed with "duck you, Rory." Oh, god, this was a disaster. How the hell was he meant to explain this to Alicia?

"Ollie?" Her voice echoed through the wood. "You wanted to talk?"

"A girl?" Rory's eyebrows flew up. "That's who you're having over?" He set the glass down on the counter. "Now I really want to meet her."

Oliver growled. Like hell was he about to introduce the boys to Alicia; Rory could kiss his arse. And yet, what choice did he have? She could probably hear him through the door. Plus, he had invited her up; he couldn't exactly ignore her.

With a scowl, Oliver yanked open the door. Alicia stood uncertainly in the threshold, fiddling with the white baseball cap in her hands. She had taken her hair down, and it spilled in inky waves down her back. Her eyes landed on the boys.

"Oh," she said. "Hi."

"Good holy lord," Theo muttered. "She's a hot girl."

Oliver gritted his teeth. "Sorry, Alicia. Come in." He steered her to a sofa, taking the seat beside her. "These are my colleagues."

"Oh." Her expression cleared. "You're all dancers?"

"Dancers?" Rory echoed. "Is that what Ollie told you?" There was a mischievous glint in his eyes that Oliver didn't like. Not one bit. "I suppose we are pretty musical."

Theo smirked. "We love a national anthem."

"Oh, yeah," Rory said, catching on. "We're pretty patriotic."

Theo stole Rory's glass of water, taking an innocent sip. "You could say we're all patriots of our respective homelands. The patriots, really."

Oliver massaged his temples. Right. That was enough. He was opening his mouth to say something rude when — to his surprise — Max beat him to it. The other boy sat up on the sofa, ruffling his dark hair with a tattooed hand.

"Aren't we meant to be unpacking?" His voice was pointed. "In the room we've booked? Downstairs?"

In that moment, Oliver could have kissed him. He forgave Max for all of it. For Ella, and his part in the awkward break-up, and for any other wrongdoings. But unfortunately, before Max could get another word in, there was a knock on the door.

"Oh, for god's sake," Oliver sighed. "Is everyone in town coming over?"

He swung open the door.

Revealing Brooks and Hattie.

"Hi, mate." Brooks gave him a friendly smile. "Hope you don't mind that I've brought Hattie to see the place."

Oliver stared at him. He understood why Brooks was here — Charles was getting ready to leave in the next room, and Brooks was back on duty this evening — but why the hell had he brought Hattie? Alicia rose to her feet, frowning.

"Hattie?"

She looked equally surprised. "Leese?"

"Wilhelmina," Theo volunteered, and then paused. "Oh. Sorry. I thought we were just saying random names."

Hattie's eyes darted to him, next. And then she stiffened.

"Theo? Theo Jones?"

Oliver froze. Oh, no. No, no, no. He hadn't even considered this possibility; Hattie might not recognize him, but she wasn't totally oblivious to pop culture. And with all four members of The Patriots standing right in front of her...

"Hattie?" Oliver's voice was sharp. "Can I speak with you in the kitchen?"

He could see the cogs in her brain turning. Hattie looked at Brooks, and then back at the boys, her light eyes narrowing.

"Oh, my god," she said. "You lied to me."

"I don't understand." Alicia frowned. "What's going on?"

Oliver massaged his neck. Oh, god, no; this was happening all wrong. He was supposed to be the one to tell Alicia the truth — not a bunch of strangers. He took a step forward, but it was too late; Hattie was already rounding on Brooks.

"So, you're what?" she snapped. "Their manager?"

"Hattie..."

"Their driver? Their personal stylist?"

"Bodyguard." Brooks' eyes were pained. "I'm their bodyguard." He paused. "Well, just Oliver's, technically."

"Wait." Alicia rubbed her collarbone. "I don't get it." She looked small standing next to the massive window. Almost fragile. "Why does Oliver need a bodyguard?"

"Because, Leese," Hattie said. "That's not just any Oliver." There was venom in her voice. "That's Oliver Hogarth: the bassist in The Patriots."

A/N: Aaaand the cat is out of the bag!

I had so much fun writing this scene. Did you guess that it was going to be Hattie that would reveal the truth? Or did you think Alicia would find out some other way?

Can't wait to hear your thoughts!

Affectionately,

J.K.