"This is a terrible idea," Rory said.

Oliver glanced up. He was sitting in a salon chair, a black cape thrown over his shoulders. With the silver aluminum foil in his hair, he bore a strong resemblance to an alien role-playing a druid. Or maybe a druid role-playing an alien. He touched the tinfoil.

"Really?" Oliver asked mildly. "I think I'll look good brunette."

"Not the hair dye," Rory said, clearly exasperated. "Moving. To St Andrews."

"It's only for the month."

"It's insane."

"I like it there," Oliver said. "I always have."

He had spent summers there as a child, clambering over the sand dunes and eating ice cream on the beach. His cousin, Rupert, had even made a game out of identifying all of the different accents of tourists. Texan. French. Russian.

Yes, Oliver loved St Andrews. And most importantly, his security detail had approved the plan; apparently, Prince William had gone to university there, so it was easy enough to secure the area. Thank god.

Rory pulled a face. "But what will you do?"

"Swim. Golf."

"Golf?"

"I golf," Oliver said defensively.

"Mini golf doesn't count."

"Then I'll learn." He fiddled with the black cloak. "Besides, I have a good mate that's in town for a competition. Antony McIntosh."

"I'm sorry, did you just say Antony McIntosh?"

"Do you know him?"

Rory stared at him. "The most famous amateur golfer in the world? Yeah. Yeah, I've heard of him a few times."

Oliver smirked. Rory was holding a wide-tooth comb, his thumb frozen over the bristles. It was amazing that — even now — they all managed to get starstruck. Even Rory, who had been chased down the street by a rabid fan only yesterday. Hell, Rory's face was taped to the walls of teenage girls' bedrooms around the world. And probably some teenage boys' bedrooms too, come to think of it.

"Look, I don't know what I'll do." He shrugged. "But does it matter? I just want to have an adventure."

Rory gave him an odd look. "You? An adventure?"

"Yes."

"That's practically an oxymoron."

Oliver sighed. Rory was right; he was the definition of a homebody. The most adventurous thing he had ever done was burning down a sacred temple during a concert in Japan, and that was really Theo's fault. "Then I'll learn to be adventurous," he said. "How hard can it be?"

Oliver looked up as the hair stylist approached, his heeled boots clicking in the silent salon. One ringed hand lifted the aluminum.

"Ten more minutes, babes."

He winked and then retreated. Rory quirked an eyebrow.

Babes? he mouthed.

Oliver smirked. "It's an Essex thing."

"Hmm."

Rory ran a thumb over the bristles. He seemed to be working up the courage to say something, and suddenly, Oliver regretted telling him which hair salon he'd booked out. Rory set the comb down.

"Look, I'm only going to ask this once, Ollie."

"Must you?"

Rory ignored this. "Is this about my sister? Ella?"

"You don't need to clarify, mate; you only have the one sister."

"Just answer the question."

Oliver clasped his hands. He could feel his palms growing wet, as if he was holding a cube of melting butter inside of them. Nah. Rory could sod off. He wasn't in the mood for this; especially when he looked like a baked potato wrapped in foil.

"Do we have to do this?"

Rory's mouth flattened. "Yes."

"What do you want me to say?" Oliver's fingers were white. "That I miss her? You know I do. You have no idea what it's like to see her face in magazines, or bus stops, or on some kid's backpack. Every time I feel like I'm finally getting over her, she pops up again. It's like some fucked up disease."

"Ollie—"

"Let me finish." He held up a hand. "I know that if I don't get on that plane to Los Angeles tonight, it'll set our album back months. I know that. But the idea of being in a recording studio with Max right now..." He shook his head. "If I have to see them together, it will destroy me, Rory. It'll destroy this whole damn thing."

There was a long pause.

Rory picked up the comb again, pressing the pad of his thumb against the bristles. Then he shrugged. "Okay."

"Really?"

"I mean, it'll be a logistical nightmare, but I'm not going to drag you on to that plane, Ollie. Not if you don't want to go."

He exhaled. "Thank you."

"I just have one request."

"Name it."

"Don't fall in love with some Scottish girl," Rory warned. "I'll never forgive you if you decide to leave us forever."

Oliver cracked a smile. "Don't worry, Walker," he said, crossing his ankles. "I'm going to St Andrews to get over a girl; the very last thing I intend to do is fall in love."

Alicia leaned against the counter of the spacious pub.

The Sinner was surprisingly busy for a Tuesday afternoon; martinis and glasses of rosé circulated around the dimly lit space, passing by copper fixtures and squishy leather sofas. In the back garden, students were crammed on to the blue picnic tables, bemoaning essays over pitchers of aperol spritz.

"Are you sure you don't want a drink?" Across the bar, Hattie raised a cocktail shaker. "It's on the house."

She shook her head. "I'm working soon."

"The shop?"

"No, I'm caddying today."

She glanced out the window. It was perfect conditions for it, too; the Scottish winds could be malevolent giants, scooping up your golf ball and gleefully chucking it into sand traps, but today, the air was warm. Peaceful.

Hattie poured a healthy splash of vermouth into the cocktail shaker. "Are you taking out anyone I'd know?"

Alicia smirked. Last month, she had taken out a "Game of Thrones" actor, and Hattie had nearly trampled a group of American tourists in her desperation to get to the golf course. She had even brought a drinking horn for the poor bloke to autograph.

"Some posh English guy and his mate."

Hattie shook the mixer. "An actor?"

"I don't think so." She shrugged. "Just some billionaire with too much money."

Her other boss, Mary, hadn't exactly been forthcoming with details; unlike Steve, Mary ran a tough workplace. The Irish woman kept meticulous files on every client, and she considered gossip to be a crime equal to catching a seagull on the beach and setting it on fire.

Not that Alicia had much to gossip about.

She had always been more interested in golf clubs than pop culture, so she rarely recognized her clients. She suspected it was largely the reason Mary had hired her in the first place; she couldn't go tattling to magazines if she had nothing to tattle about.

The music switched to an upbeat pop song.

Alicia groaned. "Please, god, make it stop."

Harriet smirked. "I'm afraid I don't control the music."

"I swear they're following me."

The Patriots' song currently playing was one of her sister's favourites: "Don't Come Knocking." Alicia had heard it so many times over the years that — much to her chagrin — she knew all of the lyrics. They haunted her nightmares.

Hattie poured a pink-coloured liquid into a shallow glass. "They're releasing another album soon, you know."

"I thought their bassist quit."

She paused, a lime hovering over the glass. "That was like, two years ago, Alicia. He's been replaced by that new bloke. The really good-looking posh one."

"Never heard of him."

"Isn't your sister obsessed with them?"

"Yes," Alicia said dryly, "but she knows better than to talk to me about it." She picked up her bag, swinging it over her shoulder. "Are we still on for dinner later?"

"As long as you're paying."

Alicia shot her a rude gesture, and Hattie's tinkling laugh followed her out the door, dissipating into the June sunshine. She squared her shoulders. Right. Time to suck up to some posh bloke and applaud like he was the famous Antony McIntosh himself.

At least the tips would be good.

A/N: Yikes! It looks like Alicia is really NOT a huge Patriots fan — poor Oliver ;)

You've probably guessed that the "posh English guy" Alicia is caddying for is Oliver, but any idea who his mystery guest might be?

Affectionately,

J.K.