Ophelia had lost an earring.

Normally, this wouldn't be a problem, but considering that Andrew was arriving in — she consulted her watch — exactly three minutes to pick her up for the polo tournament, it was far from ideal. It was disastrous.

She scrambled around on her knees under her desk, grumbling as she looked for a telltale flash of silver. Stupid earring. Stupid polo.

Why had she agreed to this again?

Oh, right. Digby. The love of her life.

She was startled by a shrill noise, and she yelped, cracking her head on her desk. Pain radiated through her skull, and she rubbed at it reproachfully. Great. Brilliant. Just what she needed. She thrust a hand out, fishing blindly for her phone.

"Hello?"

"Ophelia." Sophia's voice. "I got your letter."

"Can it wait?" Ophelia jammed the phone between her ear and her shoulder, continuing her frantic search. "I'm sort of busy."

"Doing what?"

"Polo."

"Polo?" Sophia sounded incredulous. "You don't play polo."

"I'm going to watch."

There was a long, terrible pause. "Tell me that you're not going to a polo tournament with Andrew Hazelton-Scott."

Ophelia pulled a face. "Can you believe that's actually his last name? God, what a mouthful."

"Fi!"

"Aha!" She snatched up the earring, triumphant. "Found it!"

"What? Your common sense?"

"Oh, come on." Ophelia switched Sophia to speaker phone, leaning close to her mirror as she popped the earring in. "He's not that bad."

"He's exactly that bad."

"Why?"

"He's... Well, he's..." Sophia seemed to be struggling for words. "He's a womanizer, Ophelia! And he's always rude to Finn."

"He's rude to everyone," Ophelia said mildly.

"Exactly!"

"Calm down, Soph," Ophelia sighed. "It's not like I'm dating him." She put on a hat, twisting in front of the mirror. "We're business partners. Of a sort. We're tied up in something."

"Andrew probably just wants to tie you up."

"Soph!"

"What? It's true."

Ophelia scowled, tugging at her sleeves. She had borrowed her outfit — wedges, a cream jumpsuit, and a straw hat — from Louise, who could still comfortably shop at most children's clothing stores. As a result, the jumpsuit hugged her curves like a second skin.

But, hey, Andrew had emphasized a jumpsuit.

So here she was.

Ophelia glanced out the window, cursing as a shiny black car pulled up in front of her building. It looked hideously expensive, which meant that it undoubtedly belonged to Andrew. She snatched up her keys.

"Look, Soph, I have to go."

"Don't you dare hang up on me." Sophia's voice was a warning. "Finn!" She raised her voice. "Finn Hoag, get your ass down here. Ophelia's about to go off with Andrew Hazelton-Scott, and someone needs to tell her that—"

"Bye! Love you!"

Ophelia hung up, shoving the phone into a purse. Then she raced down the steps, practically tripping over her heels. The black car honked, and Ophelia — breathless and flustered — yanked open the right door, throwing herself in.

Only to land on Andrew's lap.

He made a choking noise. "Bloody hell, Ophelia."

"Sorry!" She shot to her feet, practically hurling herself out of the vehicle. "Gosh, sorry. I'm used to Canadian cars."

"Did you just say gosh?"

She flushed. "What's wrong with that?"

He smirked. "What are you, five?"

She glared at him. Her heart was still racing from her sprint down the stairs, and being pressed up against Andrew's tailored navy suit certainly wasn't helping matters. He might not be a gentleman like Digby, but he was still good-looking. Unfairly so.

It took her a moment to realize that Andrew was staring at her too, tracing the curves of her body with his eyes.

"Ophelia," he said slowly. "What are you wearing?"

"It's a jumpsuit." She smoothed down the material self-consciously. "That's what you said to wear, right?"

"Yes." Andrew swallowed. "But that's not a jumpsuit. That's a..." He shook his head. "Never mind. Just get in the car."

She didn't need to be told twice.

Twenty minutes later, Andrew pulled the car into a large grassy park, lined with weeping trees and a stone wall. Picnic blankets were spread out on the grass, groaning under bottles of champagne, fresh strawberries and ice lollies. Women in pastel hats drifted by, leaving behind invisible clouds of sandalwood, blackberry and orange.

Andrew climbed out first.

"First rule of attracting a man's attention," he said. "Always make an entrance."

"How?"

"Easy." He offered her an arm. "You're with me."

Ophelia rolled her eyes, but she quickly saw that he had a point; dozens of people turned to stare as they picked their way across the muddy ground. Andrew paused to chat amiably with a few people, but he never remained anywhere for long. He seemed to be on a mission, only stopping when they reached a white table with chilled champagne on it.

She let go of his arm, squinting in the direction of the polo players. "We're hardly going to be able to see the polo from here."

"So?"

"Isn't that why we're here?"

"Don't be daft," Andrew sighed. "Nobody comes to polo to watch the polo." He took the champagne, easing the cork off. "The real show is never on the playing field."

He glanced meaningfully at the throng of people, many of whom had paused their conversations to stare at them curiously. Ophelia clasped her hands together, resisting the urge to smooth down her jumpsuit. For the third time.

"Here." Andrew passed her a glass of fizzy alcohol. "This will help."

"With what?"

"Just drink it."

Ophelia frowned. Oh, what the hell? She had already sold her soul to the devil. Might as well make it official. She mock toasted him, and then poured the contents down her throat. Andrew looked horrified.

"Not all at once!"

Oops. "Too late."

He sighed, topping her up. Ophelia could already feel the champagne warming a path down her chest, making her head feel pleasantly light. She took off her straw hat, fanning herself with it. Next to her, Andrew was frowning.

"What?" She twisted around. "What is it?"

"Tristan Carmichael. He's staring at you."

She followed his gaze to a dark-haired man with sharp eyes. In fact, everything about Tristan was sharp: his jawline, his gelled hair, and even his cool voice, rising above the crowd of people that he was in like glittering icicles.

"Well, that's good, right?"

Andrew's frown deepened. Then he shook his head, as if he was clearing it. "Of course it's good. Now, you just need to get him over here."

Ophelia's heartbeat picked up. Oh, god. Please, no. She hadn't really thought this part of the plan through. In fact, a foolish part of Ophelia had hoped that Digby would see her in this jumpsuit, hop the fence, and whisk her away into the sunset on his horse.

Alas.

"Absolutely not," she said.

"Yes."

"I can't," she moaned.

"Look." Andrew's gaze was hard. "Do you want Digby, or not?"

Ophelia sighed. Well, yes, obviously. She wouldn't be here entertaining Andrew's bullshit, otherwise. Bracing herself, she set down the champagne glass.

"Fine," she said. "What do I do?"

Andrew told her.

Ophelia stared at him. He had to be joking, surely. But Andrew's face was impassive, his mouth set into a thin line. She sighed. Oh, screw it. What was the harm? It wasn't like she would see most of these people again.

She twisted in her seat, catching Tristan's eye.

She forced herself to smile flirtatiously. Then she crooked her finger, waggling it slightly. Come over, she mouthed.

For a horrible moment, nothing happened.

Ophelia could feel her palms growing sweaty. God, she was going to kill Andrew. Kill him, and then feed his body to the horses.

Tristan stood up.

She let out a breath. Next to her, Andrew was smirking, looking far too pleased with himself. "You see?" He patted her on the shoulder. "I told you."

"Oh, shut-up."

He rose to his feet. "Find me after, alright?"

"Wait, what?" Ophelia twisted to face him in a panic. "You can't just leave me!"

Andrew gave her an odd look. "Well, I'm hardly about to stay and watch all of it, am I?" He plucked up his glass of champagne. "Anyways, you'll do fine. Just ask Tristan loads of questions; men love to talk about themselves."

"Right."

"And don't look too eager. Make him work to keep your attention."

"Okay."

"Also, be the first to leave the conversation," Andrew told her firmly. "That's a cardinal rule, actually; always be the last to arrive to everything, and the very first to leave. It keeps him wanting more."

She looked at him, exasperated. "Is that all, then? Should I also do a little jig? Pull a rabbit out of my ridiculous hat?"

Andrew rubbed his jaw. "You'll do fine," he repeated. "This one is easy; Tristan always fancies a beautiful woman."

Ophelia froze.

Hang on. Did he just say—?

Andrew seemed to realize his words at the same time. His shoulders stiffened, and he swirled the champagne around in his glass, like some bizarre, frothy sea. He didn't drop her gaze, though. Didn't admit defeat.

"What?" he asked, scowling.

"Nothing." Ophelia swallowed. "Only—"

She was spared a response by the arrival of Tristan, who clapped Andrew on the back. "Scott! Good to see you, mate. You've been keeping well, then?"

Ophelia fiddled with her straw hat as the men exchanged pleasantries. She peeked at Tristan. He wasn't her usual type — far too stocky and arrogant — but she supposed that was the point. It was like reading a slow-paced novel; she would have to suffer through a bad chapter or two before she got to the good stuff. The good stuff being Digby, naturally.

Tristan's eyes shifted to her.

"And who's this?"

Ophelia took a deep breath. Louise, she reminded herself. Just act like Louise, but with an incessant amount of questions.

"Hi." She thrust out a hand. "I'm Ophelia."

A/N: Happy Wednesday all!

So I actually went to a few polo tournaments while I was at university, and I have to say, the best part was definitely the champagne and food trucks (to this day, I really have no idea how polo works — it involves horses and mallets, I think?).

What do we think of Andrew's advice for catching a man's attention? Valid, or completely stupid? I have a feeling I know what you're all going to say ;)

Affectionately,

J.K.