Hattie was waiting for her outside the ice cream shop.

"Well?" she demanded. "How did it go?"

Alicia joined the queue, deliberately taking her time. Hattie could suffer a little. She deserved it, after the stunt she pulled last night. The blonde was dressed in a floral dress this afternoon — one of her own creations, probably — and the skirt jiggled as she bounced on her toes.

Hattie scowled. "Alicia!"

"It was fine."

"Fine?"

"Good," she allowed. "We went swimming."

Hattie almost tripped over the doorstep into the ice cream shop. "You went in the North Sea? In June?"

"Yes."

"Oh, god," she moaned. "He'll never ask for another date now."

Alicia held open the door for a couple. "Well, I wouldn't call yesterday a date."

"Then what would you call it?"

"A very methodical kidnapping."

They reached the counter. Alicia inhaled the scent of vanilla and freshly baked waffle cones as Hattie placed their order: a scoop of Scottish tablet (Hattie), and a scoop of elderflower (Alicia). She glanced at the poor, unsuspecting tourists next to them ordering the Irn Bru. The orange Scottish drink was an excellent hangover cure, but that was about the extent of its charms; it definitely wasn't made to be an ice cream flavor.

Alicia started in the direction of East Sands. Hattie bobbed behind her, occasionally stopping to lick her ice cream. It was one of Hattie's many quirks: walking and eating at the same time simply wasn't possible for her.

"I just don't understand," Hattie said. "Oliver's cute. He's charming. And he's only in town for a month." She licked furiously at the cone. "I know you don't want to date anyone, Leese, but it can be a fling. He's perfect."

"That's exactly the problem."

"What is?"

"He's perfect," Alicia sighed. "It makes it more difficult not to fall for him."

"Would that be so bad?"

"Of course it would." They scooted down the grassy slope, landing on the soft sand. "Don't you ever worry about that, Hattie? Losing yourself to someone?"

Alicia worried about it every day. Chameleon-like, she had changed herself repeatedly for men; she had become an avid reader for John, and a gym fanatic for Peter. In a moment of madness, Alicia had even exclusively worn knock-off designer clothes when she was going out with Monty, an Eton boy with a father in politics.

And then there was Greg.

Alicia kicked off her shoes, treading barefoot across the sand. Greg had been the most destructive of them all; she had changed everything about herself for him, and by the time they broke up, she was nothing at all. Alicia had become so lost pretending to be someone else that she couldn't remember how to find her way back to herself.

Hell, Alicia was still trying to find herself again, most days.

Hattie licked her ice cream. "Is this about Greg?"

"It's not just about Greg."

"But mostly."

"I just worry." Alicia plopped down on the sand. "Do you know he still asks after me?" She shredded the piece of paper around her cone. "Mum had to change her number because he was ringing her so often."

"He won't be able to find you here."

"You don't know that."

"Well," Hattie said, taking a seat beside her, "I know that if he does, I'll disembowel him with a shovel." She crunched on her cone. "And feed his liver to the seagulls."

Alicia arched an eyebrow. Hattie stretched out her pale legs — covered in her thin floral silk — and tipped her head back. The sun caught her golden curls. She looked like a faerie. A tiny, murderous faerie. "Has anyone ever told you that you're kind of scary?"

"Really?" Hattie beamed. "I'm so glad to hear it."

Alicia polished off her cone, wiping her sticky hands on her jeans. An elderly couple strolled along the water, picking their way around white feathers and the occasional bit of flotsam. String from lobster traps, mostly. She let out a long breath.

She had told Hattie the truth: last night had been fun, but it wasn't a date. She didn't know what it had been, exactly, but it couldn't happen again. If it did, Alicia thought grimly, it wouldn't end well for either of them.

"Hold on." Theo's voice crackled over the phone. "You did what?"

Oliver grinned, sipping his coffee. It was a beautiful day in St Andrews; the Scottish sun cradled the clocktower, giving it an almost hazy yellow glow. Students rushed between classes, their bookbags slapping at their thighs. Even the rather ugly main library — a hulking, concrete monolith that stuck out like a sore thumb — looked charming today.

"I set off fireworks."

"Fireworks?"

"Colorful rockets?" Oliver took another sip. "You might have heard of them."

"Let me get this straight," Theo said. "You're trying not to attract any attention to yourself, so you thought, oh, I know." His voice was high and mocking. "I'll set off a bunch of explosives in a very public area."

"Your English accent is terrible, mate."

"Is it?"

"You sound like Hermione Granger."

"Well, so do you."

"I do not," Oliver said, nettled. "I sound much more like Ron."

"Stop avoiding the question."

"I wasn't aware there was a question," Oliver said wryly.

He skirted around a stone with a "PH" on it. Not that he had any reason to, really; local folklore whispered that students who stepped on it would fail their exams, and Oliver certainly wasn't a student. Still. The stone marked the spot where Protestant martyr Patrick Hamilton was burned at the stake, and Oliver wasn't about to piss off some dead bloke with an agenda.

He winced as Brooks — walking a careful ten metres behind him — plowed straight over the stone. Well. He hoped the ghost of Patrick Hamilton wasn't feeling particularly malevolent these days.

"Right, Ollie," Theo said, reclaiming his attention. "I'm only going to ask this because nobody else will."

"Must you?"

"Is this a rebound?" Theo asked, ignoring him. "It's been like, five seconds since you broke up with Ella, Ols. You're probably just missing her."

Oliver considered this. Was it a rebound? He could see why Theo would think so. He took a right, heading in the direction of the beach. He'd only known Alicia for a few days, now; it was ridiculous to fancy himself in love with her.

And yet.

Oliver adjusted his cap. Alicia was different than Ella; she was wilder, somehow. And more confident in herself. Ella had always shown up to their dates wearing frilly white dresses, tugging nervously at the hemlines. Last night, Alicia had sauntered on to that beach in a short red dress like she owned it.

Ella wouldn't have run into the freezing water, either. Like Oliver, she was always overthinking, so terrified of moving in the wrong direction she had trouble moving at all. Oliver paused at the edge of the sea, leaning against the railing. He had always wanted a girl that shared his cautious approach to life — similar values, and all that — but now, he wasn't so sure.

"I don't know." Oliver cleared his throat. "I don't think so. It doesn't feel like a rebound, anyway. Alicia is..." Well, Oliver didn't know what she was. Infuriating. Distracting. A frustrating puzzle that he couldn't solve. "Well, I think you'd like her. She's incredible; I've never met a girl like her before."

Theo whistled. "Wow."

"What?"

"You have it bad." He was definitely grinning, the bastard. "I don't know how I didn't see it before. You're speaking in romantic clichés, dude."

"Oh, shut-up."

"So what's the plan, then?" A chair creaked. "More fireworks? A boombox? A romantic dinner on the beach where you serenade her with your bass?"

"Don't worry." Oliver couldn't resist smirking. "I'm just getting started."

A/N: Well, folks, Ollie wasn't joking when he said that he's going to pull out all the stops to get Alicia to agree to a date — hence the whole "Six Ways From Sunday" thing ;)

Another little "behind-the-scenes" tidbit: the PH stone is a very real thing in St Andrews. If you step on it, the only way to break the curse is to run into the North Sea naked at dawn on the first of May (no, I'm not joking). Scottish curses are real, friends.

Affectionately,

J.K.