Chapter Text
It’s almost summertime, and you know what that means. Some of the season’s hottest heartbreakers have accepted invitations to The Villa and are on their way. Grab your bathing suit and slather on that sun cream because things are about to get downright steamy.
9:03pm, Mon 3 Jun 2025 – good soup 👌
hyacinth: @greggyb jaffa cakes and popcorn
Francesca: Have you guys started without me?!
greggy b: ???
Daphne Basset [replying to “Have you guys…”]: We’re thirty seconds in
hyacinth [replying to “???”]: the orange ones
greggy b: was there a please in there
greggy b: orrrr
Daphne Basset: Just skip the host’s intro, it’s a bunch of rubbish anyway
Daphne Basset: Do you think they pull straws each season and the shortest one has to dress up like a scaffolder
greggy b: shortest person or shortest straw
eloise: i’m already in so much pain
Anthony: Not all of us have time to watch right now. Start another group chat.
hyacinth: kate says you don’t want spoilers
Anthony: Obviously I don’t want spoilers. Why would I watch if I already know what’s going to happen
eloise: you don’t want to know which professions these people are pretending to have?
eloise: hand to god if that man is a dentist then i’m a donkey
Daphne Basset: There it is! Scaffolder!
Daphne Basset: Poor Phillip from Leeds
Francesca laughed at “hand to god…”
Ben [replying to “Obviously I don’t…”]: I don’t know that I agree with you Ant
Ben: If you’re not interested in engaging with the material beyond a surface level then sure
hyacinth: okay bleached tips
hyacinth: he’s got verve
greggy b: set the thesaurus down before you hurt yourself
hyacinth [replying to “set the thesa …”]:
greggy b [replying to “If you’re not…”]: kept waiting for somebody to give you shit but then i realized colin’s not here
greggy b: </3
Anthony liked “kept waiting for…”
hyacinth: whoa those things are perfectly globular
Anthony: Hyacinth.
Daphne Basset disliked “whoa those thi…”
Anthony disliked “whoa those thi…”
Ben laughed at “whoa those thi…”
eloise disliked “whoa those thi…”
eloise: so this guy’s job is just beach?
eloise: he’s not even surfing
greggy b: OUR BOIIIIIII
Francesca: Oh my god
eloise: colin doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed
Daphne Basset: That is
Daphne Basset: An *aggressive* pat-down
eloise: love that his whole bit is being felt up by the caa
eloise: just some cheeky harrassment
eloise: a real treat to watch!
Anthony: That’s not how airport security works
Daphne Basset [replying to “a real trea…”]: Eloise I say this with all the love in my heart but I can almost guarantee that was Colin’s idea
hyacinth [replying to “That’s not how …”]: oop
hyacinth: thought you didn’t have time to watch 👀
eloise [replying to “That’s not how …”]: 🤡🤡🤡
greggy b liked “🤡🤡🤡”
Anthony disliked “🤡🤡🤡”
Ben: He should’ve let me help him pack
Ben: Those shorts are a choice
Daphne Basset [replying to “Those shorts are …”]: Hey, I picked those out!
eloise: another medical equipment sales representative
eloise: groundbreaking
Daphne Basset [replying to “Those shorts are …”]: They’re way more interesting texturally than anything we’ve seen so far
Anthony: Too short
Ben [replying to “They’re way mo…”]: It’s linen, babe
Daphne Basset: 🙄
Daphne Basset: WAIT
hyacinth: PENELOPE???/??
Ben: Are my eyes deceiving me or is that our Penelope
eloise: now you understand
hyacinth: pls hold
greggy b: oh hell yeah
greggy b: sexy librarian
hyacinth:
hyacinth: she’s gorg
Ben: You’re so quick with it, Hy.
hyacinth [replying to sexy librarian ]:
Daphne Basset [replying to now you und …]: So you knew this whole time and just decided not to share
eloise: in all fairness, colin doesn’t know either
eloise: she didn’t want me to tell anyone
Penelope
Penelope’s tits look fantastic but the underboob sweat situation is swiftly approaching critical mass and trying to catch the eye of a producer is, like, weirdly impossible? She could have sworn she saw Cressida Cowper (secondary school bully extraordinaire) use an honest-to-god clipboard to slap a boom mic out of her way but–bloody hell. It is her.
She’s wearing one of the orange lanyards around her neck that identify her as an assistant director.
“And…rolling!”
Well, shit.
Between sound technicians, their tangles of equipment, makeup artists, and a veritable swarm of PAs, the show has so many moving parts it’s difficult not to get swallowed up in the chaos and convince herself she’s half invisible.
Except she’s not. Not even a little, especially as the set clears.
Smack dab in the middle of the dizzying hub of activity, she stands on a neon pink platform shaped like a heart in her firetruck-red bikini, fingers clasped loosely in front of her.
Fiji is more humid and much, much hotter than London. Beaded perspiration clings to her nape. She’d left her curls to hang down her back, a riot of auburn that keeps getting caught in the wire of her mic pack. It’s Branding 101. Her hair is what got her noticed in the first place on social media–at least that’s what she tells herself–tits and ass notwithstanding.
Because those are pretty great too.
The girls have done their hugging and gushing over how wild it is to be here, they’ve bonded over their bikinis riding up their asses and the (frankly) hazardous state of the slippery stairs as they helped each other down and now they each stand on their own heart, waiting for the boys to walk out one at a time and choose to couple up with them.
Her cheeks ache from smiling. With Portia’s critical eye in mind, Penelope relaxes her jaw and readjusts her stance, allowing her smile to soften into something less taxing to hold onto. She’s watched enough reality television to know she doesn’t want to be the one with dead eyes.
“Okay, ladies,” their eerily gorgeous host, Joanna Marsalis, says. She’s got a fuck-ass bob and a silver dress melded so sinuously to her skin that it makes Penelope feel like she’s missing several hundred pixels by comparison. “Are you ready to meet your first Villa Heartthrob?”
They cheer and Penelope’s heart races like a three-legged dog, skittering and bumping around corners.
She’s almost as prepared as is illegally possible. It’s a perk of running the foremost reality TV gossip blog: information on each participant was laid out before her weeks ago. Between that and Eloise combing through background checks with a fucking monocle, it’ll be a miracle if Penelope doesn’t blurt random facts she has no business knowing.
Hey, Phillip. Do you ever bolt upright in the middle of the night and remember that you kitted out an entire kindergarten class with KONY 2012 t-shirts?
Are there any leftovers?
Anyway, she’d known the whole thing would essentially be a humiliation ritual for her, as all good reality TV is. Cressida’s presence guarantees it. Penelope’s a student of the genre so she knows this is all a game. Less predictable because allegedly hearts are involved (she’ll believe it when she sees it), but a game all the same.
People need a story.
The casual viewer might not understand this in their bones the way Penelope does, but that’s what gives her a desperately needed edge. She’s the opposite of smooth: her social graces are a stilted succession of stops and starts, like going down a slide with sweaty thighs in shorts.
Charismatic she is not, but she can shapeshift however she needs to for the potential winnings of £100,000. Quite enough to get her own flat and stop crashing at Pip and Al’s place. Whatever happens, she’s determined not to take it personally–she’ll be raking in too much money to take it personally.
Right?
Joanna lifts her arm, cueing the first boy’s descent.
He jogs down the stairs, his microphone pack and pectorals jostled by each step, and Penelope’s pretty sure this is the nepo-baby photographer. His best friend is Brooklyn Beckham and their shitty photos of safari animals hang in the same too-fancy galleries. He’s blonde. Gym rat. Short, too, but just attractive enough to be the hottest guy in the supermarket.
“Oh my days,” he says, rubbing his hands together. His low-cut button-down co-ord has bright orange flowers and against all odds, it works for him. It helps that he’s tan. “Look at all of you!”
Their answering hellooooo is sing-songy and flirty.
After a remarkable amount of staring and fidgeting so they can lengthen the moment in editing, Joanna winks at the group, bringing her hands together.
“Welcome to The Villa, Hugh! In a moment, I’ll ask the beautiful women who want to couple up with you to take the initiative and step forward,” she says, squeezing his shoulder. “You can pick whoever you’d like, but it might be nice to know who’s interested first, don’t you think?” When he nods, she faces the girls and delivers the invitation to step forward.
The set goes completely quiet for the first time in the six hours she’s been here and oh, no.
Oh, nooooooo.
These are the exact circumstances under which she has folded, historically. Excruciating silence, unyielding, hopeful eye contact, and someone’s ego hanging in the balance. The impulse to step forward is a physical blow, one that makes her fingers twist away from each other. She’d known this would be difficult but staring down the barrel of a camera makes it that much worse.
Could she see herself being interested in Hugh?
She forces herself to look at him. Okay, she’d been harsh. His eyes are much kinder than she’d given him credit for and there’s something pleasantly sturdy about him. Penelope tries to muster up how it’d feel to stand in front of him, to want to touch his arms.
It’s impossible.
They have to do this for four more people?!
Penelope’s frozen where she stands, having a Texas showdown with herself. The time passes and nobody steps forward.
Hugh bites his bottom lip when the rejection stretches past the point of deniability.
“Brutal,” he laughs, looking down at his feet. His microphone pack jiggles dejectedly as he bounces on his heels.
It feels like a collective cringe holds them hostage for several minutes before Joanna’s given the go-ahead to speak again.
“Chin up, my dear,” Joanna says feelingly, squeezing his shoulder as if no time had passed at all. “This isn’t the end of the road for you. Let’s chat with the girls and see where their heads are at.” She fixes her gaze on the girl two platforms over. “Siena, I saw some hesitation over there. Were you thinking about stepping forward?”
Siena, a brunette with a striking mole near the center of her cheek and a retro yellow bikini, sighs. “I should’ve,” she says, biting her inner cheek. “He looks so sweet, but I usually go for the bad boys.”
Joanna raises a contemplative brow at him.
“Are you a bad boy, Hugh?”
Penelope’s never seen somebody pinken so quickly.
“Depends on who you ask,” he says, then rushes to add, “but, erm, they’d probably all say no.”
Everyone laughs and his shoulders inch down away from his ears, the relief palpable in his eyes.
He ends up picking Siena anyway, so either he’s the owner of a massive pair of balls or he’s the worst. Only time will tell.
The next one down the stairs is Phillip, the boxer. He’s built like he’d wave off an offer to help him move a boulder. Light brown hair is cropped close and both arms are covered in tattoos, a patchwork of wildflowers with their roots, mushrooms, herbs, and a few fish. Put this guy in a fisherman beanie and he’d be lethal.
Penelope’s heart is at full gallop but the fluttery lift behind her breastbone remains conspicuously absent. She knows how attraction feels because she’s spent a significant portion of her life loathing the way it swallows her whole in Colin’s presence, and despite Phillip’s rugged handsomeness, this isn’t that.
If anything, Eloise comes to mind–she’d said he was exactly her type as she held up his headshot. “Excluding, you know, the fatal flaw of actively pursuing to be on reality television.”
Penelope didn’t take it personally.
“Bloody hell,” he says, rubbing his forearms and rocking back on his heel. His dark eyes flit over the women with appreciation. “Absolutely stunning, all of you.”
When the time comes to step forward, Penelope just…doesn’t. Part of her is indifferent about this decision but the other is pulling the alarm. If she were truly interested, would she be able to feel it or is she too deep in fight-or-flight for that? More importantly, why hadn’t she anticipated that ‘following her heart’ would be impossible when it’s all drowned out by panic?
Before she knows it, Phillip’s coupled up with Tilley, the buttery blonde with a podcast. Penelope hadn’t managed to listen to any of the episodes but she knows it’s shifted objectives so many times, it’s clear Tilley follows the whims of her passion. Hyperfixations. Whatever you want to call them.
Theo is next, jogging down the steps with a lopsided grin on his arresting face. His green eyes remind her of Colin’s, just a few shades lighter, and there’s something sharp in their depths. He’s double-take hot but Penelope’s dissociating too hard to dredge up the appropriate enthusiasm.
He chooses Rosamund, the icy blonde with weird vibes. She’s the only girl Penelope wonders if she’ll actually be able to befriend.
Joanna talks to the respective couples so far until her attention eventually lands on Penelope with the heat of a spotlight. Blood rushes to her face and she’s sure she looks like a deer in headlights but she focuses hard on the words coming out of Joanna’s mouth.
“Penelope,” Joanna says, tilting her head, “you haven’t stepped forward yet. Are you looking for something specific in the next man to walk down those stairs?”
The first words springing to her tongue are minimizing, crafted to help her blend in with the surroundings. It’s a testament to her growth that she discards them immediately. The next that come to mind are embarrassingly earnest: no, because the only place my instincts have led me has been lonely and the thought of narrowing it down by even a height or hair color makes me dizzy.
Absolutely not; she has to be interesting.
“I actually don’t have a type,” Penelope says, and it’s mostly true. ‘Type’ would imply she’s drawn to brown hair, but she’s not. She’s drawn to the cowlick at the back of Colin’s head. She doesn’t care about height; she cares about how naturally his jaw rests on top of her head when they embrace. “It’s more of a vibe. I’ll know it when I see him.”
And she didn’t even stammer!
Confidence hits her like a bass wave, loosening everything from her scalp to her toes. She can do this. Statistically speaking, she ought to step forward on this next one no matter what. Even if she fails, she’ll have a backup connection if her primary choice doesn’t work out.
“Well, let’s put the next lad to the test,” Joanna says, waving towards the stairs.
And shit you not, Colin Bridgerton appears at the top. She hasn’t seen him for nine fucking months, and here he is. Right here. She'd recognize the gorgeous chestnut hair no matter the haircut because she'd been the one with scissors in hand each time he needed a trim. Clearly he's gone to someone new because he's sporting a trendy mullet that should look stupid but just fucking doesn't. Devastating.
He was supposed to be Will! Or Alfred, one of the remaining contestants.
The moment his eyes find her, his whole body stutters for half a beat. Shock plays out like he’s made of stop-motion clay, brows drawing together, eyes widening, mouth parting. A pang of longing so sharp it’s closer to devastation radiates behind her chest and she makes her move so instinctively it’s like there was never any other option.
Penelope pastes on a friendly smile and empties the warmth behind her eyes. It’s one of the many Portia expressions she hadn’t meant to master.
Colin reads the hostile waves rolling off her and his gaze lingers anyway, like he can’t help it. It’s a terrible privilege to be fluent in Colin’s microexpressions, catching flickers of roiling emotion he masks behind an immovable calm.
It hurts to be standing this close and, simultaneously, to have never been so far away.
“Wow,” he says, sounding out of breath. “This is a good group.”
His wince is lightning-fast and Penelope can’t keep her lips from wobbling on a laugh.
She’s never seen him flub an introduction. He pulls himself together swiftly, ceding the moment to their host.
“You’re the fourth addition to the Villa, and, as you can see, we’ve already got three gorgeous couples,” Joanna says, waving in their direction. “However, being in a couple doesn’t preclude any of these girls from stepping forward.”
“Cheers,” Colin says warmly, his easy charm settling over them like a down blanket.
Oh, she’s going to kill Eloise.
Having blocked him and his number on every social media platform, expertly dodging the Bridgerton events he’s likely to attend, it’s been nine months since she’s had a proper look at him and she’s suffered for it. Her eyes are greedy, like they can’t take in enough of him.
“Did you hear that ladies?” Joanna says, wiggling her brows. “If you’d like to couple up with Colin, please step forward.”
That goddamn flutter is flapping like a bat from hell behind her ribcage and time turns sticky.
From her periphery, Penelope sees two women move. She slides her eyes to the left and finds herself and Siena as the only ones who haven’t budged, intoxicating righteousness burning at the base of her throat. How many times has she begged to be picked by Colin Bridgerton to no avail? Now he stands in front of her and she’s saying no more.
Penelope stays right where she’s at.
“Well, would you look at that,” Joanna says, clapping her hands together. “Three takers! Sita, this is the first time you’ve stepped forward. What is it about Colin that intrigues you?”
Penelope keeps her eyes on Sita, a gorgeous South Asian fashion influencer, as she flicks her hair behind her shoulder.
“He’s proper fit, obviously, but he looks like a nice boy,” she says, smiling shyly. “Exactly my type.”
And it hits Penelope square in the chest that she’s going to watch Colin Bridgerton fall in love right before her very eyes. She’ll have a front-row seat as his flirting slowly melts into something goofy and earnest.
“Penelope! What happened to the vibes?” Joanna laments.
Instead of saying what she wants, which is I’ve just been shot, Joanna, Penelope shrugs.
“Yeah, I dunno," she says, the individual components of her face in obvious disagreement. Her eyebrows climb to her hairline and she's pretty sure her frown looks more angry than indecisive. "Just not there, I guess.”
Colin’s eyes narrow on her and she holds his gaze, daring him to call her on the most egregious lie she’s ever told. This is her doubling down on pretending not to know him and she’s desperate for him to play along.
And he kind of does, because he’s looking at her like he has no idea who she is. He opens his mouth as if he has something to say but then his jaw clamps shut and he forces a smile, returning his attention to Joanna.
Several awkward beats pass before everyone accepts that that’s the extent of his response.
“Well, it has to soothe the sting to know you’ve got not one, not two, but three beautiful women vying for a chance to couple up with you,” Joanna says. “How are you feeling, Colin?”
He takes a deep breath and Penelope watches everything in him settle, like his emotions are books he can straighten on a shelf. “Never been better,” he says. And as someone who has resting-earnest face, he sells the hell out of it. “You’re all breathtaking. The lads, too.”
Theo winks at him and everyone titters in laughter. It transforms their tense group into something goofy and warm, and even Penelope finds herself relaxing. Not only can she do this, but they can do this. As a team. They’re all desperate to use The Villa as a launching pad, and so much of their success banks on whether the participants are magic as a group, but Penelope has a good feeling about it.
“High praise coming from you, gorgeous,” Theo says.
Siena snorts, slapping a hand over her mouth. Colin smiles so wide his eyes get squinty.
“Feeling threatened, girls?” Joanna teases, gesturing to those who stepped forward.
“Do I need to be?” Rosamund asks Theo, and Penelope’s pretty sure it was meant to be a joke but it comes out too sharp, her lips stretched thin with a perturbed notch between her brows.
“It’s early days,” Theo says, squeezing her shoulder.
Now it’s Penelope whose laughter is an unexpected burst. Colin’s eyes land on her, lit with mirth and it’s ten months ago, the thread of their connection plucked by something stupid like Daphne mentioning that pickles are her pregnancy craving, not knowing they’d argued passionately about the limits of pickling for forty-five minutes the night before. They’d share a glance, a secret, and find themselves briefly existing in their very own pocket of the universe.
Penelope blinks away, focusing on the pink neon light that wraps around her platform. She burns her retinas on purpose so the next time she looks up, the afterimage blinds her to his face.
“The chemistry is strong here, I can feel it,” Joanna says, scrunching her nose affectionately at all of them. “Now, Colin. It’s time to choose. Who would you like to couple up with?”
As always, they’re obligated to stretch out the moment for the editing team. It was annoying before but now it’s downright inhumane that Penelope’s made to stand and stare while Colin pretends to deliberate between the three women. She already knows his pick–knew it as soon as he came down the stairs.
The ex-model. The jet-setter. Stylish and sweet with an ass powered by pilates.
“Sita,” Colin says with a soft grin.
Penelope’s victory is a hollow one, indeed.
Sita waves excitedly with both hands, slipping her arm around Colin’s waist when he joins her on the platform next to Penelope’s. She’s the type of woman that Colin’s traditionally dated, always a lithe brunette.
“Sita, you look happy,” Joanna observes with the air of a kid about to insert their friends’ names in an embarrassing nursery rhyme.
“I’m buzzing,” she says, looking up at Colin with her hand splayed across her chest and stars in her eyes. He smiles down at her and Penelope’s not nearly blind enough to miss it. “Absolutely buzzing.”
“Another scorching couple added to the mix. Congratulations, you two,” Joanna says, tapping her cue cards in her palm. She turns to Penelope and dread is too tame a word for what weighs the latter down. “Girl, do we need to recalibrate your vibe detector? Because there’s only one man left to walk down those stairs.”
Can embarrassment send a person into cardiac arrest? If so, Penelope’s a candidate. It’s a testament of her frankly embarrassing effort to prepare for reality television that her throat doesn't close up.
“It’s a gamble for sure,” she says mischievously, donning the kind of smile Eloise assured her came off as confident without making her look like an asshole. “But I’m feeling lucky.”
And oh, God. Now that she’s mentioned gambling, it’s only a matter of time before fans uncover her father’s gambling addiction, how it lost the Featheringtons not one but two consecutive houses, and meme this moment.
Colin’s amusement is a palpable thing beside her. She wants to put him in a headlock.
“Ooh, love that confidence,” Joanna crows. “Let’s send Alfie down then, shall we?”
As soon as he comes into view, Penelope exhales steadily. Here’s her meal ticket. She and Eloise had agreed quite readily that her best bet of securing a connection out of this group would be Alfred Debling. He’s even more attractive in person, his sandy blonde beard trimmed close and his skin tan against the light yellow co-ord he’s wearing.
“Hello,” he says, waving politely to the group. It’s artless charm, almost too shy to work for him, but it does. “What a lovely group.”
Penelope presses her tongue hard against the roof of her mouth, willing herself not to laugh about his answer being near-identical to Colin’s.
“Alfie, you’re rounding out our numbers,” Joanna says, squeezing his bicep. “As you can see, Penelope is the only single lady left, but that doesn’t mean she’s the only one who can step forward.”
Penelope winces.
“Girls, if you’d like a chance with Alfie, please step forward.”
The decision to do so is blissfully uncomplicated. She wishes he’d come down earlier so the audience wouldn’t have to doubt whether her attraction to him is real or forced.
Penelope is the only one who moves, her smile bright as Alfie grins back.
“You finally took the plunge, Penelope!” Joanna says, turning to Alfie. “This is the first time she’s stepped forward.”
He raises his brows, genuine pleasure flooding his features. “Wow,” he says. “I’m chuffed.”
To her left, Colin or Sita shuffle around on their platform. Penelope had practiced this tastefully hopeful posture in the mirror until her hands knew where to go without too much thought. She overthinks the eye contact but she doesn’t think she’s imagining that Debling’s picking up what she’s putting down.
“What was it, Penelope? What drew you to Alfie?” Joanna asks.
An absolute lob of a question.
“He’s like a beam of sunlight in human form,” she says, but she doesn’t mean it in a sunny demeanor way. That would be inaccurate. There’s something regal about him, something piercing. And, at the same time, he's the kind of handsome that might be easy to capture in a Sim.
Joanna claps her hands in delight and Alfie ducks his head, grinning down at his feet. “That’s quite the compliment!” she says.
Penelope makes the mistake of glancing at Colin, the only person not staring at her with a smile. His initial confusion is gone, replaced by something impersonal. It’s no great disappointment. He’d been playing up the estranged friend angle until her body language told him she’d rather fucking die, and knowing his interest was secondarily motivated grants her freedom at last. How many times does Colin Bridgerton have to say he doesn’t want her before she believes it?
No, she’s going to enjoy this moment.
“Possibly the best I’ve received,” Alfie says.
The moment lingers, and Penelope knows it’s for the benefit of the editing team but it doesn’t entirely feel about them. This is the closest thing she’s tasted to calm since she walked into The Villa.
“Alright, Alfie. The time for deliberation is over. Who would you like to couple up with?” Joanna asks.
He rubs his hands together, gesturing to his right. “Penelope,” he says, and he looks so pleased that for a moment she believes he’d have picked her every time.
And God, does that feel good.
He walks to her, hugging her to his chest. He’s taller than her by a foot and he smells herby like lemongrass.
“You smell good,” she blurts, withdrawing to step beside him. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and one of hers goes around his waist.
His cheeks and forehead go pink.
“Thanks,” he says, like compliments are a tradition he’s not encountered before.
The rest of the hour is low-grade buzzing in Penelope’s ears. The couples pose for their slow-motion portraits, and while the cast isn’t technically allowed to socialize while the logistics of the show are being worked out, several bar carts filled with snacks and water keep them busy while they’re not filming confessionals.
It’s a much-needed break in Penelope’s opinion.
Her jaw relaxes, finally stiff from all the smiling. When it’s her turn to sit in the wide rattan chair with plush white cushions, she runs through her reaction to each addition of the night, each answer less stilted than the last.
Until she’s prompted to dig into why the vibes felt off with Colin.
It blindsides her, smile fading.
“It wasn’t anything personal,” she says, digging herself a nice little hole to fall into. Why hadn’t she acknowledged their history? The fans will probably be finding out that he’s her best friend’s brother before the episode’s over, that they grew up together. So far as she knew, Colin hadn’t scrubbed her from his social media presence in the past nine months. Photos of them together still exist on her accounts, too.
She hadn’t had the heart to delete them.
“What makes you think he took it personally?” Brimsley, one of the producers prods. He’s a messy bitch but she admires how unapologetic he is about it. Penelope can’t even be mad he’s trying to lead her into the equivalent of an emotional quagmire for the sake of exploiting wherever that takes her.
“Anybody could see the chemistry between him and Sita,” she says, blatantly swerving the question. “I felt that same energy with Alfie.”
Brimsley winks at her like he’s charmed by her refusal to cooperate.
“I don’t think the guy allowed his gaze lower than your shoulders,” he says. “Not even once.”
Penelope laughs because it’s true.
“He seems sweet, doesn’t he?” she asks, biting her inner cheek. She manages not to physically flinch when a pang of guilt snaps at her unexpectedly. She should be more excited. “It would not surprise me to find out that he’s mastered at least one of the fiber arts.”
She cannot keep spouting out weird shit like that. Penelope’s used to whipping up snappy little judgments for the posts she'd write for the blog, and apparently that confident version of herself is the only one available in these circumstances.
It could be worse, she supposes.
Brimsley hoots a laugh. “I’ve got you clocked,” he tells her, eyes twinkling and smug. The warmth she’d felt from making him laugh leaches from her face.
“And?” she asks, deceptively calm.
He leans back on his stool, templing his fingers together. “You can be a lot meaner, you know."
Penelope’s mouth parts. Her feelings are unaccountably hurt, but only because she’s never been perceived so swiftly and accurately and...and unprompted.
“What’s keeping you from reading Colin for filth? I know you have it in you,” he says, goading her on.
Penelope struggles to swallow with a parched mouth. Brimsley is a good time but he's not her friend. If she's going to make it to the finish line, she has to demonstrate the proper amount of wariness and good sense.
“I don’t–I’m not…” Penelope takes a breath, trying to push down the volcanic need to vomit the truth. It doesn’t work. “Colin and I grew up together, so seeing him was a shock.”
“I’m sorry, did you say you grew up together?” Brimsley says, tilting his head with a healthy amount of side-eye aimed her way.
“Yep,” she says. No matter how hard she tries to relax, her face feels stiff. Penelope’s drawing a blank, nothing but static going on behind her eyes.
“And you didn’t think to mention this when he descended the stairs?”
“If you knew our history, you’d yawn,” Penelope says, because it’s true. One-sided yearning is up there in terms of enjoyment with watching paint dry. “I’d fall asleep telling it.”
“And I’d believe you,” Brimsley says, “but yours wasn’t the only face I watched.”
10:02pm, Mon 3 Jun 2025 – from: eloise, to: Penelope
eloise: i didn’t want you backing out because of colin
eloise: you’ve spent months preparing
eloise: and like yeah it’s a bunch of over-produced bullshit
eloise: but it’s also a great source of income that you very much deserve
10:51pm, Mon 3 Jun 2025 – from: eloise, to: Penelope
eloise: fuckkkkk
eloise: it wasn’t my call to make
eloise: and i should’ve realized that sooner
eloise: i’m sorry
11:00pm, Mon 3 Jun 2025 – from: eloise, to: Penelope
eloise: i’m actually haunted by your face when you saw him
eloise: i wish you’d told me