From London With Love

14 | tense and tensibility

Andrew woke up in a fabulous mood.

He had rarely been this excited about life, Andrew reflected, buttoning up his trousers. This optimistic. He had spent the last year searching for this sort of feeling, but nothing — not flying planes, or kissing models, or sitting on top of a bucking horse in front of thousands of screaming fans — had given him this sort of high.

Nothing could ruin it.

Andrew whistled as he jogged down the stairs, searching for a telltale flash of red hair. But he only found Digby, patiently wiping down a number of unloaded shotguns spread out on the dining table.

"Well, well," Digby drawled. "Look who slept in."

Andrew smirked. "I was up late."

"Ah." Digby paused, arching an eyebrow. "No wonder Eleanora was so uncharacteristically cheerful this morning."

Andrew frowned. Eleanora? Well, he supposed he could see why Digby would assume that Andrew spent the night with her; they had been going for coffee together for most of November. But Andrew broke things off after his trip to Cornwall. It simply hadn't been right — not when he could feel himself falling for Ophelia.

Yes. He certainly wasn't dating Eleanora.

Thank god.

Still, Andrew mused, helping himself to an abandoned cup of coffee, he would let Ophelia tell Digby the news herself. He wasn't sure how far things had progressed between them, but judging by last night, Digby certainly had some sort of feelings for her.

Poor sod.

Andrew took a sip of the coffee, and then frowned.

"This is ice cold," he said, surprised.

"It tends to get that way, after a few hours."

Andrew sighed, setting down the coffee. "Tell me, Fitz; do you often make coffee and then just leave it?"

"Oh, it's not mine," Digby said airily. "Ophelia made it." He reached for a rather expensive  shotgun. "Earlier this morning."

Andrew froze. He had assumed that Ophelia went out for a walk; the fact that she and Digby had spent the morning together made his stomach clench unpleasantly.

Digby turned back to the gun, smirking slightly. Andrew had the distinct feeling that he was enjoying this; they had spent most of their life competing for one thing or another. At Eton, it was for grades. Then it became university admissions, polo tournaments, and the most beautiful women. The most expensive watch. The best July holiday.

And now, apparently, they were competing for Ophelia.

"She was here?" Andrew repeated.

Digby shrugged. "That's what I just said, isn't it?"

"What did she say?"

"No offense, Scott," Digby said, setting down the gun, "but it's really none of your business." Digby must have seen the murderous look on Andrew's face, because he relented. "It wasn't anything important, alright? She just told me a story."

"What story?"

"I don't know." Digby waved a hand impatiently. "She told me some story about getting with a bloke for practice. She sounded like she found the whole thing quite funny, actually."

Andrew felt like the air had been knocked out of him.

He sunk into a chair, his mind racing. Christ. Never in his wildest imaginations had he entertained the idea that Ophelia could be using him for the experience. But hadn't their first kiss been some sort of sick competition between them?