“What if I like all three types of potato?” I eventually say.
Owen’s face splits into a grin, and he wraps his arm around my waist as though guiding me back inside. “Carbohydrates are essential for any professional rugby player.”
I huff out my resigned sigh and turn towards the pub. Faces disappear from windows into the darkness of the interior. “How do you know about my weakness for potatoes?”
“Daisy may have told me what your name on Instagram is, and I may have looked you up.” He’s blushing again. It’s adorable. Potatoes and Owen Bosleyblushing because of me are two extremely welcome bonuses I did not expect to happen today.
“Oh,” I say, putting two and two together. About a week ago, I had a friend request I assumed was from Dan Chelford’s wife. I now realise it wasn’t Dan’s wife at all. “So she’s Daisymerolling?”
He laughs. “Yeah, that’s her.”
“Is the quiz on, then?” says moustache guy as we walk inside again.
“Yep,” Owen says. He places his other hand on my chest. “Mathias Jones saves the day.”
Everyone in the pub cheers, except for one older guy in the corner who yells, “Make’s a change, aye?”
I know he thinks he’s being good-natured, so I take it on the chin and flip him off—good-naturedly, of course. They cheer harder.
“We’ll get your drinks in tonight,” says bald guy. He has a Spanish-esque accent. Moustache guy nods.
“No need,” Owen adds. “Bar’s always open to the emcee.”
“In that case, better start me off with a couple of pints of Hooker’s Dribble.” I need the Dutch courage, and at six-five and almost fifteen stone, it’ll take more than one pint to find that courage.
The pub collectively cheers.
Owen snaps his feet together, straightens his spine, and salutes me with two fingers. “Yes, Boss.”
When he’s behind the bar, and the patrons have settled themselves, and he’s halfway through pouring my second pint, he catches my eye, winks, and mouths, “Thank you.”
14
Thursday 3rd April 2025
Owen
Jesus fucking H fucking Christ.
Fuck.
Mathias looks like every fantasy I’ve ever had, all rolled into one. I’ve never seen a man look so . . . so edible. I was half expecting him to come round in shorts and a T-shirt like the first night, and I had not sufficiently prepared myself for . . . this onslaught.
He’s unreal—like a fucking desert mirage or something. He smells incredible, and he sounds . . . there’s no other word for it butunngggghhhhhhh.
He’s wearing a crumpled brown linen shirt that appears as though it just fell out of the laundry basket. The top buttons are open and a shiny silver cross lies against his tanned chest. On the bottom half he wears polished brown brogues and unremarkable black trousers. Except, on him they’re anything but unremarkable, they’re a gift from the heavens. I probably have all the same items upstairs in my wardrobe, only they’d never look like that on me.
The way Mathias fits his clothes is something that should be studied in a lab. Science needs to sit up and pay attention. He looks like a film star on holiday in the Italian Riviera, or like the guy from a trippy black-and-white perfume ad, or like he’s come over to simply ruin my life. And yeah, I’m okay with that.
His hair has that “just been rolling around in the sheets” vibe, and it’s at once hot as fuckandevoking some other hitherto unknown emotion, which kinda feels eerily similar to jealousy. It’s not, though, because that would be stupid.
Everyone in the pub is enthralled, enamoured, utterly bewitched by him. Eyes barely leave his perfect form to scribble down answers. Even when he’s not speaking, people are staring slack-jawed at him. I cannot blame them. Not one iota.
When the room gets a little noisy, he only has to clear his throat or say,“Okay then, next question,”and silence descends in an instant.
We’re on the film and TV round.
“Question four. In 1949 Lawrence Olivier won a best actor Oscar. He also received a nomination for best director for the same film. What was that film?” Mathias says.
