Ophelia knocked on the door.

She rocked back and forth on her heels, glancing around the street. Andrew lived in an expensive area of London: white marble steps, large brass knockers, passersby toting designer bags... it was impossible not to feel under-dressed.

She glanced down at her plain green frock.

Oh, hell; it was the same colour as the dress she wore at Argyll Estate, wasn't it? Not that it mattered, Ophelia thought firmly. Andrew probably wouldn't even notice; he was clearly over their one night stand. And so was she. Obviously.

The door swung open.

Digby stood in the opening. "Ophelia!"

She froze. Oh, crumbs. She had totally forgotten that Digby and Andrew were flatmates. How could that have slipped her mind? She hadn't exactly been round to Digby's place — he always came to her dorm room — but still. She was an idiot.

"Digby. Hi."

He was dressed in a navy suit, his dark hair curling slightly. Cigarette smoke clung to his clothing. Digby was holding two phones in his hands — his personal and his business mobile — and a sea of papers was spread out behind him. His uni work and stock market reports, no doubt, mixing like awkward guests at a party.

"You're early." Digby frowned, glancing at his watch. "Our dinner reservation isn't for another four hours, darling."

"No, I know, I—"

"I booked another place this time," Digby added quickly. "After... the incident."

Ophelia winced. Digby had taken her out for dinner on Valentine's Day, where she had swiftly learned that she was allergic to caviar. Unfortunately, Digby was already a bottle of red wine deep, so Andrew had driven her to the hospital. Thank god.

"What sort of place?"

"Michelin star," Digby said dismissively. "Italian, I think."

Ophelia swallowed. Well. At least there wouldn't be caviar this time. Although if it was up to her, they'd be going to a family-run eatery for burgers and fries.

She leaned against the door. "Why don't we mix it up next time? There's a little waffle place in Camden that I've been dying to try."

Digby stared at her as if she'd just suggested that they release sharks in the Thames and then jump in, wrapped in bloodied fish. "Camden? Don't be silly, darling." He chuckled, kissing her head. "You come up with the oddest ideas sometimes, don't you?"

He was still chuckling as he guided her inside, helping her take off her coat. She couldn't help but notice that he didn't fling it on the table like Andrew would have done, crossing instead to an expensive-looking coat stand.

"Why don't you take a seat in the kitchen? I should be done in—"

"Actually," Ophelia cut in, "I'm here to see Andrew."

Digby paused in hanging the coat. "Andrew? My flatmate?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "He needs help with a painting."

Digby's eyes narrowed. "Ah. He's expecting a model; I just didn't realize that it was you." She didn't miss the way that he put a possessive hand on the small of her back as he steered her towards a rooftop balcony. "He's just setting up outside."

Ophelia blinked as they emerged into a small jungle. Green potted plants spilled over the side of the brick wall, trailing over the floor like Rapunzel's hair. Tomatoes grew in planters. A large easel was set up in the corner, about a meter away from a gardenia plant.

She smiled.

Definitely Jane's work.

"Ophelia." Andrew looked up from the easel. "Take a seat."

Digby pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I'll see you later, love, alright?"

"Okay."

He shot Andrew a dark look before retreating down the stairs. Ophelia settled on a wooden stool, reaching out to touch the gardenia's soft white petals.

"It's beautiful up here."

Andrew dipped his paintbrush in a red pot. "Mum used to ring just to remind me to water them once a week."

"She did all of this, right?"

He nodded. "Can you shift your body to the left a little?" She complied, and Andrew frowned. "No. More from the shoulders."

Ophelia tried again, and Andrew set the paint brush down, moving towards her. Spicy cologne clung to his jumper.

"May I?"

She nodded breathlessly. His warm hands gripped her shoulders, rotating them gently, and she could feel her heartbeat rocketing in her chest. Andrew's eyes were dark pools as he looked down at her.

"Perfect," he murmured.

She felt slightly dizzy as Andrew resumed his stance behind the easel. She hadn't quite realized how intimate it was to devote one's entire attention to another person, how rare it was to be afforded the opportunity to study someone.

While Andrew studied her, she studied him.

There was power in being watched, Ophelia realized. If she moved her hands, even minutely, Andrew's eyes darted to them. There was a change in his face. An almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, or an intake of breath.

Each glance felt like soft make-up brushes on her skin. Each swish of the paint brush, a whisper.

Ophelia sighed. She wondered what Andrew was thinking.

Probably not much of anything, really.

Andrew was over-thinking again.

He couldn't stop staring at her green dress; it was the exact same shade of emerald as the one in Argyll Estate. Had she done that on purpose? To torture him? If so, it was working; all Andrew could think about was how it felt to rip that dress off of her. How smooth and silky her skin had felt.

He swallowed, plunging the paintbrush into the pot.

Good god.

He was in hell.

At least the painting was coming along, Andrew mused, his eyes flicking to her face. The shading, the colour, the light in her eyes — it was as if the Muses had blessed him with the power to translate thought to art, but only for the day.

Still.

It wasn't perfect.

He would never be able to paint something that did her justice, Andrew thought, frowning. That could really capture her beauty. It was like trying to capture the silver moon or the glittering stars with your phone: a pale comparison of the real thing.

Maybe Ophelia wasn't meant to be captured. Maybe she was meant to exist only for those lucky enough to meet her.

"When did you start painting?"

Andrew looked up. Ophelia was studying him curiously, now. Her red hair spilled over the side of her shoulder, a splash of carnations against fresh spring grass.

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Ages ago."

"When you were a child?"

Andrew nodded, dipping a small brush in golden paint. "I was probably about eight, or so; I wasn't at Eton yet."

"And you love it?" she prompted.

"I do."

"Then you should do it," Ophelia told him. "You should drop your business courses and take art history instead." She seemed to be restraining herself from flapping her hands around, as if it took an effort to keep them folded demurely in her lap. "If that's your passion."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Well, who will run the estate?" Andrew leaned closer to the canvas, filling in the golden flecks in her brown eyes. "Who will carry on the Wisteria Hill tea business? And the Manuka honey business? And whatever the hell that place produces?"

"After your father, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Who knows?" Ophelia shrugged. "That doesn't mean that it has to be you, though."

Andrew pursed his lips, drowning the paintbrush in water. When Ophelia met his gaze, her eyes were solemn.

"Find what you love and let it consume you," she said. "It is the only thing worth living for."

Andrew's breath caught. He set down the paintbrush, looking at her over the canvas. The evening light kissed her crimson hair, streaking it with honey yellow and butterscotch. She looked almost otherworldly. Ethereal. He remembered thinking that she looked like a Titian painting, the first time they met. His opinion hadn't changed.

"Ophelia..."

The door flew open.

Andrew immediately shifted the canvas, turning it away from Digby as he stalked through the door. Not that there was anything wrong with the painting. But it felt almost intimate. And for some reason, Andrew couldn't stomach the idea of sharing it.

"Scott," Digby said shortly. "Eleanora's here."

Andrew's stomach dropped. Oh, Christ.

"Already?" He glanced at his watch. "But it's not even—" He broke off. Oh. Actually, it was six o'clock; he had lost track of time. "Right. Thanks, mate."

Ophelia hopped off the stool. "Are you going out for dinner?"

"No," Andrew grunted. "Staying in."

Eleanora wanted him to cook her a salmon roulade, whatever that was meant to be. Andrew personally would have killed for a burger. Or a greasy plate of fish and chips from that new place in Camden. It was Saturday night, for god's sake.

"We should go," Ophelia said, looking at Digby. "We'll be late."

But Digby was looking at Andrew through narrowed eyes. "You know what?" Digby tugged Ophelia closer. "Let's stay in, too."

Ophelia blinked. "Really?"

"Why not?" Digby shrugged. "You don't mind, do you, Andrew?"

Andrew stiffened. Well, yes, actually, he did mind; he didn't think that he could stomach four hours of Digby feeding Ophelia bits of salmon off his plate. Then again, what choice did he have? He couldn't say no.

Not without giving a reason.

"Of course not," Andrew said smoothly. "That sounds lovely."

"Perfect." Digby kissed the top of Ophelia's head. "It's settled, then; we'll have dinner altogether. How do you feel about pasta, Scott?"

A/N: Hello lovely readers!

Well, well, well — nothing like the world's most awkward double date ;)

How do we think the date's going to go? And, even more, troubling: how is Eleanora going to take the news? I can't wait to hear your thoughts!

Affectionately,

J.K.