Work Text:
“So, what’s your thing, Penelope? Beautiful name, by the way. Very…mythical.”
Penelope was at a cocktail bar, because she was trying to avoid the kind of men that pick up girls at regular pubs. This wasn’t much better. This man had approached her, she suspected, because she had strategically bent slightly forward while rummaging in her purse, allowing him a tasteful peek down the sweetheart neckline of her forest green dress. He was tall and blonde, and wore a pair of bold-rimmed hipster glasses and a vest. I know things, his outfit screamed. Likely more than you, but whatever you do know, I’ll tell you it’s cute.
Oh, and his name was Bertram. That was…actually kind of unfortunate. Like, Penelope felt bad for him. Just slightly.
“Um, I like to read,” Penelope stammered in response to his question. “I read a lot. When I was a girl, my mother was always telling me “Put your books down,” but I don’t think there is anything wrong with reading! I mean, obviously not. You look like you read. Do you read?” Penelope sucked in a breath, her face hot as she realized how many inane words had just spewed from her mouth.
Bertram—actually she couldn’t even think his name without cringing—the Hipster Man’s brow crinkled slightly in amusement, but the spark of interest that had been there when he’d first introduced himself was fizzling, and fast. Penelope’s stomach sank. She always did this. She would overthink a question, trying to guess what it was that they’d want to hear and then combine it with enough honesty that she wasn’t just spouting tall tales about her life. The result was never cute.
She was a chronic babbler, but only in front of men. How pathetic.
She was twenty-six. She should have figured this out by now.
“I do like to read,” he said, a touch too patiently. “I was a classics major at university.” She didn’t have any opinions about classics majors, but the fact that he looked like a classics major made her internally roll her eyes.
She put on an interested smile, like he had just told her they shared a favorite TV show. “Oh, really? So you must read all the time, then?” She couldn’t have asked a question about his favorite Greek myth, or even why he had chosen that field of study? She was just…going in a circle.
The amusement on his face was forced, now. “Yes. It’s basically my job. I’m writing a book about the dwindling quality of literature being published today.”
Oh. Actually, fuck this guy. Penelope had been considering actually fucking this guy. Maybe. He was passably attractive, and hadn’t seemed turned off by her appearance. But, nope. Cocktail bars were off the list, then. But then she heard herself keep talking, and it was like an out-of-body experience. Why wasn’t someone here to shut her up?
“Oh, tell me about it! They’ll publish anything these days. Some people’s writing is so awful that I think a third grader could write better than them. Have people heard of a thesaurus? Actually, my sister had never heard of a thesaurus. She asked me to proofread a work email for her the other day, and I suggested a thesaurus and she asked me if it was a type of dinosaur.” And she had completely lost the plot. “Um. I’m sure your book will be very valuable. To society,” she concluded lamely.
His book was probably a pretentious essay, three-hundred-pages too long, about the evils of mass-market fiction compared to literary fiction.
“I am writing about the over-publication of romance novels, essentially selling false hope to people by making them think that storybook love is real.” Of-fucking-course. “Which it is not.” He added sagely. How was this guy a classics major? Myths are full of grand love stories. Was he just in it for the small-dick men who are somehow more remembered than the women they would supposedly die for?
“That is very insightful,” she lied. He tipped his head in appreciation, his face growing smug at the compliment.
Ugh.
She was done with him, but she had come to this bar in the hopes of meeting someone, so she was going to give Hipster Man a second—third?—chance to prove himself.
She bent forward and rummaged in her purse again, just to see if she could spark that physical interest in him again. What did he look like when he wanted something? What would he do about it?
When she looked back up, having successfully retrieved her lip balm—which she didn’t actually need—his eyes glimmered slightly, and she shuddered. This was not how she wanted to be look at. In fact, she kind of wanted to tell him off for it. Give him an entire soliloquy on misogyny that he would probably hate as much as she would hate his book.
Hipster Man wanted to dismantle the romance industry. She breathed romance books. It wasn’t the books that were keeping women single, it was men like him.
Penelope inclined her head to Hipster Man’s glass of whiskey. “What are you drinking?” she asked sweetly.
Hipster Man looked at her dubiously. “Whiskey,” he said, explaining it like she was a child. When she wrinkled her nose, he smirked. “Not a whiskey girl, huh?”
Penelope shrugged innocently, and opened her mouth to respond, when someone answered for her.
“Of course she is,” came a male voice from behind her. Every hair on her body traitorously stood in excitement.
Colin Bridgerton’s warm hand came to rest on her shoulder, and her body lit up in a way it hadn’t even begun to for this blonde fool. What was his name again?
“Pen actually made me a whiskey fan. I was too chicken-shit to try it, until uni.”
“Bridgerton,” Hipster Man nodded apprehensively at Colin, whom Penelope still hadn’t turned to look at. She had tensed. How long had he been here? How had he just materialized? And why the hell was he interrupting?
“Fife,” Colin said with the barest civility.
So, they knew each other. And Colin clearly was not a fan.
Penelope just clenched her jaw. “Maybe I have grown tired of it,” she said bitterly, still not looking at Colin.
That earned a laugh from Hipster Man. “Well. I’m sure they have white wine here,” he said, emphasizing white wine as if it were no more than grape juice. “I’ll go and ask.”
Penelope fluttered her lashes. “That would be great.”
As soon as Hipster Man had walked away, Colin stood in front of her. “What are you doing, Pen?” He seemed much too concerned, considering she was only talking to a man. Women did that every day, unfortunately.
Penelope furrowed her brow and took him in. Unsurprisingly, Colin looked really good. He wore dark trousers and a light-blue Henley that would be super cozy in a hug, and he smelled like he’d had a long day, but not in an unpleasant way. Just…familiar.
“Pen?” he pressed.
“Talking, Colin. I was talking.”
“You were lying.”
“It was a small lie.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You like whiskey.”
“I know I like whiskey, Colin.”
“Then why did you imply that you didn’t?”
Penelope finally rolled her eyes. “Because he was boring me, and I was trying to lose his interest.”
Colin seemed taken aback at that answer. The crease in his brow disappeared, and then a smile curled at his lips. “Oh?” He dipped his head forward conspiratorially. “Then what are we still doing here?”
Penelope startled. He was right. Damn him, but he was. She looked around, checking that Hipster Man, Bertram Fife, was not looking in her direction. Actually, what did she care if he saw her leave?
Penelope smiled for the first time since Colin had appeared. “I have no idea,” she said. “Let’s go.”
They strode out of the bar together, ignoring the confused call of “Penelope?” from behind them. He wasn’t worth a glance back. He should probably be working on his anti-romance manifesto, anyhow, or at least talking to a girl who hated love as much as he seemed to.
When they were outside, Colin pulled her to the side with a light hand on her elbow. “Why were you in that place, Pen? It’s full of over-important men. Please don’t tell me you were trying to flirt with Fife.”
“Were you not in that establishment just now, Colin?”
“So?”
“Does that make you just another over-important man?” She was joking, but a look of shocked hurt crossed his face. “I’m joking, Colin,” she assured him. He relaxed his features as though he hadn’t been affected at all. “But if you must know. Yes. I was trying to flirt with Hipster Man.”
“Hipster Man?” Colin asked, amused.
“I couldn’t remember his name, so that’s how I referred to him in my head.”
“Ah.” Colin looked smug at this revelation.
“This wasn’t one of my better ideas,” she admitted bitterly. “Trying to pick up men in a pretentious bar like this. I guess I just feel like I’ve tried everything else.”
Colin frowned. “What is it that you think is getting in the way?”
Penelope studied him, debating whether she should tell him the truth. She could say something cynical like, Men. Men are getting in my way. Or she could say something self-deprecating like, No one seems to want to date a girl like me. Or she could tell him the truth. And… this was Colin. She had known him for ten years. Even if she had secretly loved him the entire time, she should be able to tell him anything. Well, anything except I love you.
She sighed and sank onto a nearby bench. Colin joined her. “I guess…I know that I can be fun and witty and…interesting. But whenever I talk to men, it’s like…all my good qualities get lost between my head and my mouth and I end up saying Way. Too. Much.” Colin looked confused, so she clarified. “I babble.”
“I have never heard you babble,” Colin said confidently, as though that meant she didn’t babble.
“Well, I don’t babble in front of you.”
“But I am a man,” Colin pointed out.
Penelope scoffed. “You don’t count. You’re Colin.”
He furrowed his brow. “What does that mean?”
“Well, I am not trying to flirt with you, mainly,” Penelope laughed. This was only partly true. It’s not that she was ‘not trying to flirt’ with Colin, but rather that she was always trying not to flirt with him. What if she slipped up and looked at him for too long? What if she complimented him in a way a friend never would? What if she told him how handsome he looked? How good he smelled? How nice it was to see him, even though they had just hung out last week?
It was, once again, a fear of saying too much. Of saying I love you without saying those exact words.
“And,” she continued, despite getting pulled down the vortex of her feelings for Colin. “I am comfortable around you. I think I babble when I’m nervous.”
“You have nothing to be nervous about, Pen,” Colin said, quickly but assuredly.
“I know, that’s what I just—”
“With other men,” he said. “Just be yourself.”
Penelope tried not to flush at that. Did he like…herself? No, that’s not what he meant. That was just a thing people said. “We’re at a Catch-22. Because I can’t seem to do that. When I try, I babble.” She spread her hands. “And, here we are.”
Colin squinted at her. “I don’t believe you.”
Penelope laughed once. “What do you mean, you don’t believe me?”
“I’ve never been bored by a conversation with you. So I don’t believe you,” Colin shrugged.
Penelope’s mouth hung slightly open. He was serious. “I...Just because you don’t believe me doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“Show me,” he said, straightening slightly.
“What?”
“Give me an example. Pretend I’m some guy you’re talking to.”
“You want me to try and flirt with you?” Penelope raised an eyebrow. She would not. Absolutely not. God knows what she would say if she opened the vault known as Things I Want to Say to Colin Bridgerton. Because then she might peek into the vault of Things I Want to Do to Colin Bridgerton, and…no.
But Colin just said, “Yes.” Yes, he wanted her to flirt with him.
“Trouble is,” Penelope shot back, refusing to walk down this road. “I don’t actually end up flirting.”
“Right, you babble, so I’m told.”
“So I do.”
“And I don’t believe you.” God, he was insufferable today.
“Fine!” she heard herself shout.
Colin just looked at her, patiently waiting, completely oblivious to what a dramatically awful idea this was.
She looked up at him—even though they were sitting, he was so tall—and she opened her mouth, then closed it. “I—need a prompt. What are we talking about, in this imaginary flirting scenario?”
Colin thought for a moment, then smirked a little, and said, “So, what made you approach me tonight, Penelope?”
Penelope’s lips parted. It was the worst possible question to ask. She could not pretend with this question. This was Colin. There were a thousand reasons to approach him, and saying any one of them aloud felt like incriminating herself. Exposing how much she had thought about every quality, every facet of him.
She forced herself to really look at him. He had a five-o-clock shadow. Wherever he’d been before this bar, he hadn’t had time to shave. So he hadn’t been meeting anyone worth impressing. She supposed not, as he hadn’t said goodbye to anyone before the two of them had made their escape. His lips were slightly wet from his excruciating habit of licking his lips. His denim-blue eyes were trained on her, stealing her breath away like they always did.
“You were—tall,” she heard herself answering his question as if from a distance. “Obviously, I’m short, but there’s something attractive about someone so much taller than me. That’s not the only reason of course, or I’d be approaching every tall guy I see. Most of the people I’ve dated were short, actually, like five foot ten or shorter, and, I mean, I know I shouldn’t judge—they can’t help their height. But tall is good. You’re tall, and that’s why I approached you, like I said. Although maybe there is something against the shorter ones, as I’ve yet to make it past the second date with anyone. FUCK.” She hadn’t meant to share that last part. Not at all.
Then she exhaled. Because mortifying or not, she had proven her point.
Colin’s mouth had dropped open, and she hadn’t noticed, because another thing she did when she babbled was look at the person’s left ear rather than making eye contact. It was like her eyes didn’t want to perceive the train wreck, but her brain didn’t know how to stop it from happening.
“Oh,” was all Colin said. He swallowed.
“You see,” Penelope said, desperately hoping he would ignore the bomb she had dropped at the end of her rambling. “I babble.”
“You babble,” he echoed, staring at her curiously.
“So you agree, I am a lost cause.”
“No, Pen. How can you say that?” He sounded genuinely affronted. But he was not faced with the hard evidence. She had in fact never been in a relationship. There was evidently something wrong with her.
“Because you just looked at me like you no longer know me,” she contested. “Can we forget about it? It’s fine.” She no longer wanted to linger at this pity-party she had invited him to.
“You’re not a lost cause, Pen,” he said, gentler. “You already know what you’re doing wrong.”
“I do?”
“You’re thinking too much.”
“I actually think I’m thinking too little.”
“No, you said it yourself. You babble when you’re nervous.”
Penelope looked at him sideways. “I can’t just make myself not nervous, Colin.”
“Sure you can.”
“Maybe you can.”
Penelope continued to look at him dubiously. She was just indulging him at this point—it was one of her many weaknesses when it came to him.
“When do you feel most comfortable?” he asked. “Most yourself?”
Penelope didn’t really have to think about that. “When I’m writing.”
“Why?” Colin asked. He wasn’t challenging her. He really was trying to help her.
Penelope sighed sadly. “Because I can be honest. Without consequences. And I can edit. But I cannot do that in real life.”
An idea was forming behind Colin’s eyes.
“What?” she asked, exasperated. She was wary of his ideas now.
He tilted his head, thinking. “What about texting?” he said finally.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, have you tried getting to know someone over text?”
“That’s literally everyone’s worst nightmare. Being on the apps, and all that.”
“Not the apps,” Colin shuddered. “God, I hate those, too.” He spared a glance toward the bar. Had he been on a date just now? With someone from an app? The idea made Penelope’s stomach flip uncomfortably, and then soar traitorously when she realized that if he had been on a date, it obviously hadn’t lasted very long, and he hadn’t even bothered to go home and freshen up after work.
“Just…texting is a form of writing,” he explained. “Text someone you know already, someone you’d want to flirt with, just to boost your confidence. To show yourself you can do it.”
“There’s no one I want to flirt with,” Penelope told Colin, who was the one person on the planet she actually wanted to flirt with.
“No one?” Colin asked, near-incredulous.
“I’m not very impressed with the male species these days,” she said wryly.
“Except me,” he smirked, and Penelope’s insides went cold until he said, “Because I am Colin, I do not count.” He echoed her words from earlier.
“Right…” she said slowly. “Except you.”
“Perfect,” he said, as though something was settled. “Text me, then.”
Penelope’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. “No,” she said vehemently. She put all her conviction and self-preservation and force into that word. No.
“Why not?” Colin asked.
He was really so, so very clueless. Penelope no longer had the energy to entertain his admittedly valiant effort to help.
“I’m not texting you, Colin,” she said in an end of discussion sort of tone. To punctuate it, she stood up, hating that she was still barely taller than him while he remained seated. “And I’m tired. I’m going home.”
Colin looked like he was going to pout. “Fine,” he said grumpily. “But the offer stands.”
“Thanks,” she said insincerely. Then she sighed, because she could not leave things poorly with him. “Thanks for the save. With Hipster Man.”
Colin smirked, his eyes lighting with laughter. “Anytime, Pen.”
As Penelope walked off into the evening night, she felt incredibly proud of herself. There had been a moment. A moment when she had wanted to say yes. Yes, I will practice-flirt with you, Colin Bridgerton. Thank goodness she had been strong enough to say no.
**
Friday night, one week later.
Penelope had gone out with Eloise, Genevieve, and Edwina, and there had been a special on margaritas. Tequila drunk was something else. Penelope felt like the entire world was at her fingertips. Like she could do anything. Anything. Because everything felt good. Even spilling half the contents of her water glass on her sandal clad feet had felt good, fun, exhilarating.
Now that she was back in her flat—alone, because Felicity was vacationing with Hyacinth until next week—she was still searching for something else to make her feel good. It might be 2 a.m., but the night didn’t feel over yet.
Flopping down indulgently across her couch, still dressed in the the tank and shorts she’d worn out that night, she opened her messages and began to type. It wasn’t easy, but she eventually got the letters to spell real words.
Colin Bridgerton
2:12am
Is your hair as soft as el’s?
Penelope was a good friend, because she had held back Eloise’s hair when the fourth margarita had become too much for her. But she was also a bad friend, because with Eloise’s silky soft brown hair in her hands, she had found herself wondering if Colin’s hair felt like that, too. And she was still wondering. It felt imperative to know.
Um. Are we doing this, then?
Yes?
Ok
Ok, then you should know that my hair is exceptionally soft. Definitely softer than my sister’s. I use more product than her.
Ooh, a little prince.
I mean… I like to take care of myself
Yeah you do
??
You always look so good
Thanks, Pen.
For what, a fact? The most factual fact to ever fact
That’s…a lot of fact
I could write a thesis on it
…on?
how good you look. Im an expat.
*expert
…
I don’t think you need any help, Pen
Wdym
With flirting
Facts r not flirtig.
flrtong
flirting
fuck
Ok Pen, you can stop.
Haven’t started yet
Vault’s barely opened
Pen, are you drunk?
YES.
Didnt i say that
oh.
get some rest, ok?
we’ll talk tomorrow
enjoy ur beauty sleep, little prince ❤️
good night, pen
Saturday 9:42am
fuck
Good morning, Pen! 😆
fuck
Don’t worry about it
Everybody sends unfiltered drunk texts
COLIN
I ASKED YOU IF YOUR HAIR WAS AS SOFT AS EL’S?
And now you know
Well, not really. You’ll have to trust me
Ughhhhhhh
Relax, Pen. It’s not a big deal.
Colin?
Hm?
You said “are we doing this?” What did you think we were doing?
Oh, uh. I thought you wanted to…practice.
Fuck
I’m sorry, col
It’s ok, Pen.
But, um
What was the “vault” you mentioned?
Or was it just drunk talk…?
Oh
Yeah
Drunk talk
Ok
You were doing well, though.
So I need to be drunk to flirt? How original.
That’s not at all what I meant, Pen
But they do say that drunk thoughts are sober truths
I need you to erase everything I texted you from your memory
You texted me?
Ha.
Dw about it pen
But …do you want to try it again?
When you’re not hungover?
Yeah, no!
Just…think about it?
Fine
But the answer is probably no
That’s fine.
I don’t think you need the practice, anyway.
Have a good day, Pen!
Drink lots of water!
You too
Have a good day, I mean
Think about it proved to be the worst directive possible.
It was all Penelope could do.
All day.
Think. About. It.
He had basically said she was good at flirting. And that was because she had waxed drunk poetic about how good he looked. God. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to her when she was drunk. He knew she had thought about what his hair felt like.
Maybe she should move to America. Whatever was happening over there couldn’t be as bad as what was happening here. She had no idea what she would do when she got there, but at least she would never have to face Colin again.
No. That was the worst thing that could happen. His face was too beautiful to never see again.
She groaned, and her hungover head echoed with the noise.
She wished she could sleep away the pain—literal and figurative—but knew that she would have some funky dreams and it would only make her wake up confused and grumpy. She threw herself into errands for the rest of her Saturday, and the evening came around with a fully stocked fridge, a spotless kitchen, and no resolve about whether to firmly shut down Colin’s insane plan or…to consider it.
Colin Bridgerton
Saturday 8:14pm
Have you thought about it, Pen?
A little.
Selfishly, I want you to say yes
I’ve been brainstorming
Lesson-planning, if you will
I didn’t realize this was a teacher-student relationship
Hm, more like peer practice.
If you don’t want to, it’s okay.
But you’re my best friend, Pen. I don’t want you to feel insecure about something you definitely shouldn’t be insecure about.
Goodness, why did he have to be so thoughtful? How could she possibly say “no” to him, now? She’d have to pretend her insecurities were actually “nothing” and that he “didn’t need to worry about it”, but he would see right through those lies.
Colin actually did this a lot. When she had a problem, he would endeavor to fix it. Once Penelope had picked up on that pattern, she’d tried her best not to complain in front of him. She didn’t need him to rescue her. Then why had she opened her mouth about this?
Alright.
Where do we start?
Start by receiving.
Receiving what?
Receiving the flirting.
Oh. Oh no. This was worse than flirting with him. He was going to flirt with her. She stared at her phone like it was going to explode.
Oh. Okay, sure…
What do I do?
Tell me what you’d say if you could edit your babbling.
Say to what?
You have the most gorgeous hair. I love the way it curls, especially when the strands fall in front of your face.
Penelope felt dizzy. A string of fluffy words from Colin and she wanted to chuck her phone across the room. She thought back to last night, which was a haze she hardly remembered. Everything was surrounded by a halo of giddiness from the tequila. She had only barely gotten over her hangover, but…
She glanced at her newly cleaned kitchen.
She didn’t have any tequila, but maybe some whiskey would make this all less mind-boggling.
Two minutes later, she had taken a shot of whiskey and sat back on the couch with a tumbler of whiskey on the rocks.
Okay. She could do this.
Pen, where’d you go?
Sorry, bathroom.
Colin, You don’t have to say things like that.
Like what?
Like…fake compliments?
Real compliments
You deserve compliments, Pen.
Now, what would you say? If someone told you that.
‘Someone’. Not Colin. And yet it was Colin she was texting. Penelope took a large sip of whiskey and typed.
Your eyes. They’re the most remarkable shade of blue. And yet somehow they shine even brighter when you are kind. I wish I could see them now.
Really?
Colin, who is teaching who here?
Right, sorry.
Thank you. That’s a beautiful thing to say.
If you were here, I would take a strand of your hair between my fingers. I always wondered what it felt like.
You’re stealing my line, Bridgerton.
It’s the truth.
It’s the truth? Was this not meant to be fake flirting? Sure, she had told him something honest, but…
Usually, I would say to never touch a lady’s hair.
For you, I might make an exception.
Colin didn’t reply right away, but the whiskey had warmed her enough that she didn’t start sweating like she usually would when left hanging like that.
I’m honored.
I’ve been dreaming about it.
And what your cheek would feel like against my fingertips.
This was practice. This was fake. This wasn’t real.
She took another reckless sip of whiskey anyway and made her eyes focus on the screen.
Dreaming, huh?
I’d love to see what you come up with.
Don’t have to come up with anything
Would you shiver like you did? When my fingers brushed your cheek in my dream?
He what? And she what?
Despite herself, she shivered in real life.
Her whiskey glass sat forgotten now. She just stared at the words on her screen, her breaths coming in stressed pants. This wasn’t real. He needed to stop making it sound so real.
Colin, what are you doing?
Telling you about my dream
You were in it
It’s only fair
Colin
I can’t do this
I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable
No it’s not that it’s…
I don’t think it will help
No one is going to say things like that to me, Col
They should
Penelope was on the verge of a mild panic attack. Maybe the whiskey had been a bad idea.
Thank you for saying that, Colin.
You’re a good friend.
I wish you saw yourself more kindly, Pen.
I do see myself kindly.
I’m glad to hear it.
I just…can’t take you seriously when you say all this stuff
Hmm
That’s a shame.
What if you lead?
The thought of her…leading…it made her blood heat. She was sure that’s not what he meant, of course.
What do you mean?
Text me tomorrow morning
Pretend you’ve been on a few dates with me
What would your good morning text be?
A good morning text?
Whatever feels natural to you.
Shows you’re thinking of them first thing when you wake up.
Ok…
It’s just me, Pen
Don’t be nervous
Ha. As if. She supposed she had sent Colin a text in the morning before. This would not be that. This had to be…flirty?
Ok
I’ll try it
Amazing
Talk in the morning, then 😉
Good night, Colin. 💕
Good night, Pen!
Penelope put her phone facedown on the couch and blew out a stream of air, as though she could expel all the what the fucks from her body. That and the warmth that had traveled south.
Her body did not seem to understand that this had been practice flirting. Not when it was practice flirting with Colin Bridgerton.
She groaned pitifully, flopping back against the couch. The movement of her shirt against her bare breast caused friction that alerted her to just how aroused she really was. God. She was going to have funky dreams tonight, wasn’t she?
**
Her dreams were funky. Beyond funky. In fact, she woke up more aroused than she had when she’d fallen asleep. She really should have done something about that last night. She’d woken up frustrated and squirming against her sheets for some sort of resolution to the feeling her dream had given her. Last night, she’d been buzzed from the whiskey, but somehow she felt more reckless in the morning than she had been then.
She pulled out her phone. Time for Colin’s morning text.
Colin Bridgerton
Sunday 8:04am
Good morning, sexy.
Well. That was rather direct.
Not as direct as what I dreamt last night.
Oh?
Do you wanna know?
Pen, I’m not sure this is exactly what I meant.
So you don’t want to know?
I’m sure any guy would want to know
He’d be crazy not to
That’s what I thought
So
I was in one of those regency-era dressing gowns. Silk. Fancy.
I was sitting by the fire (I had a fireplace!) I was reading, and suddenly there’s a man in my doorway.
Sounds dangerous
It was you
😎
Well, regency you. You had one of those puffy white shirts on.
Hot
It fucking was. Her breasts tightened just thinking about it. Unconsciously, she drifted a hand over her chest before remembering that she couldn’t text with her hands otherwise occupied.
Dream-self thought so.
When you walked in, I dropped my book. Then you came over and picked it up for me
And then you were eye level with…
with…?
You know with what
Don’t get shy on me now, Pen
🍈 🍈
Dream Me is a lucky guy
Is he?
Actually maybe I should wait and find out.
Maybe you should
So you were eye level with *there*
And then
I fucking woke up
Pen!
I know!
I was…upset
*Very* upset
Pen
fuck
Were you…?
I still am
How could I not be?
There was no reply for a solid two minutes. She wasn’t lying though. She had woken up aroused and only gotten more worked up while texting him. She didn’t know where this boldness had come from. She was essentially—no she was—sexting Colin Bridgerton. Maybe it helped that she was basically telling a story. She was telling the story of her dream. In which Regency Colin had knelt before her and had his face eye level with her boobs, which had looked damn good in that dressing gown, if she could say so.
But maybe she’d freaked him out.
Maybe it was too much.
Colin?
You there?
It wasn’t real, right?
Of course not?
You asked me to text you in the morning
I figured I’d have fun with it
Ok
Shall I continue?
You said you woke up?
Yeah, but
If I hadn’t
What would you have done next?
Fuck, um.
So smooth, Teach
I think we’ve skipped a few lessons here
Don’t be nervous, Colin!
It’s just me!
She threw his words back at him, if only because she was kind of hoping he wouldn’t continue. Her…situation..was only getting more unbearable, and the sooner they finished texting, the sooner she could take care of it. Her hands kept wandering as she waited for him to text back. She wasn’t making it any better.
Haha.
Ok, Pen. You wanna know what I would do?
Yes
Well, the moment I walked in the room, I would have been half out of my mind.
Seeing you in a dressing gown
Your hair down
Lit by the fireplace
Cozied up with a book
What a picture
Holy shit. No, she would not survive this. She could only stare at her screen. What the hell could she say? Like an idiot, she hearted the last message.
I’d have knelt to pick up your fallen book, not because I’m a gentleman, Pen, but because I wanted to be close to you
That’s why I was there
At night
Unchaperoned
Her breathing slowed, transfixed by the story he was telling. She wasn’t some hapless regency lady who required a chaperone to be alone with a man, and yet she could feel the scandal of it. It thrilled her.
I’d put the book on a table
Because I know you value them
But my eyes would be on you
Your face
Your breasts
I’m sure they look gorgeous
I don’t think they had bras back then
Stays, maybe?
I don’t care
They were right in my face, you say?
I’m more than a little turned on then
Colin
I think I get it
No
You don’t
She didn’t like being told no. This, though? She liked this. Like he had to keep going.
I’m out of my mind with want, but I don’t know what YOU want.
She hadn’t missed his switch to present tense. She was a writer, after all.
I…wouldn’t know. Didn’t girls know next to nothing back then?
Maybe
But they had the same bodies
The same feelings
What do you feel?
Excited
“Excited” is when you’re about to watch a new movie.
What do you feel, Pen?
Again, with the present tense. As though they weren’t talking about Dream Pen and Dream Colin. But on her end, it was the same thing, even if he was just playing along.
You can say it, Pen
My face is flushed, and not from the fireplace
I bet your blush looks so pretty
You’re so close to me
You can probably see how that affects me.
Mm
I bet I CAN see it
I bet your dressing gown is thin
Yes
I want to eat you alive
You can see it in my face
I’m only waiting for your permission
I’ve never seen you like that
Hungry
Well, ofc I’ve seen you hungry…
Ofc I’m hungry for you
What will you do about it?
I reach up and touch your face
Colin doesn’t respond.
I run my palm from your face up to your hair
I finally find out how soft it is
I have you at my mercy
Yes
Then I…
Yes?
I can’t do the next part
The part where I kiss you?
Penelope let out a shaky breath that bordered on a sad whimper. The arousal fled from her body, replaced by a chill. She curled into her blanket, and it felt like she might cry. She was play-acting her actual fantasy over text with Colin. He was saying he would kiss her. And he never would. She knew this would happen. She knew she would get hurt.
The part where I learn how soft those beautiful lips feel against mine?
The part where I run my hands through your hair and wrap it around my fingers.
Penelope actually whimpered. Oh my god. That would feel…god. The arousal wasn’t back, though. It was just sadness.
That’s hot, Colin
But I think I get the point.
Make them hot and bothered in the morning.
What?
You let me take the lead. It worked.
Oh. Good.
I’m almost scared to ask what the next lesson is.
Hurt as she was, she could not bring herself to say no to Colin by refusing his help. She did still want her dating life to improve and he obviously had…skills. Her stomach turned in a familiar pang as she imagined him employing those skills on a hundred faceless girls. Yet he was still her friend. And he wanted to help her.
What are you doing tonight?
We could watch a movie.
Colin, I was asking about the next lesson.
I know. Practice date.
At your flat? Isn’t that a bit fast?
We can pretend it’s a theater if that feels better.
Or we could actually go to a theater.
Nah. Flat’s cozier.
If she were in the same room as him, she would raise her eyebrow at him and give him a look that said, Have you gone mad?
Fine.
Excellent. See you tonight, Pen.
Oh, and dress for a date.
At your flat??
Practice, Pen.
😒
See you at 8!
Fucking fuck. Now she had to pick an outfit? And why was her heart racing like she had a real date tonight? She thought about sitting on Colin’s couch, inches away from him, and she wanted to bury into her covers and scream.
In fact, she did just that.
“Practice,” sure. More like torture. She had never been this on edge in her life. Her relaxing Sunday plans were shot. She had eleven hours of anxiety on her agenda.
***
Practice date or not, it was still Colin. She wasn’t going to dress to impress. She was going to dress two steps above sweatpants and a T-shirt, which is what she would normally throw on for a movie night at his place.
Since she had no doubt she would be overheating in his presence, especially after what happened this morning, she went for a white crop tank and a high-waisted light-blue flowy skirt that stopped at mid-calf. She threw on some dangly blue teardrop earrings because they felt just a little flirty. She put her hair up, because again, overheating. She looked cute. It might actually be overkill, but she couldn’t change again. This was already outfit number four.
Armed with Colin’s favorite biscuits from the store and the bottle of whiskey from her kitchen, Penelope knocked on Colin’s door after the longest eleven hours of her life.
He opened up, and…No, these would be the longest hours of her life.
He looked edible. And it wasn’t just his outfit—black T-shirt and dark jeans, sexy and understated—or his freshly groomed face and hair—it was the way his eyes immediately roved over her as soon as he opened the door. Even before he said anything. Like she was something worth looking at, and not the same girl he had known for ten years now.
Then, before he remembered to greet her with a, “Hey, Pen,” he fucking licked his lips.
She tried not to let on that she noticed it, but her own voice came out in a squeak. “Hi.” She rushed past him soon as he widened the door for her, depositing the whiskey and biscuits on his kitchen counter.
She stopped in her tracks when she noticed the the pot on the stove, and the divine smell wafting from it.
Colin came up behind her, and his presence made her entire body tingle. “I made pasta,” he said, leaning against the counter next to her.
“I’m wearing white,” she said stupidly, when she really wanted to scream, stop being so perfect!
Colin smiled softly down at her. “You look great, Pen.”
It was the simplest of compliments, and yet her heart soared through the ceiling. “You too.” Then she looked back at the spaghetti on the stove. “Pasta sounds perfect. I forgot to eat before I came.”
“Can’t have that,” Colin walked around to the stove and ladled out two bowls for them. Then he got out the red wine and said apologetically, “This’ll probably pair better than the whiskey.”
They settled on the sofa with their red wine and their pasta, and Colin opened Netflix to find a movie. Correction: he had already queued a movie.
“13 going on 30?” Penelope asked. “That’s what you want to watch?”
“Sure, why not?”
Because I think of you in every friends to lovers movie.
“Ok. Why not?” She tried not to make the sigh in her voice evident. It was just a movie. She could watch just a movie.
About halfway through, she wanted to cry.
Jennifer Garner’s character had spent seventeen years without her best friend, and she had somehow survived it. And now she was thirty and she was living a meaningless life. It was not even sort of similar to Penelope’s life. Movies never were. And yet the idea of ticking time suddenly terrified her. She was twenty-six. Thirty was not so far away. How much longer would the things she wanted—the things her heart beat for—remain out of reach? A single tear escaped Penelope’s eye and she quickly batted it away.
“Can we pause?” Penelope rushed out.
“Of course,” Colin paused the movie and turned to her. “Pen, are you crying?” he asked, alarmed.
“I—” she choked out. “Just got in my head. I’m fine.”
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he practically demanded.
She squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to breathe through the emotion.
But there was one other thing that had occurred to her when she had seen Jennifer Garner’s character stand in front of Mark Ruffalo’s character seventeen years later. Despite whatever had happened during the part of her life that she didn’t remember, this version of the character had never been kissed. She could have kissed her best friend in a closet, but she didn’t.
And then she was thirty. And she had never been kissed.
Penelope choked back a sob and she turned away, burying her face in a pillow.
“Pen!” Colin startled, resting a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off gently and stood.
“I’m— just—going to splash water—on my f-face.” She hurried off to the bathroom.
When she had freshened up and given herself a stern staredown in the mirror, she exited the bathroom with reckless conviction.
She settled down gingerly on the sofa, aware of Colin watching her every move. As if she were fragile, ready to break. Maybe she was. She avoided looking at him until she was ready. And then she turned to him on the sofa, where he patiently waited for her to speak first.
“Colin, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” Somehow, his attention became even more intense. Like he would give her anything to make her feel better.
“Would…would you kiss me?”
Colin’s mouth dropped open. “Penelope, I—”
“It would not have to mean anything. It’s just practice! Like the texting! It’s just…I know I’m not thirty yet, but I will be soon, kind of, and I can’t fucking believe I’m saying this out loud but I have never been kissed and I do not want to be thirty without ever having been kissed, I think it would kill me. And I cannot die without ever having been kissed! N-not that you owe me anything. I just…” she searched helplessly for more words to pull her out of the hole she’d dug.
Colin was looking at her, dumbstruck and lost. “You’re babbling,” he finally said, as if it were the most confusing of circumstances.
“I know but—” she froze, realizing exactly what he was realizing.
Well, I don’t babble in front of you, she had said to him last week outside the cocktail bar. I am not trying to flirt with you, she had explained. But now…
What could she say? That suddenly the lines were blurred and her Things I Want to Say to Colin Bridgerton vault had been cracked open and she no longer knew what reality was? She had just asked him to kiss her, for god’s sake. That request had been buried near the bottom of the vault. (Not all the way down. There were certainly worse things she could say to him.) Her face heated.
“Colin—” she started to explain, but came up empty. “I’m sor—mm!”
He had kissed her. One second he had been staring at her with his mouth slightly open, and then in a flash of movement, his mouth was on hers.
Colin Bridgerton’s mouth.
On hers.
In real life.
It was soft, gentle, and barely even there. It was like those shy teenager kisses in movies, but it felt so beautiful that she whimpered when he pulled away after a mere two seconds.
He hovered there, inches from her lips, breathing quietly against her mouth.
This was the worst idea she’d ever had. Now that she had opened the vault labeled Things I Want to Do To Colin Bridgerton, slamming the lid shut seemed impossible.
But she was going to do it.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and then she wrenched herself away, crawling backward to the opposite end of the sofa.
Colin fell forward slightly, as if her presence had been keeping him upright. He righted himself, and then cleared his throat. It had no effect. His voice was still hoarse when he said, “Of- of course.”
And then he licked his fucking lips again, and it was all she could do not to throw herself at him. She stayed put, by some miracle, but the lid to that vault was very much not shut. Everything inside it wanted to spring out with the force that she absolutely, undoubtedly, badly wanted to jump Colin Bridgerton’s bones.
“Pen,” Colin said, and he sounded…broken. And then he shattered her entire reality. “Please let me kiss you again.”
“What?” She didn’t understand the words. Didn’t understand the way he was saying them.
He came closer to her on the sofa and took her hands in his. She let him. She didn’t know what else to do. “Please. Let me kiss you again,” he repeated.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been a mess,” he said vehemently. “Since yesterday morning. When I woke up and realized I had dreamed about you.”
“You…you dreamed about me?” Penelope echoed in wonder and confusion.
“I told you I did.”
“That was practice.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“You were practice-flirting,” Penelope reminded him.
“No. I wasn’t.”
“Colin. Of course you were.”
“Was your dream real?”
Penelope tensed and tried to pull her hands from his and shrink away. He held onto her.
“Pen?”
She only nodded, terrified.
Colin exhaled shakily, and then he looked at her…like the way he said he would look at her. In her dream.
Hungry.
Mouth open. Head tilted. Eyes desperate.
“Pen,” he said again. “It was all real for me.”
Her eyes widened, and she let herself say. “It was?”
A hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “Yes,” he said as he tightened his hold on her hands and moved his face closer to hers. Waiting.
But there was no more reason to wait.
She couldn’t fully process it, but she comprehended it.
The vaults flew open, and she fell into him, pressing her lips to his with all the passion she had withheld over the years. And he matched it.
Colin Bridgerton was kissing her like he wanted her. Like he wanted to devour her. His tongue pressed lightly against her lips until she opened to let him in. She was dizzy from sensation.
His hand came up to her bare arm, and the feel of him on her skin made her whimper softly into his mouth. As if in reaction, his other hand came to the back of her head searching, then pulling her clamp out of her hair.
She shuddered at the feeling of her hair cascading onto her shoulders and back, and then she felt his hand tangle in her curls and she couldn’t help herself. She moaned.
Colin gasped away from her mouth. “God, Pen. You’re so beautiful.” He caressed her cheek. “So soft.”
She tilted her face up to look at him with wonder. He was as overcome as she was. Dreamlike, she lifted a hand to caress his face, and watched as his eyes glazed over. Then, finally, she slid her hand up to run through his hair.
She giggled breathily. “Perfect,” she said. It was softer than El’s, and thick enough to tangle her fingers in, so she did. Colin made a sound at the back of his throat and then crushed his lips to hers again, pushing her to lie down on the sofa and then crowding over her.
Holy hell. He was so big, and yet she felt nothing but safe and so, so turned on. Her knees fell apart around him, and she felt cool air against her thighs as her skirt rode up.
Colin spent minutes or hours kissing her senseless, and his hands explored everywhere. Across her collarbone, down her sides, palming her tits until she made the most wanton noises she had ever heard herself make. At the sound, Colin practically growled and then wrenched his mouth from hers so he could kiss down her neck, down, down, to the swells of her breasts. She held his hair, mindless with the pleasure of it.
She had asked for a kiss, and she was here.
They were here.
“Colin,” she gasped. “I want you.”
His head came up to look at her, lips glistening from kissing her sloppily.
“Pen,” he rasped, and she could see him fighting to come back to himself. To direct blood flow to his brain. She had already felt him against her thigh. “We don’t have to.”
“Please,” she practically whined.
Colin’s eyes darkened, and he surged forward to kiss her again.
Then he climbed off her, off the sofa, and offered her his hand. She sat up and stared at it, then stared beyond it at the bulge straining against his jeans. She swallowed. He only smirked. “Well, come on,” he said. “I can’t make love to you properly on a sofa.” If she weren’t already sitting down, her knees might have buckled.
She accepted his hand dazedly, and he wrenched her up so that she fell against him. He hugged her there, rocking slowly. “God, you’re so perfect, Pen. I’m sorry it took me this long to see it.” He bent down to kiss her fiercely, like he couldn’t do that enough times. “I will never stop trying to make up for it.” He kissed her again, as if to prove it.
That’s when Penelope realized. Colin could have been kissing her out of lust, out of some newfound need to explore her, physically. Out of some sort of confusion resulting from all the not-fake flirting they had been doing this weekend. But he wasn’t. He was doing this because he wanted to be with her.
She looked up at him with a trembling smile. “Colin, you should know. I have l—” she cleared her throat. “I have wanted you since the moment I met you. You’re my dream.”
Colin’s mouth fell open slightly. He was silent for a moment before he gave her a shy smile and said, “You’re stronger than I am. I barely lasted two days once I realized.” He tugged on her hand, pulling her toward his room. “And I don’t intend to keep waiting.”
Sometimes, it felt like all Penelope ever did was wait. For the first time in her life, she had reached her destination. As she let Colin lead her to his room, she felt like a girl and a woman wrapped in one. A girl, having these first experiences with the boy she’d always dreamed about, and a woman being seen and chosen. She also thought maybe Colin had cured her of her babbling, but minutes later, as Colin made love to her, he smirked down at her and said, “Hmm, I think I like your babbling, Pen.” And sometime during her second or third round of babbling, she told him she loved him, and he said it back.