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She's always wanted to date a gentleman - so why does she find herself falling for a rogue?
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Ophelia Prescott is a hopeless romantic, and she's determined to find her own Mr. Darcy during her s...
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They wrapped up the game around midnight.
Ophelia and Andrew failed spectacularly. Between the two of them, they lost six rounds, and then staunchly refused to answer every question they were asked. As a result, the kitchen was spinning pleasantly as Ophelia put bottles in the recycling. Next to her, Andrew whistled softly, scrubbing at a cheeseboard in the sink.
Louise and Henry had begged off, claiming that they both had early classes. Which left Ophelia alone with Andrew.
Not that she minded.
Andrew Hazelton-Scott was turning out to be something of a surprise, Ophelia thought, shoving the empty tequila bottle into the bin. More...
Thoughtful?
Yes. That was it.
"What?" Andrew grunted.
"Hmm?"
"You're staring at me."
"I'm not staring," Ophelia spluttered, hopping up on the counter. "I'm supervising." She nodded to the cheeseboard. "You missed a spot."
"Has anyone ever told you that you're a bad liar?"
She kicked her feet, which were dangling over the edge. "Just leave it; I'll do it in the morning. You should call a cab."
"My car's here."
She stared at him. "Surely you're not planning to drive home?"
Andrew wasn't slurring, but he had drank enough tequila to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool. And then some. He certainly wasn't about to get behind the wheel; Ophelia would hide his keys, if she had to.
He shook his head. "I'm sleeping on Henry's floor."
She frowned. "But he's already asleep."
"What?"
"Henry went to sleep ages ago." She hopped off the counter. "I passed his room on the way to the washroom earlier, remember? All his lights were off."
Andrew let go of the cheeseboard abruptly, cursing colorfully. He snatched up a tea towel, hardly pausing to dry his hands, and then sprinted out of the room. Ophelia sighed, taking up the washing. She was drying the board by the time he returned.
"Well?"
"No luck." Andrew sat down at the table glumly. "He's ignoring his phone. I tried knocking, but the bastard can sleep through anything."
"A true talent."
"It's fine." Andrew swept an arm magnanimously across the room. "I'll sleep here."
"In the kitchen?"
Ophelia tried to picture this. It was like trying to picture Oscar Wilde volunteering to sleep in a steaming pile of trash. Her brain just couldn't get there.
