Chapter Text
The ping of Penelope’s phone cut through the quiet of her tiny London flat, where she’d been curled up with a cuppa and editing a manuscript that was, frankly, rubbish. She glanced at the screen, and her heart did that stupid little flip it always did when she saw the name: “Colinator 🥐📸”. Colin bloody Bridgerton, the human equivalent of a golden retriever with a camera, had texted her again.
Colinator 🥐📸: Pen, you free this weekend? Got a mad idea.
PenPal 🔥✍️: Define “mad.” Last time you said that, I ended up knee-deep in mud for your “artistic vision.”
She smirked, her fingers hovering over the keys. Colin’s ideas were always daft—charming, yes, but daft. Still, she couldn’t say no to him, not when his deep blue eyes would crinkle at her like she was the only person in the world. God, Pen, get a grip. He’s just your mate. Your tall, fit, chestnut-curled mate who you’ve fancied since you were a spotty teenager.
Colinator 🥐📸: Nah, this one’s a proper lush. Road trip, me and you, RV across the UK. Magazine gig—snapping pics, beautiful lake, living the dream. You in?
PenPal 🔥✍️: An RV? What, are we pensioners now? You’ll be dragging me to bingo next.
Colin grinned at his phone from his cluttered flat, sprawled across a sofa that had seen better days. Penelope’s sarcasm was his favorite thing—well, that and the way her fiery curls bounced when she got properly riled up. She’ll say yes. She always does. But Christ, what if she doesn’t? What if she’s finally clocked I’m a knob who’s mad for her and she’s not just my Pen?
Colinator 🥐📸: Come on, Pen, don’t be a muppet. It’s not bingo—it’s freedom! Open road, dodgy service stations, you editing some poncy book while I make art.
PenPal 🔥✍️: Freedom’s overrated. I’ve got tea and a deadline. Why me, anyway?
Penelope’s stomach twisted as she hit send. She’d meant it as a jab, but the question lingered in her mind. Why did he always pick her? She was short, curvy, and a bit of a sarky—not exactly the glamorous type he could’ve dragged along. Yet here he was, texting her like she was his go-to. Because he’s your best mate, you twit. Not because he’s secretly pining like you are.
Colinator 🥐📸: Because you’re my wingwoman, innit? Who else is gonna tell me my pics are shite and still make me laugh? Pleeeease? 🥺🚐
PenPal 🔥✍️: Oh, sod off with the puppy eyes emoji. You’re 29, not 9.
Colin chuckled, picturing her rolling those ocean-blue eyes. He could hear her voice in his head—sharp, witty, with that edge that made him want to pull her close and never let go. She’s gonna cave in. She always does. But what if she doesn’t see me the way I see her? What if I’m just the prat who tells crap jokes?
Colinator 🥐📸: Fine, no emojis. Serious face: I need you, Pen. It’s not the same without you.
PenPal 🔥✍️: Ugh, you’re such a bellend. Flattery’s cheap, Bridgerton.
Her cheeks went hot, and she buried her face in her hands. He needs me. He bloody needs me. It was a throwaway line, probably, but it lit her up like a Christmas tree. She’d loved him for years—since he’d nicked her chips in 4th grade and grinned like he’d won the lottery. Every one of her failed flings since had been his fault, really, because no one was Colin.
Colinator 🥐📸: Cheap but effective. Say yes, Pen. I’ll even let you pick the tunes.
PenPal 🔥✍️: You’re letting me near the aux? Blimey, you are desperate. And where are we gonna stay at night? I’m not a fan of RV parking lots.
Colinator 🥐📸: There’s a bunch of roadside motels, and I’ve got a tent. We can camp near the lake.
She hesitated, her thumb hovering. A road trip. With Colin. In an RV, of all things. It sounded mental—cramped, chaotic, and far too close to the man who turned her into a blushing mess with one look. But the thrill of it, the chance to be near him, won out. You’re a fool, Penelope Anne Featherington. A proper fool.
PenPal 🔥✍️: Fine, you prat. I’m in. But if I end up sleeping in a ditch, I’m haunting you.
Colinator 🥐📸: YES! You’re a legend, Pen. Pick you up Saturday, 8 sharp. Pack light—RV’s not a TARDIS.
Colin fist-pumped the air, nearly knocking over a lamp. She’d said yes. His Pen—his brilliant, sarky, gorgeous Pen—was coming with him. He’d have her all to himself, no distractions, just the two of them and the open road. Don’t cock this up, mate. She’s your best friend. Don’t let her see you’re a soppy git who’s in love with her.
PenPal 🔥✍️: 8? You’re having a laugh. I’m not a morning person, Colin.
Colinator 🥐📸: Tough tits, love. Early start, epic adventure. Night, Pen. Dream of me. 😉
PenPal 🔥✍️: Piss off. Night, you wanker.
Penelope tossed her phone onto the sofa, her grin betraying her. She was excited just thinking about it, but her heart raced. A road trip with Colin Bridgerton—her walking dad-joke of a crush. She’d be stuck with him, his teasing, his bloody charm for days. It was a terrible idea. It was the best idea.
Across town, Colin stared at his ceiling, phone clutched to his chest. He’d done it. She was in. His Pen, with her quick wit and those curls he wanted to tangle his fingers in, would be by his side. He’d keep it light, keep it fun—keep her from guessing how much he ached for her. Just mates, yeah? That’s all she wants. Don’t be a twat and ruin it.
Saturday loomed, and neither of them slept much that night.
Saturday morning arrived with a grey drizzle, the kind that made London look like it was sulking. Penelope stood outside her flat, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, her fiery curls already frizzing under the damp. She’d barely slept, her brain a mess of what-ifs about this bloody road trip. It’s just Colin. Your mate. Your stupidly fit mate who you’d shag in a heartbeat if he weren’t so… Colin. She adjusted her jacket, trying to look casual, when a hulking white RV rumbled up, looking like it’d been nicked from a caravan park. It was probably the smallest RV she’d ever seen.
The window rolled down, and there he was—Colin Bridgerton, all six feet of him, grinning like a prat. “Morning, Pen! Your chariot awaits!” he called, his chestnut curls a bit mussed, his deep blue eyes twinkling with mischief.
Penelope snorted, hefting her bag. “Chariot? Looks more like a can on wheels. You sure this thing won’t conk out before we hit the M25?”
“Oi, don’t slag off Betsy,” Colin shot back, patting the dashboard like it was a pet. “She’s a beauty. Hop in, you grumpy sod—I’ve got coffee.”
That was enough to lure her. She climbed into the passenger seat, the RV’s interior hitting her like a slap—cramped, cluttered, and smelling faintly of petrol and Colin’s aftershave. Penelope looked back and realized that there was only a small dining table with seats and a small sofa, on which you could lie down in a chess knight pose at most. Further away, she saw a tiny kitchen area and a door leading to the bathroom. Bloody hell, this is tight. She dumped her bag by her feet, hyper-aware of how close he was, his arm brushing hers as he handed over a takeaway cup. His sleeves were rolled up, showing off those forearms she’d spent far too long staring at over the years.
“Cheers, Colin,” she muttered, taking a sip. “You’re a lifesaver. Didn’t think you’d manage 8 AM without cocking it up.”
“Ye of little faith,” he said, starting the engine with a dramatic flourish. “I’m a man of my word. Now, let’s get this show on the road—literally.” He pulled out, the RV lurching like it wasn’t sure it wanted to go either.
Penelope smirked, watching him wrestle the wheel. “You look like you’re fighting a lorry. Sure you can handle this beast?”
“Handle it? I’m a bloody pro,” Colin said, throwing her a wink that made her stomach flip. “Besides, I’ve got my trusty co-pilot to keep me in line. Right, Pen?”
“Yeah, right,” she scoffed, leaning back. “I’m here to make sure you don’t drive us into a ditch—or worse, a service station with no decent tea.” But inside, she was buzzing. He’s too charming for his own good. Too charming for my good. She stole a glance at him—his profile sharp, his grin easy—and cursed herself for still turning into a tomato around him, even after all these years.
Colin, meanwhile, was trying not to overthink every word. She’s here. She’s actually here. He’d half-expected her to bail, to text him some excuse about deadlines or a sudden plague. But there she was, her curvy frame tucked into the seat beside him, her blue eyes glinting with that spark he adored. She’s just your mate, you twat. Don’t stare too long, or she’ll think you’re a creep. He kept his tone light, though his nerves were doing a number on him. “So, what’s the plan, Pen? You gonna edit some fluffy romance novel from a pretentious author while I snap pics of sheep?”
“Oi, they’re not fluffy,” she retorted, swatting his arm. “They’re art. Unlike your photos, which are just you faffing about with a camera and hoping for the best.”
“Faffing about?” He clutched his chest, mock-offended. “I’m wounded, Pen. Wounded. My pics are masterpieces—gonna win me a Pulitzer one day.”
“Yeah, and I’m gonna be the next Brontë sister,” she quipped, rolling her eyes. “Keep dreaming, Bridgerton.”
Their laughter filled the cab, bouncing off the narrow walls, but the space felt smaller with every mile. The RV wasn’t built for two—her knee kept brushing his thigh when he shifted gears, and the dashboard was so close she could’ve hugged it. Forced proximity, my arse, Penelope thought, her pulse picking up. This is a bloody torture chamber. She tried to focus on the road, on the blur of London giving way to green, but Colin’s presence was overwhelming—his warmth, his stupid grin, the way he hummed off-key to nothing.
Colin felt it too, though he’d never admit it. She’s right there. Right bloody there. Her curls spilled over her shoulder, catching the light, and he had to grip the wheel harder to stop himself from reaching out. He’d always been tactile with her—hugs, nudges, the odd hair-ruffle—but now, in this tin can on wheels, every touch felt loaded. He cleared his throat, desperate to keep the vibe easy. “Alright, Pen, you’re slacking. Where’s my playlist? I promised you the aux, didn’t I?”
Penelope arched a brow, digging her phone out of her pocket. “You sure about that? I’ve got taste, unlike you. Your music’s all dad-rock and cheesy ballads.”
“Cheesy ballads are the backbone of this country,” he said, deadpan. “Don’t diss my tunes, or I’ll make you walk to Scotland.”
“Promises, promises,” she muttered, plugging in her phone. The aux cord dangled between them, and as she reached for the stereo, Colin nudged her elbow with his, playful but deliberate.
“Go on, then,” he teased, his voice softer. “Pick something good, Pen. Impress me.”
Their hands brushed as she fumbled with the cord, his fingers warm against hers, and the air stilled for a split second. Penelope’s breath hitched, a spark zipping up her arm. Oh, fuck me. She yanked her hand back like she’d been burned, shoving the cord into the slot. “There. Done. Don’t blame me if you hate it.”
Colin’s grin faltered, just for a beat, his own heart thudding. Did she feel that? Her touch lingered on his skin, tender and electric, and he swallowed hard. “Cheers,” he managed, nodding at the stereo as some indie track kicked in—her taste, sharp and unexpected, like her. “Not bad, Pen. Not bad.”
She smirked, but her cheeks were pink, and she turned to the window to hide it. Get it together, you muppet. It’s just Colin. But it wasn’t just Colin—not to her. It was him, all charm and sincerity, filling this stupid RV with a tension she couldn’t shake.
He stole a glance at her, her profile soft against the glass, and wondered if she’d ever guess how much he wanted this—wanted her. The road stretched ahead, and the RV rattled on, a tiny world carrying two best mates who were, perhaps, something more—if only they’d let themselves see it.
As the RV trundled past the outskirts of London, the drizzle eased into a patchy sun, casting flickers of light across Penelope’s curls. She fiddled with her phone, pretending to tweak the playlist, but really just avoiding Colin’s gaze. The cab was too small, his presence too big—every shift of his muscular frame sent a whiff of his aftershave her way, and it was doing her head in.
“Alright, Pen,” Colin said, breaking the quiet with that stupid grin of his. “Why don’t skeletons fight each other?”
She groaned, already knowing where this was going. “Because they’re too busy haunting your photography skills?”
“Nah,” he chuckled, “because they don’t have the guts!” He slapped the steering wheel, chuffed with himself, and Penelope couldn’t help the snort that escaped her.
“You’re a proper numpty, you know that?” she said, shaking her head. “Where’d you even get these? ‘Dad Jokes for Dummies’?”
“Family heirloom,” he replied, deadpan. “Passed down from Bridgerton to Bridgerton. My dad used to lob them at us over breakfast—drove my mom up the wall.” His tone softened, a flicker of fondness in his eyes. “Perhaps I’ve got a knack for it now.”
“Yeah, a knack for making me want to jump out this window,” she quipped, but there was no bite to it. She knew the stories—Colin’s big, loud family, the posh chaos of their Mayfair townhouse. He’d grown up with seven siblings, a mom who baked like it was an Olympic sport, and a dad whose terrible puns were legend. It was a world away from her quieter upbringing—single mom, two mean sisters, small house, books for company. Maybe that’s why they’d clicked from the beginning—he’d been the whirlwind to her calm, the tease to her snark.
“Nah, you’d miss me too much,” he said, nudging her knee with his. “Who’d keep you entertained? These manuscripts? Those soppy heroes you edit?”
“They’re not soppy,” she protested, swatting him back. “They’re… emotionally complex. Unlike you, Mr. ‘I’ll Snap a Cow and Call It Art.’”
“Emotionally complex, my arse,” he laughed. “Last one I read had the bloke shagging her against a tree. That’s your idea of romance, Pen?”
Her face flamed—he’d read that?—and she stammered, “It’s metaphorical, you twat. And when did you nick my work, anyway? The author will kick my arse for exposing her book to the public before the launch.”
“Borrowed it off your desk last month,” he said, smirking. “Had to see what keeps you up all night. Besides me, obviously.”
“Piss off,” she muttered, but her heart was hammering. He’s just taking the piss. Doesn’t mean anything. Still, the idea of him flipping through her edits, maybe lingering on the steamy bits, sent a shiver down her spine.
Colin grinned, oblivious to her spiral, and turned his eyes back to the road. She’s blushing again. Christ, she’s cute when she’s flustered. He’d never tell her how often he thought about her—late nights, camera in hand, wishing she was there to slag off his shots. This trip was his chance to keep her close, even if she only saw him as the prat who’d been her shadow since they were teens.
The RV rattled on, a tin box of unspoken truths, and neither noticed how the miles were already weaving them tighter together.