"He asked you out?"

Hattie slammed her hand down on the table, rattling the spread of salsa roja and feta chips, taquitos stuffed with grilled mushrooms, and absurdly cheap frozen margaritas. Alicia glanced around nervously.

"Hattie," she hissed. "Keep it down."

Fortunately, nobody else at the Mexican restaurant seemed all that interested in their conversation. But you could never be too careful; St Andrews was known as "The Bubble" for a reason. Hattie scowled.

"Let me get this straight." Hattie waved around her margarita. "A gorgeous English millionaire asked you out — while playing your favourite sport, I might add — and you turned him down?"

"I never said he was gorgeous."

"Well, is he?"

Alicia fiddled with a paper napkin. Well, yes, actually; Oliver was gorgeous. Strong arms, sharp cheekbones, eyes the colour of faded jeans... She was more partial to blonds than brunettes, but good lord — that man could have pink hair with goat horns and she'd still want to date him.

Alicia paused.

Hang on. Did she want to date him? That was news to her.

"It doesn't matter," she said briskly, picking up her margarita. "I can't go out with him. For obvious reasons."

Hattie took a sip of her drink, scrunching up her face.

"I don't see why not," Hattie said. "I know you've had issues with men in the past," she added quickly, seeing Alicia's face. "But that doesn't mean all of them are like that. God, this is so cliché, but you need to put yourself out there."

"Or I could die alone. With cats."

"You're allergic to cats."

"I'm allergic to men, too," Alicia pointed out. "And if I'm going to die of asphyxiation, I'd rather be holding on to a cat."

She took a bite of her taquito, and then winced. Yikes. Was it meant to taste so stale? Admittedly, Alicia was spoiled from visiting her cousins in Guadalajara most years, where the avocado was fresh, and the juicy limes made your lips pucker. This Mexican food wasn't that bad, she reasoned, by U.K. standards.

And the margaritas were cheap.

That was certainly a big selling point.

"Humour me." Hattie crossed her arms. "Let's say that Oliver is a genuinely nice man with honourable intentions. Would you go out with him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I told you." Alicia stuffed another forkful of taquito into her mouth. "I can't do anything that could draw attention to me."

"And dating Oliver would?"

"It might."

Hattie waved her off. "He's probably some English lord that nobody's ever heard of. What are the odds that you wind up in a tabloid?"

Alicia polished off her taquito, wiping her hands on a napkin. She didn't like the look on Hattie's face; it was the same look her flatmate got when she was scheming how to trick Alicia into eating her broccoli soup, or take out the bin in a rainstorm.

"It doesn't matter," Alicia said firmly. "I've already made up my mind: I'm not going out with Oliver. Not in a million years."

A handful of buildings away, three young men were sat on the upper floor of a pub, having almost the exact same conversation.

"You asked her out?"

Antony McIntosh was staring at him, a pint of beer hovering halfway to his mouth. At least, Oliver thought he was staring; both of them were sporting baseball hats pulled low over their eyes, just in case an eagle-eyed tourist with a camera looked too closely. Not that you could really see them behind Brooks' hulking figure.

"I didn't mean to," Oliver said defensively. "It was an accident."

"How do you accidentally ask a girl out?"

"Talent."

"That's one word for it," Brooks chipped in. "I would personally describe it as a unique ability to word vomit. Or severely panic." He paused, taking in Oliver's face. "Er. A very manly sort of panic, of course."

Antony smiled lazily. Then again, everything about Antony was lazy, Oliver thought in amusement. His relaxed posture, his slow Texan drawl, and even his golden eyes, which dripped like molten honey.

Oliver wished he could take credit for that particular metaphor. Alas, Antony had proudly read it aloud to him earlier this evening, clutching a copy of American Golf. Apparently, the interviewer had been fit as well, so Antony was planning to look him up the next time he was playing in Florida.

"Let me get this straight," Antony said. "You, a famous boyband member—"

"Antony!" Oliver hissed, glancing around.

"Met a girl who loathes the spotlight," Antony continued, ignoring him, "and explicitly said that she's not interested in dating, and now you want to go out with her?"

"Yes."

"You're crazy." Antony shook his head. "Like, actually crazy."

Brooks raised a glass of water. "Couldn't agree more."

Oliver scowled. "Thanks, boys. Cheers."

He raised his own pint in a mock salute. Brooks grinned. Antony hooked his left ankle over his right leg, forming a perfect 4.

"Go out with some other girl," Antony suggested. "One of your fans. You must have loads of them lining up to date you."

Oliver smiled wryly. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Well, it's true, isn't it?"

Oliver considered this. He supposed that it was true; he had never struggled to find women to date. He had asked models out after runway shows. Fans after concerts. Hell, even Ella Walker had agreed to fly across the Atlantic Ocean and accompany Oliver to a wedding within months of meeting him.

But Alicia was different.

Oh, Oliver had met women that played hard to get. Girls that pretended not to recognize him but had followed him on Instagram for years. But with Alicia, he had the genuine feeling that she didn't want to go out with him.

It irked him.

Oliver frowned. "I'm going to try again," he decided. "Tomorrow."

Antony threw back his head and laughed. "You're an idiot." He shook his head, still chuckling. "What's your long-term game plan? This chick doesn't even know you're famous, Ollie. She thinks you're a dancer." He paused. "Which you're terrible at, by the way."

"Thanks."

"Well, someone has to keep your ego in check."

"Duly noted."

"Seriously." Even Brooks looked curious. "What's your end game?"

"I don't know," Oliver said honestly. "I just want to take her out."

He would take her out, Oliver vowed. He would do whatever it took to prove to Alicia that he was worth dating; he would charter a plane to write her name in the clouds, or buy her a star in the sky. He was up for a challenge. Whatever it took for that "yes."

Oliver leaned back in his chair. No, he didn't care if he had to ask her six ways from Sunday; Alicia Martinez was going out with him. Even if it killed him in the process.

A/N: Ooh Oliver! What have you got planned?

So fun fact: I studied at the University of St Andrews for my undergraduate degree, and this restaurant is based on a real place where we would go to drink (very cheap) pitchers of frozen margaritas on Tuesdays. I think it's closed now, sadly, but I have so many fond memories there. At least it'll live on in fiction!

Affectionately,

J.K.