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It all begins with a heavy cold.
That’s not how most romances begin, and Kate’s not expecting this to be a romance either. Romance isn’t a feature of her life, as a general rule. Her life mostly involves watching romance happen to her sister, Edwina, and occasionally even pining after her sister’s exes.
Or - well - technically pining on a daily basis over one specific ex of her sister’s - but they were barely even together, honestly, and Kate has it on good authority that they didn’t ever hook up.
So it’s not weird or creepy or incestuous. Really, it isn’t.
Anyway. So. The ex in question is one Anthony Bridgerton, and he and Kate work together. Specifically, they work together at Anthony’s family law firm, currently owned and run by his father, Edmund Bridgerton. Kate has worked there for five years, now, and spent every working day of those five years caught up in an endless loop of finding Anthony the most amusing and exasperating and beautiful and arrogant guy on the planet.
She could swear they actually disliked each other, back when he dated Edwina, but these days they seem to have settled into an oddly comfortable frenemies sort of situation.
He’s become a more mellow guy, perhaps, and easier to claim as a frenemy. His father had some big health scare a few years ago - Kate doesn’t know the details, but she knows it was bad, and she knows Anthony has been looking grey ever since. That’s a comment about his face and overall mood, to be clear, not about his hair. He still has the most infuriatingly lush head of dark hair she’s ever seen on a man.
Yes. Well. Anyway - Edmund has been unwell, and Anthony’s generally expected to inherit the firm just as soon as he can convince his father to retire while he still has some health to enjoy. And Kate has somehow devoted herself, since that whole illness scare, to teasing Anthony into a less grey humour whenever she sees him.
So tonight she’s got the dregs of a heavy cold still in her system, but she’s going to the office Christmas party anyway. She might not have bothered, if she’d seen Anthony today on her first day back at work. Honestly, she’s that pathetic in her pining - she’s dragging herself to this party almost entirely because she hasn’t had a decent bickering match with him in a week, by this point, and she needs a fix of his daft, annoying humour.
She still feels pretty ropey, for the record. She’s got no fever or whatever, and is perfectly safe to be breathing on people again - she’s sure of that much. But she’s still a bit stuffy, and very tired, and it’s all she can do to drag a sequined dress over her head in the work bathrooms and throw her hair into a messy bun.
She won’t stay long, she decides. She’ll have a non-alcoholic beverage and a tiny turkey tree, and she’ll go find Anthony and invite him to tell her she looks like shit, and then she’ll take herself home for a good night’s sleep.
So - it’ll be the opposite of an office Christmas party romance, just like every year for the last five years.
She meanders downstairs, tries not to look too noticeably party-averse. She’s really not in the mood for this, but she’ll do her best. She waves at Penelope and Thomas, but doesn’t actually go over there to speak to them. She smiles at Eloise - another Bridgerton, much younger than Anthony, only just graduated and joined the firm. There are loads of Bridgertons, and Kate’s met most of them, but only two of the siblings actually work here.
She decides she should probably start by thanking her boss for throwing a Christmas party, and perhaps asking after the locations of both non-alcoholic drinks and his son so she can get the hell out of here.
She walks over to the table where she can see Edmund and his wife, Violet, handing out fizzy wine which, knowing the Bridgertons, is probably actual champagne.
She’s all primed to start a conversation when Edmund gets in first.
“Oh, good. You made it. Anthony will be pleased - he was worried you were still sick.” Her boss tells her, all cheery like usual, as he tries to hand her a glass of champagne.
“Ah - no, thank you. Not for me. And I was in the office today.” She explains, perhaps a little defensive. She doesn’t want him thinking she claimed a sick day but came back just for the party.
“That’s what I told him.” Edmund says, smiling, still holding out that champagne she’s already declined.
“Go and put him out of his misery, won’t you?” Violet suggests now. “I expect he’s moping by the snacks.”
“Yes. Of course. Thank you. And thank you for hosting. I came over here to say that, not just to ask for directions to your son.” She tries desperately to clarify.
God - can you imagine the mortification, if her boss started thinking of her as that weird woman who’s always stalking his son around the office?
Violet, however, is laughing. “I know, dear. But you’d better get over there soon. If I hear one more conversation about your sinuses over the dinner table I’ll have to run away to sea.”
Kate laughs, because that seems to be the thing to do. But as she turns in the direction Violet has indicated, she finds that laugh falling away into a thoughtful frown.
It’s well known around the office that she and Anthony are cheerful adversaries, that they get on like a house on fire - namely, one that’s burning down. But she never realised her frenmity was so important to him. She certainly never thought he’d moan to his parents if she wasn’t around. That suggests he’s quite attached to her and to their little rows, doesn’t it?
She thinks it’s quite sweet, too. They’re both grown adults, but his parents are still visibly meddling in his life and friendships, here. She quite likes working in a family firm where Edmund and Violet are sort of benevolent parents to the whole entire company. Most of all, she thinks that working together in such a warm context is probably what has taught her and Anthony to be frenemies rather than actual straight-up enemies.
She finds him not at the snacks but at the drinks, in the end. He hasn’t seen her, as she walks up behind him. He’s evidently trying to make the thrilling choice between Diet Fanta and Coke Zero. Truly, Bridgerton and sons does spoil its employees rotten. Or - the sober table tends to be pretty poor, at least, and a marked contrast to the champagne on tap atmosphere elsewhere. There’s some irony to that, she thinks, when she rarely sees the boss’ son drink booze at work socials. Has he not persuaded his dad to go wild and get into fancy cordial?
She shakes that thought aside, swoops in to take a Fanta - and to tap Anthony on the opposite shoulder, too.
Sure enough, he spins around in a surprised circle, and she stands back, laughing at him.
“Oh. It’s you.” He says at last, when he’s stopped spinning, in a tone which is plainly supposed to sound like animosity but instead sounds pretty overjoyed.
“Did you miss me?” She asks brightly.
“I enjoyed the peace and quiet.”
It’s a lie, and she knows it’s a lie, and he knows that she knows it’s a lie.
There’s a pause. They both stand there a moment, grinning. Kate wonders about tickling him in the ribs, perhaps, but she supposes that might cross a line. That might be the act of someone obviously craving romance rather than a warm office rivalry.
“Joining me at the kiddy table today?” He asks now, gesturing at the Fanta-Coke situation.
“Thought I would. I’m still not feeling a hundred percent. I should probably go home early and get a decent night’s sleep.” She explains.
And of course, because this is Anthon , he doesn’t ask after her illness, doesn’t offer to send her soup or take some work off her desk while she recovers.
Instead -
“Shame. Here I thought you were skipping the booze because I’d sent you weak at the knees.” He teases.
She laughs. This is a familiar part of the script. He’s often joking about how much she likes his face, for example - how pleasing she finds it, specifically - and sometimes she’ll go wild and try an odd self-compliment like that in turn.
It’s all a perfectly normal office frenemy situation. Really, it is.
So she plays along, more or less. “It’ll take more than your sheer existence to send me weak at the knees, Bridgerton.”
He nods, mock serious, pretending to consider it. “More like what? How could I most effectively make you swoon?” He asks, teasing. “Would it help if I took my shirt off? Or - here’s an idea - oral?”
She blinks. This is slightly unusual territory even for them, but she’s keen to keep exploring.
“Oral seems more likely to do it than abs.” She tells him, because it does.
“You’ve noticed the abs? Cute.”
She hasn’t been trying to notice them, to be clear, but the Bridgerton family annual surf holiday is evidently a very instagrammable sort of thing and she’s seen photos. That’s all this is.
She definitely hasn’t just admitted to him that she’s hung up on his abs.
“You think we should test out oral, then?” He asks, brows raised, from behind a can of Coke Zero.
She didn’t quite say that, if she remembers correctly. But if ever hypothetically he were to offer her oral, she obviously wouldn’t say no.
She doesn’t know how to play this. He can’t be serious, surely? She walked in here four minutes ago, and he’s stone cold sober, and suddenly he wants to overturn five years of carefully curated frenmity with a long tease about oral?
Oh. Oh. She thinks she sees where this is going.
“You’re just trying to goad me into admitting I want oral.” She concludes, brows knitting together in her best righteous anger face. “That’s low even for you, Bridgerton. You think if you mention oral often enough I’ll start begging to get laid?”
“Evidently not. You haven’t started begging yet.” He notes, dry.
“And I never will.” She argues with spirit.
“Shame. Here I was really considering the idea. Could be fun. I’m kind of intrigued to take on the challenge and see if I can get you weak at the knees.” He continues, in a thoughtful sort of tone.
She hesitates a moment. He does sound serious about this. There’s none of his usual sharp bounce to his tone. Yes, sure, he’s presenting it as some daft challenge about getting her weak at the knees.
But - he’s actually offering.
What the hell. How dare he? How dare he overturn their usual script like this?
But also -
What the hell. Anthony wants his face between her legs.
“Come on, then. The way I see it, I’d be doing you a favour.” She tells him, carefully light. “If you’re so keen to make some big deal about your sexual prowess…”
“You know you can’t resist the chance to show me up.” He points out, light.
So - ahm - it does seem that they’ve just agreed they’re doing this.
Suddenly, all at once, he’s setting down that can of Coke and grabbing her by the elbow. She’s putting her drink aside, too, and musing that she did not see the night ending up like this. She did not expect to be waylaid by oral so early in the evening, and she does wonder whether she’ll get chance to notice he tastes like Coke.
No. What a silly thought. He said nothing about kissing. He specifically offered oral, and last she checked, her cunt doesn’t have taste buds.
“Where are we going?” She asks mildly. Is this going to be some grim hookup in the work bathroom?
She’ll take it, of course. She’s not likely to get another invitation like this any time soon, is she?
“My office.” He tells her, short. “Are you sure you haven’t had anything to drink? Sober consent is important.”
She grins. He’s such a lawyer, and such a gentleman, and so very paranoid and exacting and - and insecure, honestly. She knows he wouldn’t use that word himself, but it often comes to her mind, actually, when she peeks beneath that brittle shell of arrogance he wears.
“I’m entirely sober and entirely consenting.” She tells him plainly. “Curious, too, honestly. But also - your office? Your office with the glass walls?”
“There’s no one else up here.” He points out.
He’s not wrong. This floor is deserted. Everyone else is downstairs at the party.
What the hell. She’s about to enjoy semi-public oral, more or less. She’s a little apprehensive at the idea that anyone could walk up here to change their shoes or pick up their bag at any moment, but she’s not going to let it get to her.
Really, she’s not.
They arrive at his office. He pushes her unceremoniously into his big desk chair, and she actually has to make a point of standing up to get her dress and underwear out of the way. Really - has he never seduced anyone with desk chair oral before? She could swear he was quite the player, back in the day, a few years ago - before his father was ill, perhaps.
Anthony, meanwhile, wastes no time. He just drops to his knees on the floor before her.
“We good?” He asks, because of course he does.
“Yeah. Go on - let’s see whether my knees can take it.”
He dives right in without another word. He just… does it, face-first, straight to the point.
Clearly no kissing involved, then. Which is fine. It’s fine. She’s not disappointed. She never expected romance.
He’s annoyingly good at giving oral, it turns out. She’s certain that sex is supposed to be a bit unsatisfying and off-beat, the first time with a new partner. She’s convinced that instantaneously perfect sex is a misleading trope which only happens in porn.
But - well - honestly, it’s not far off perfect.
He could perhaps go a bit slower. She might like it a little slower and softer. But she supposes slow and soft is not really the mood for a spontaneous office hookup between frenemies.
She tries to keep her eyes closed, tries to keep concentrated on the sensations rather than the setting. She tries not to notice that she’s in an ostentatious glass-walled office - one which belongs to the son of her employer, specifically.
But really - that’s a lot of glass. That’s a very very semi-public sort of situation. It’s not her usual scene.
None of this is her usual scene, of course, because her usual scene isn’t romance.
No. She’s being daft. This isn’t romance, either. This is a dumb challenge between friendly antagonists, and this is also - annoyingly - the best oral of her life.
She gets there quickly. Too quickly. Embarrassingly quickly. But that’s because of the setting, of course - because of all that clear glass and the feeling of fucking on borrowed time. She’s rising to the occasion, not losing the plot because he’s brilliant with his mouth or she’s so pathetically into him. It’s simply necessary to keep this short and sweet.
She’s there. She’s rocking her hips to meet his face as she chases the last of it.
She’s realising, quite abruptly, that it’s over too soon.
It’s not just that she’s embarrassed, that she fears this makes her look desperate. She hasn’t even had chance to touch him. She didn’t so much as run a hand through his hair, there. She just sat here, and took it, and then it was over.
Well - that’s probably for the best. This was supposed to be a challenge between antagonistic friends. She’d have looked all attached if she played with his hair while he was at it.
He rocks back onto his heels, grins up at her all smug and covered in slick.
God. God. Why did she think she could survive this?
“You good?” He asks. “How are the knees?”
“Fine. Not weak at all. How are yours with all that kneeling?” She asks.
“Fine.” He echoes, springs to his feet as if to prove the point.
Or - perhaps to demonstrate that this is over.
She gets to her feet more slowly, sets her underwear back to rights. She feels all squirmy with recent orgasm and slick and his saliva, but this is hardly a day for dwelling on it. She’d drive herself mad if she did.
“Want me to return the favour?” She asks simply. “We could find out whether I have better success weakening your knees?”
“Oh. No. Thanks.”
Right. Fine. That’s that decided. That’s fine, of course it’s fine. She doesn’t need to return the favour. It’s only that she thinks she can perhaps see a bulge at his crotch, out of the corner of her eye, but of course she can’t stare directly at it because he’d comment on that, wouldn’t he?
They stand there in awkward silence for a moment. It’s the first proper awkward silence they’ve had in years, as far as Kate can remember. They’re normally quite the chatty pair, and even when they’re silent, it tends to be just an easy moment of waiting for the next barb to bite.
And then -
“Are you sure your knees are alright? No weakening at all?” He prompts her, evidently trying for a teasing tone.
“Eh. No weakening, honestly, but they were shaking a bit there, right?”
“Yeah. They were shaking. Shaking is like weakening, right? We might have to repeat the experiment another day just to check.” He suggests.
“We could. You’re right - we should check.”
He grins a little. She can still see her own slick around his lips, and it’s driving her slightly mad. She’s leaning in, allowing her lips to reach for -
“Come on. We should go downstairs before we’re missed.” He suggests.
“Yeah. Sure. Downstairs.”
He leads the way without another word.
……..
On Monday he acts like it never happened.
Obviously he does. He came in early to wrap cling film around her stapler, evidently - she’s ascertained that by a complex leap of logic from the fact that her stapler is now covered in cling film - and now she’s marching into his office, prepared for a good fight.
It’s the first time she’s been in here since he shoved his face between her legs last Friday, of course, but she’s not going to let it get to her.
“I always think wrapping cling film around a colleague’s stapler is quite a childish kind of prank.” She observes, carefully light. “Just the kind of thing I might expect from an overgrown boy who works for his daddy.”
He laughs. “Good one. Honestly - I didn’t expect you to make the leap straight from the stapler to Bridgerton and Sons. Nicely done.”
She finds herself giggling at his response. “It’s no fun if you don’t argue back, Bridgerton. You’re not supposed to compliment me on my insults.”
He pouts. “But what if I want to?”
“Bridgerton -”
“OK. OK. How dare you accuse me of being an overgrown boy who works for his daddy? I’ll have you know that I have my own apartment and buy my own groceries these days and everything.” He argues - or mock-argues, honestly, in a daft tone with his brows raised.
“No. No - you’re doing it wrong. How am I supposed to argue with groceries?”
“Knowing you, you’ll find a way. Ooh - here’s one - I bought a Hawaiian pizza yesterday. What do you make of that?”
She lets her jaw drop open, either shocked or pretending to be - even she’s not sure which.
“Hawaiian? You didn’t? Fruit has no place on a pizza.”
“Tomato is a fruit. Pepper is a fruit. Aubergine -”
“Pragmatically we treat those as vegetables. There’s a clear precedent for considering them as vegetables.” She points out, because law is all about precedent. “But a pineapple is a true fruit, and it does not belong on a pizza.”
“Australia would disagree with you.”
“What?”
“Australia, as a nation, would disagree. Hawaiian is the most popular pizza flavour in Australia.”
“You’re making that up.” She accuses him instinctively.
“You think I don’t know pizza popularity statistics off the top of my head?”
“Even if you’re not making it up, that’s not how statistics work. Even if Hawaiian is the most popular pizza flavour in Australia, it doesn’t mean Australians would universally put pineapple on a pizza.” She points out. Surely she has him there?
Yes. It seems she’s won. He’s laughing, and she’s laughing, and they’re both sharing the office they shared for oral last week, laughing.
Good. This is much more like their usual atmosphere. Clearly that brief oral thing was an aberration.
Only -
“You want me to unwrap that stapler for you?” He asks now, reaching out a hand towards her.
She frowns. “You can’t undo your own prank. That defeats the object of the prank.”
Unless the object of the prank, all along, was her coming in here for a chat.
“Look at it this way - if I unwrap your stapler now, I can wrap it up again sooner. I’m really just buying myself future prank opportunities.” He tells her, in that sort of self-satisfied tone he likes to use when he thinks he’s being the cleverest man in the world.
“I’ll unwrap my own damn stapler.” She insists.
“Fine. Fine. See if I care.”
She turns to go. She marches towards the door, because marching towards the door is what she does, when she’s been here for a row and not a romp.
“Merry Christmas, Kate.”
“Nah-ah. It’s only December twenty-first.” She reminds him, turning on the spot.
“I’m just saying it in case we don’t see each other again this week.” He makes a show of being the wronged party, palms held up in supplication.
“Oh - you’ll see me again. You watch your back, Bridgerton.”
“Understood.”
“And Bridgerton?”
“Mhmm?”
“Merry Christmas to you too.”
……..
Something strange happens in the new year - although not as strange as oral between frenemies, to be sure.
But at the first general staff meeting of January, Edmund announces that Anthony intends to run more workplace social events in the future, and that he’s going to start with a dry January mocktail evening, here in the office on Friday after work.
Kate thinks that’s an interesting sort of development. Anthony used to be the type to make a bit of a display of his social life, when she first met him five years ago, but since his dad’s health scare he seems to spend more time going back to the family home to see his parents and siblings.
And now he’s the sort of person who thinks workplace social events ought to be a priority?
The gossip running around the place after the announcement is all pretty predictable, of course. Everyone thinks that their future boss is trying to win friends and favour in anticipation of finally convincing his father to retire. That it’s all a sort of popularity stunt - but since the whole lot of them genuinely quite like the Bridgertons, it’s a popularity stunt no one is complaining about.
“I could get into mocktails if the Bridgerton brothers want me to.” Penelope decides, and it’s a sentiment Kate doesn’t entirely disagree with.
“Colin doesn’t actually work here.” She points out. She knows which brother Penelope is hoping to drink virgin sex on the beach with.
Ahm - pun unintentional. Pun only slightly intentional?
“He’ll be here.” Penelope decides, with evident confidence. “He’s always at the Christmas party. He used to go to the summer barbecue, when that was a thing. Last year his dad brought him as his guest for partners’ lunch and we spent two hours talking on the stairs.” She recalls, a little starry-eyed.
Honestly, Kate wishes she had the dignity and strength of character to pull off long-term crush like that. All she ever manages is a little pathetic bickering.
All the same -
“I hope for your sake he’s here.” She manages. That’s a good, friendly thing to say, right?
“I hope for your sake Anthony smuggles in some booze, gets sloshed and throws himself at you.” Penelope counters.
“That’s not - we’re not - I don’t -” Kate splutters uselessly.
She gathers herself, tries again.
“It wouldn’t help anyway. He thinks sober consent is important.”
It occurs to her that she should perhaps not have said that to anyone - least of all the writer of the periodic office satire and gossip newsletter - but she thinks she’ll get away with it. No one could possibly think that she and Anthony sort of hooked up but are still acting the way they do.
That’s just too ridiculous for words.
……
It’s a good mocktail evening, as mocktail evenings go. Or at least - Kate supposes it is. She doesn’t have a lot of other mocktail evening experience to compare it with.
“I’m glad we’re finally getting into decent non-alcoholic drinks. The kiddy cans table always makes me laugh.” She observes, elbowing Anthony in the side by way of greeting.
“Oh. Hello, you.” He says, elbows her fondly in turn.
She waits a moment for his rebuttal, and it never comes. He seems very interested in stirring something red in a jug.
“Not going to tell me this was all your brilliant idea, and we must thank you for single-handedly revolutionising our workplace drinking culture?” She prompts him.
“I mean - doesn’t that go without saying? Brilliant ideas are my greatest talent.” He says, in such a pompous tone that he’s clearly taking the piss out of himself voluntarily, now.
“Anything I can do to help?” She asks, gesturing to the glasses and jugs and straws and such on the table before him.
“Ahm - no, thank you. I think I’ve got this. I’ll be more fun later when I’ve got everything set up.”
“More fun later? Is that a threat or a promise?”
He laughs, and she leaves him to it. She wouldn’t want to overstay her welcome.
She mingles as best she can. She chats with Penelope for a while, until Penelope sees Colin. She chats with Eloise for a while, until Eloise sees Cressida. She circulates, and sips at sugary red fruit juice mix, and tries not to think of how much more socially successful her sister would be, at a mingly sort of occasion like this.
She’s just draining her first drink and wondering about a second when Anthony strides up to her, holding two glasses outstretched.
“Both for you, or are you being a gentleman?” She asks.
“Oh - both for me, of course.” He makes a show of sipping from each of them.
She sighs, rolls her eyes, and then takes the nearer one. If they’re on occasional spontaneous oral terms, they’re definitely on drinks-sharing terms.
“How are the legs?” He asks her now.
“Fine.” She answers, non-committal. “Is that an invitation to talk about my running schedule? Is sports chat a thing we do now?”
“It could be if you like. Or it could be an invitation to revisit that weak knees experiment. Don’t mind.”
She gapes at him. He can’t just do that. He can’t just bring her a drink and offer her oral. That contravenes several of the carefully established rules of their frenmity.
It looks a bit like romance, even, when she views it in those terms. Drink plus chat plus sex?
Yes. Definitely an alarmingly romantic sort of proposition.
All the same -
“Sure. Weak knees experiment, take two. It’s a pretty fun experiment.”
“Great. Let’s go.”
So - they abandon those two drinks he brought over, mostly full. She’ll start an argument with him about wastefulness later, she decides.
She knows the formula now. They go up to his office, and he nudges her towards his chair, and she takes a moment to check that momentum and get her clothes and underwear out of the way.
She sits. He kneels. This time, though, she does take a moment to cup her hand under his chin, to urge him to look at her and throw him a smile.
“You’ve got this. Knee weakness. I’m rooting for you.” She teases.
He laughs, and actually turns to press a kiss to her palm.
God. God. She is not going to survive this with her dignity intact.
He gets to it. She remembers to hold on, this time, to make the most of the opportunity to run her hands through his hair, to tickle the back of his neck, even to tweak at the tips of his ears where they just slightly stick out from the way his head is being crushed between her thighs.
She hopes that’s not weird. She thinks it’s quite a good fit for their teasing relationship, honestly.
She tries to settle in and really enjoy it, tonight. She’s less self-conscious of the big glass windows, the slight chance of someone passing by. She’s more at peace with the idea that occasional oral in her frenemy’s office is a feature of her life.
She even dares to make a small request.
“Could you go a little slower? Not much. Just - you’re slightly rushing me.”
He pulls back, looks up at her, eyes wide and lips wet.
“You’d better tell me if I’m getting anything else wrong. I’m not going to send you weak at the knees if I’m rushing you. Can’t believe you let me go through the whole thing last time without mentioning that.” He complains, pokes lightly at her thigh.
“Well I’m mentioning it now.”
“Any other feedback?”
“No. I - ahm - it’s pretty great, honestly.” She admits.
“I know I am.”
She rolls her eyes at him. He gets his face on her again, noticeably going much slower this time.
“No. Too slow.”
God. He’s looking at her. He’s playing with the pace, and he’s looking up and watching her face so damn carefully as if to check when he’s getting it perfectly right.
Which - obviously he is. She should have known he’d be like this. It’s just the sort of fussy and exacting and perfectionist guy he is.
But all the same, it makes her stomach do a little flip when it’s actually happening.
“Tiny bit faster. Tiny bit.” She prompts him.
He switches it up again.
“There. That. Just there. Fuck. Perfect.”
He’s still watching her. He’s still watching her.
She’s got her hand in his hair, and he’s watching her enjoy his face on her cunt, and he’s now doing it just exactly how she likes it done.
“Fuck. That’s - so good. I - Yes -”
She’s there. She’s making a loud scene in his office, and she’s writhing against his face, and it’s the most spectacular orgasm she’s had for a while, honestly.
A human face should not be able to beat a decent rabbit vibrator. This is not logical at all.
He stays put for a moment. He just kneels there, tapping his fingers absently against one of her thighs, watching her.
“What? What is it?” She asks, when she can speak coherently again.
“Just thinking - this leg still seems pretty solid. No knee weakness at all that I can tell.”
“You’re right. Surprising, really, given how good that was.” She manages to admit it, tries to be straightforward about having a fun time. “Thanks. Honestly.”
“Any time. Seems like we might need a few more tests before we get you weak at the knees though, right?”
“Yeah. Definitely. Good thinking.”
A pause. It’s not awkward, this time, though. It’s peaceful, honestly, just the warm afterglow of pleasure and a beloved frenemy still leaning one ear on her leg.
“Can I return the favour?” She asks again - but tries to show him she really means it, on this occasion, with her hand still fussing at his hair.
“Oh - no, thanks.”
Of course. She knew he’d say that.
But if she keeps asking, perhaps one day he’ll want her, too.
…….
The next workplace social event of the Bridgerton and Sons calendar is a Valentine’s celebration of singlehood. They all get sent invitations by email - a lot of silly retro pink heart clipart, blind-copied around the entire office.
At least - Kate presumes it’s the entire office, and HR don’t actually keep a list of people who are pathetically single. That would be weirdly intrusive even for this family firm where everyone knows each other far too well, where her sinuses are apparently an occasional topic of conversation over the boss’ dinner table.
Whatever. The point is, she shows up to this Valentine’s celebration of singlehood, and decides it’s quite ironic that she gets laid - or mostly laid. She’s not sure what the criteria are for a proper laying. Does unreciprocated oral count?
The weirdest part of all comes after the unreciprocated oral, when she and Anthony spend the whole of the rest of the evening as the most dysfunctional Pictionary team in the whole of human history. The two of them can’t see eye to eye on anything, of course, so they totally fail to understand each other’s ideas or be supportive teammates in any way whatsoever. They lose, and they lose badly, and a small audience of curious single colleagues even gathers to watch them losing.
And yet, somehow, they do spend the entire evening laughing.
Kate can’t decide whether she’s never felt more single in her life, or never felt less single. On the one hand, she’s ostensibly at a singles party on Valentine’s day, and has just spent the evening playing a silly party game rather than enjoying the Valentine’s menu at some overpriced restaurant. And yet, as far as she can see, she’s spent the whole of her Valentine’s evening in the undivided company of one guy she’s got a hulking great crush on, and he even gave her great oral.
Which - when she looks at it like that - it does sound a little bit like a date, doesn’t it? It does perhaps have the slightest hint of romance about it.
But romance doesn’t happen to her, and Anthony doesn’t want return oral, and they did lose very badly at Pictionary.
So - yes. She supposes she had better stick with celebrating singlehood for now.
…….
It’s when he decides to celebrate St Patrick’s day that it gets really weird.
This is a very English office on the whole, except Kate herself with her proudly Anglo-Indian heritage. There’s certainly no Irish national identity in sight. This is much more the sort of place where they should have a raffle to win Wimbledon tickets, she thinks, than where anyone has any business celebrating St Patrick’s day.
But - well - she’s not going to turn down a Bridgerton and Sons workplace social, is she?
They’re pushing the boat out for this one. They’re actually going out to a pub rather than mingling around the downstairs space at the office.
Kate arrives a little later than she’d have liked. She got caught up doing her actual job. Anthony’s been wrapping her stapler in cling film more often lately, and obviously she always goes for a chat when he does, and it’s adding up to a fair bit of time - but not time she begrudges, to be clear. She can’t remember when she last had enough of a social life to interrupt her work occasionally before this.
Anyway - so she’s a little late to this implausible St Patrick’s Day pub trip. By the time she arrives, Penelope is already telling Colin something fascinating about windows, and Kate’s too late to decipher whether she means the operating system or the architectural feature.
Hang on - why is Colin even here?
Kate turns to Eloise, instead, and does what anyone might do at a pub if they were feeling a little late and lost.
“I’m going to get a drink. Do you want one?”
Eloise shakes her head. “My brother’s already getting me one, thanks.”
“Oh. Which brother would that be?”
Eloise rolls her eyes a little. “Your favourite one. He’s at the bar. He’s doing some huge drink order on the company credit card and I’m sure he’s forgotten most of them.”
“He’ll remember. Surely he wrote notes?” She muses, fond, looking in the general direction of the bar and wondering whether she can see him in the crowd.
“Heaven help us. My brother writes notes in a pub and you like that about him. But I’m convinced he’s going to get half the drinks wrong anyway.”
Kate wonders whether that’s a statement about his drink order notes or whether it’s just sibling teasing.
“I might go get a drink, then.” She says now.
“Yes. You did say you would.” Eloise agrees.
“You see - I was going to go even before you told me your brother was there.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was.”
She stands up and gets on with it. Best not make herself ridiculous any longer. If she gets much worse, she’s sure to end up as a topic of conversation over the Bridgerton dinner table for even worse reasons than her sinuses.
Hang on - Eloise and Anthony don’t even live at the family home any more. They each have their own apartment nearer the office. Are her sinuses so notable that they are a topic of conversation at a big family Sunday lunch, even?
No. A ridiculous thought. She must just get to the bar and find Anthony.
He’s easy to track down. He’s standing next to a very large tray of drinks, and each time the server puts another drink on it, Anthony minutely moves everything around a bit until he’s happy with the new arrangement. Kate actually stands there a moment and just watches him do it for a while, honestly. There’s something rather sweet about watching him get fussy and exacting about his colleagues’ drink orders.
But then, when she’s sure she won’t upset his Guinness tessellation, she does at last walk right up behind him and tap his shoulder.
“I know it’s you.” He says, throwing a grin at her - over the correct shoulder and everything. “You can’t fool me now. I’ve learnt that there’s no one else who would dare greet a Bridgerton with a poke or an elbow.”
“I don’t know what to do with that. What can I possibly say about that?” She asks him outright.
He laughs. “Just tell me what you want to drink. You got here in the nick of time.”
“Oh. Erm - just a lemonade or something, I guess?”
“You want a lemonade or you don’t want a lemonade? Make your mind up.”
“I want a lemonade.” She states, confident as she can.
“You sure? Because you sound like a person who’s not committed to lemonade.”
“I don’t know. Do they serve things which are non-alcoholic but classy?” She asks, frowning at the fridge she can see on the other side of the bar. “I know sober consent is important to you, but if we can manage sober consent and something more interesting that lemonade, I’m game.”
“I’ll go wild and order you a lime and soda.” He decides, actually reaches out to rest a hand on her hip.
Which - well - that’s definitely because it’s a crowded bar, and he wants to hold her steady while some guy in a large St Patrick’s Day hat squeezes past them. It certainly isn’t a hand which means anything.
“Maybe I don’t want lime and soda. Maybe I don’t want you to make my decisions for me.” She argues now, for the sake of arguing.
“Come on. This lime and soda is going to rock your world.”
She shakes her head at him, makes a great show of being unimpressed.
The server returns, and Anthony orders her a lime and soda anyway. Of course he does.
While they’re waiting for that, the conversation turns in a more interesting sort of direction.
“Are we sneaking off now? Do you want to wait a while?” Anthony asks, mild, as if their sneaking off at some stage is just a foregone conclusion.
Well - he’s not wrong. She did just tell him plainly that she’s interested in sober consent, tonight.
“We can’t go now. Everyone will wonder what happened to their drinks.” She argues. “And Eloise will get suspicious. She was already suspicious when she sent me over here to find you.”
“Eh - Eloise will be suspicious no matter what we do. That’s the point of younger sisters.”
“You’re not wrong.” Kate concedes. She’s lost count of the number of times Edwina has teased her about Anthony, in recent years.
“Can I get that on a T shirt?”
“Hmm?”
“I need to commemorate this. St Patrick’s Day 2024 is the day you said I was not wrong about something.”
She doesn’t dignify that with a laugh. An eye roll is all he’s getting for that one.
Instead, she answers his earlier question.
“We should wait a bit I guess. It’d look weird if we disappeared now. Later it’ll be easier to pretend to need the bathroom or another drink or whatever.”
“You’re probably right.”
She laughs.
“What? What did I do?” He asks.
“That’s us agreeing with each other twice within a minute or so, right? There must be something wrong with us.” She teases, pokes lightly at his ribs.
A lime and soda appears on the tray, but somehow, neither of them moves. He doesn’t rearrange the glasses, and the two of them do not walk towards the table.
And then -
“Think I’ve got a bit of fight fatigue today, honestly. It’s nothing personal. But - ah - had a bit of a row with Eloise earlier.” He explains, visibly uncomfortable.
“Oh. Want to talk about it?”
“No. There’s nothing to talk about. I said she shouldn’t bring her new boyfriend to this, because it’s a work thing and no one else is bringing partners - but then she made it into some big fight because Colin’s always invited, and she thinks I just don’t like Theo, and then I had to explain Colin is always here as a Bridgerton not because of… whatever he and Penelope are.”
That’s a lot of urgent words, she thinks, for a guy who didn’t want to talk about it.
“She’s really serious about Theo.” Kate muses. She’s heard Eloise mention this relatively recent boyfriend a few times, in the last week or two.
“Yeah. If I did disapprove - not that I do - that would be why. She’s only just graduated and he’s her first proper adult partner and now she’s already talking about him moving in. I just think she’s moving a little fast. She thinks my problem is some stupid thing about his job and family background and that - as if I’d make a fuss about that. It’s not the fucking nineteenth century. Just because we own a law firm doesn’t mean she can’t date some edgy journalist.”
“Hmm. Did you call him an edgy journalist to her face?”
He manages to laugh at that. “No - thank God. I avoided that one.”
She stands there a moment, wonders about poking him in the ribs again. That often helps when Anthony’s feeling a bit grey, in her experience.
“Thanks for listening to me rant.” He mutters now.
“Any time.” She says, and means it. “If it helps, Eloise is back to talking about you exactly as she normally does - you know, all grouchy but sisterly. I think she might have already forgotten all about it.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I hope we’re good. She generously allowed me to get her a drink, so that’s something.”
He manages to gather himself and actually pay for their drinks, at that point. Kate stands with him while he does, because really, it would be weird and rude to walk off now.
They meander back to their seats with everyone’s drinks on that meticulously arranged tray. There’s only one slight mistake - two and a half ciders, instead of two halves of cider - and it’s quickly sorted out.
For a while, they all sit around pretending to enjoy St Patrick’s Day.
No - it’s not entirely pretence. Kate for one is having quite a good time. Evidently Anthony’s fight fatigue is real, because he’s started a very civil conversation with her about one of her recent cases.
They manage a cheerful chat for a while. Eloise interjects occasionally, in the tone of a person who had a fight with her brother earlier and wants to make it right. Kate wonders about leaving them to it, and going to pester Thomas or Penelope instead, but when she thinks about going to leave she finds that somehow Anthony’s arm is slung across the back of her chair.
Well, then. She can’t move now. That would just be rude.
She lasts an admirably long time before she breaks, she thinks. She’s proud of how long she manages to hold out before begging Anthony for his face between her legs.
He’s just suggesting that she might like another drink when she tells him that she needs the bathroom, instead, actually.
“Of course. The bathroom.” He echoes.
She wonders whether he’s saying it too loud deliberately. Whether he really thinks the rest of the table believe that she only needs the bathroom and he only wants to get her another drink.
Really - he lacks subtlety. The whole office will figure out what they’re up to, sooner or later, at this rate.
All the same, she’s not inclined to complain. She pushes her chair back eagerly, stands up, starts striding towards the bathrooms.
At the door, she simply catches his hand and drags him towards the ladies’.
“We’re not doing it in the bathroom.” He argues, tugging the other way. “That’s just seedy. Come on - I’ve got a better idea.”
He leads her past the bathroom, out into the deserted beer garden beyond. They find a picnic-style table he likes the look of, and she sprawls over it, and he kneels before her as usual.
It’s a lot, honestly. The cold tickle of the early spring breeze on her cunt, and then the warmness of his face instead. The rough wood of the bench beneath her butt cheeks, his hair soft against her fingertips.
His arms are slung around her legs, just as he had one draped over her chair earlier. There’s an awful lot of Anthony in her life lately, and she likes it.
She likes it very much indeed.
She comes with his name on her lips, her eyes on the stars, and a newfound appreciation for St Patrick’s Day as a festival, all in all.
“How are the knees?” He asks, when it’s over.
“Still not weak. Yours? That concrete must be grim.”
“Yeah - not the comfiest, honestly.” He admits, grinning, getting up off the floor and sitting on the picnic table at her side.
“Need me to kiss them better?”
His eyes darken. For a moment, she thinks this - this - might be it at last. That maybe, just maybe, they might manage a few reciprocated kisses, and a conversation about celebrations of singlehood, and perhaps she might have to learn romance quite abruptly after all.
But then, of course, he stands up, and drags her to her feet, and starts leading the way back towards the door.
“Let a girl put her knickers right.” She protests, laughing.
“I don’t know. I like them better around your ankles.”
Of course. Of course he likes her underwear around her ankles, but of course he doesn’t want to ask a thing from her in turn.
…….
So it goes, in much the same fashion, for several months of her life as spring lengthens into summer.
It’s an odd set of rituals, but one she likes very much. It’s probably doing her some good to drink so little, she supposes. And it’s certainly doing her a lot of good to have Anthony putting this much effort into getting his face on her cunt. That’s very flattering indeed.
It’s not just the oral, though, honestly. Her stapler is wrapped in cling film very often, these days. In fact, she’s adopted a habit of checking it first thing every morning just in case, even when she doesn’t actually need to use staples. And obviously, whenever it is wrapped in cling film, she understands she’s supposed to go to his office to reprimand him for it.
They ought to adopt an equal and opposite sign in return, perhaps. She hasn’t got a cling film stapler procedure for summoning him. If she’s not seen him in a bit and fancies his company, she mostly just hangs around the break room until he shows or even - hold onto your hats - goes to his office anyway.
It’s possible she’s a little more emotionally fluent than Anthony. Just perhaps a smidge. To be sure, she’s still romantically incompetent and still jealous of the sister she loves and still struggles with occasional feelings of rootlessness.
But at least she doesn’t wrap office supplies in food packaging every time she wants to talk to her frenemy-with-benefits. At least there’s that.
…….
There’s an interesting Thursday at the beginning of the summer when the stapler procedure turns out to be even more useful than usual.
She’s perhaps aware that she hasn’t had a wrapped stapler for some time, actually, when she arrives at work and finds it slap-bang in the middle of her desk, clearly left there to be found immediately when she shows up. She thinks that’s an interesting sort of development. But she hasn’t been counting the days since Anthony last wrapped her stapler, because she’s seen him a bit in the break room or around the place anyway. And yes, fine, perhaps he has been a little greyer than usual - but she didn’t think anything of it at the time. He’s often a person who looks grumpy and diligent.
Or at least - he often looks like that when he’s not laughing at her or grinning up at her from between her legs.
She wonders now whether his mood has been markedly worse than usual, though, and whether she’s missed something. Because she’s pretty sure that a stapler out in the open like this is an urgent summons. Another guy might just text her, she supposes, but she loves him all the same.
Yes. Well. Enough of that. No need to get pathetic about it.
Time to go find out what’s going on.
She arrives at his office to find that he and Eloise are in there together and very obviously having an argument of some sort. After all - that office is ninety percent window. There’s no way the boss’ two kids could have a row without it being extremely visible.
She can’t tell what they’re arguing about. Like any argument muffled through glass, it’s mostly incomprehensible, with just a sprinkle of typical and hypocrite and head out of your ass discernible along the way.
She therefore turns to Anthony’s secretary, Mrs Wilson, who is sitting at her desk outside his office and studiously not watching events unfold. Thankfully it’s still quite early, and there aren’t that many other folks around to spectate.
“Anthony asked me to pop by but evidently it’s a bad time.” Kate says. That’s more or less true, she decides. He did send her a stapler message, after all.
“The opposite. Perfect timing.” Mrs Wilson tells her firmly. “If anyone can talk them down, my money’s on you. Go on - give it a go.”
Kate only gapes at her. Give it a go? Walk in there and interrupt a row between the boss’ two grown adult children?
“Where’s Edmund?” She asks instinctively. Wouldn’t he want to intervene? He’s very into family harmony, as far as she’s ever seen.
“Oh - didn’t you know? I presumed Anthony had told you. He’s taken a little time off. He’s at home with Violet - taken the dogs on a long walk, I imagine, in this lovely weather.”
Wow. Right. Goodness.
Suddenly she understands why there was an urgent stapler on her desk this morning, and why there’s not been one for some time. She understands why Anthony’s been looking greyer, and most of all, she understands why he and his sister are currently yelling at each other.
“Is Edmund - is he alright?” She has to ask, before she rushes in.
“Yes - right as rain. Just sort of sampling retirement, from what I hear. Anthony will catch you up, I’m sure. I presumed he already had.”
Kate’s not surprised that he didn’t, honestly. She’s starting to understand that he finds oral a lot easier than communication. She doesn’t blame him for that. He is very gifted at oral, and conversation is difficult. If it was easy, she’d have told him to text her rather than leaving a stapler by now, wouldn’t she?
She gathers her courage, marches up to that office door and knocks as ostentatiously as she can.
The two siblings jump to attention, then subside into silence. Evidently neither of them even noticed she was here, despite those glass walls. Clearly this has been quite the row.
Anthony nods at her to enter, so she does.
“Is there anything I can help with?” She asks, expecting the answer to be no. But she thinks, at least, that it’s the sort of supportive-but-polite question which might encourage them to simmer down and talk it out.
It… kind of works.
“Yes, actually. Maybe now you’re here he’ll see sense.” Eloise decides, still visibly fuming. “Can you tell him he’s being a stubborn ass, please, Kate?”
Kate blinks at her. “Gladly. He often is, in my experience. But - just to be clear - what’s he being a stubborn ass about this morning?”
“He’s refusing to ask Dad’s opinion about this problem which came up yesterday.”
“Because he’s taking some time off!” Anthony points out. “I’m not going to bother him about a little thing like this. It’s barely even a problem.”
“He’s walking two beagles around Surrey, Anthony - he’s not in the fucking Himalayas! And you know full well he’d love to pick up the phone and have a chat about work with you.”
“But on this occasion, I don’t actually need his advice, so I’m not going to bother him.”
“It’s not about whether you can survive without his help on this one occasion.” Eloise decides now, actually poking at his chest with a finger. “It’s part of a wider pattern, and you know it. He’s been gone ten days and already you’ve missed family Sunday lunch for work.”
“So I’ll make sure I come to lunch next Sunday and we can -”
“It’s not about the lunch, Anthony. It’s the pattern. You won’t call Dad, you didn’t make it to lunch.” She starts ticking points off on her fingers. “You’ve been here since - what? - about six this morning. You won’t ask anyone for help or advice - I bet you haven’t even told Kate that Dad’s away at all - and I’m worried about you. I don’t want you to turn out like Dad, with a wife and eight kids you adore but never see until you drop dead from sheer stress at the age of fifty!”
There’s a silence so sudden it echoes, somehow.
And - well - Kate understands why she’s here, now, perhaps. If this is a conversation about Anthony and greyness, she supposes she might be quite well qualified to take part.
Anthony seems to have stopped yelling, now. That last point Eloise made about history repeating itself really seems to have got through to him, in fact.
“Dad’s not dead, Eloise.” He says now, quiet.
“I know. But he could have been.”
“And I’m not as bad as he was at my age. The doctors said it was alcohol and lifestyle as well as stress, anyway.”
“I didn’t say you were. I’m not trying to scare you. But I am worried sick about you.” She concludes, jaw firm, all stubborn and visibly shaking with emotion.
Honestly - Kate thinks it’s the most Bridgerton thing she’s ever seen - two siblings who love each other, totally losing their tempers over Anthony acting a bit too diligently dutiful, being a bit too stubborn about admitting when he needs help.
To think she came in here thinking it might be another row about Theo.
Anthony’s nodding slowly, now, throwing his sister a stiff smile.
“Right. Thanks, I guess. Message received.”
“Good. Great.” Eloise nods a single firm nod. “So - maybe you and Kate can take a little break now to drink coffee or - or whatever you two do. And then maybe you can pick up the phone and see what Dad thinks about that sticky situation.”
“Mhmm.”
That’s agreement, more or less. Eloise seems satisfied at least. She’s nodding again, and then she’s pulling her brother in for a very brief and very robust hug, and then she’s marching out the office door.
Kate is left watching a rather grey Anthony sink into his desk chair.
So she sets about doing what she does best, of course.
“She thinks we’re just drinking coffee? Huh. Thought she might have figured it out by now.” She offers, carefully light.
He throws her a tight grin. “I’m pretty sure she has figured it out. I think she just feels awkward mentioning it. You - ah - yeah. You came up in conversation quite a bit this morning. And last night.”
She chooses not to pick up on that second part, not to risk making him uncomfortable.
Instead -
“I’m not surprised she feels awkward about it. You’re her big brother and her boss this week, right?”
“Yeah. I guess so. I mean - temporary boss. Sorry I didn’t tell you about that, by the way. Nothing personal. If I told anyone I’d have told you. Just - you know - Dad’s having a bit of a trial of stepping back from the business, and we wanted to keep it quiet and… yeah. I guess I didn’t want to make a fuss.”
“Oh - absolutely. No fuss here. Not a bit of fuss in sight.” She jokes weakly, pointing at the door Eloise just left through.
He manages to laugh at that.
“She’s not wrong.” He says now, thoughtful. “I could perhaps ask for help more often. I could ask Agatha for advice - she’s been at the firm even longer than Dad has and he asks her advice all the time.”
“Or you could pick up the phone to your dad once in a while. It’s not like he’ll stop caring about this place when he retires. I feel like he leans on you a lot since he got ill, and I never see you lean on him in turn.” She observes, carefully light.
“Hmm. I’m not good at leaning on people who aren’t you.”
She’s not convinced he’s great at leaning on her, either, to be honest. As far as she can tell, all she offers is a very occasional conversation about family and work troubles, a few teasing jokes, and a consistently appreciative audience for oral.
But perhaps that counts as emotional intimacy, where Anthony Bridgerton is concerned.
He’s quiet, now, but he looks a bit less grey, she thinks. He’s trying for a rueful smile, almost managing it.
She walks over to his desk, takes a risk and strokes a fond hand through his hair. That’s the sort of thing she does when he’s got his face between her legs, quite often, but she hopes it might be comforting today, too.
He seems to appreciate it. He turns to press a kiss to her palm as she pulls away - something he’s done very rarely before, in a certain sexual context, and which always gets her annoyingly soft and mushy inside.
It’s not pathetic. It’s not. He’s quite blatantly fond of her, too, these days.
“Thanks for this morning. For - for everything, honestly. That was good timing.” He tells her now. “I owe you - as in, maybe even something other than a sexual favour.” He tries to joke.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
She doesn’t mean to brush him aside and say this is nothing, of course. She’s a firm believer that emotional support is important. What she means is that he doesn’t owe her a thing because he’s already reciprocated a thousand times over, as far as she can see it. She thinks they’re pretty balanced, as emotionally supportive frenemies with benefits go.
Yes, sure, he’s never intervened in a blazing row to rescue her quite like this. But he has helped her step out of her sister’s shadow once and for all, taught her to see herself as a woman worthy of romance, made her feel that she truly belongs in this city and business where she has often felt a little rootless.
Once upon a time, she felt like shit, and went to a Christmas party just to see him, and he made her year.
She doesn’t tell him that, of course. Maybe she’s no more emotionally fluent than he is when all’s said and done. But she does let her hand fall back to his head, does stroke absently through his hair for a moment.
“I mean - I do get more out of this than just oral anyway, you know?” She dares to point out at last.
That’s better than nothing, she hopes.
He grins. “Yeah. Good. Come on - coffee?”
“Coffee. And then you can unwrap my stapler.”
“Is that an innuendo? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“No. You can unwrap my actual stapler.” She tells him, waves that piece of stationery in his face.
“Ah. A shame.”
They’re both smiling, more or less, by the time she opens the door.
…….
There’s a Royal Ascot watch-party in the office later that week.
Of course there is. Obviously this is the sort of office which would hold a watch-party for something which is both pretentious and very very British.
No one actually watches Royal Ascot on this occasion. There’s a conversation early on about horse welfare, and then everyone decides they’ve lost their taste for it, and sits around drinking the first Pimms of the summer instead.
Well - everyone except Kate and Anthony drinks Pimms.
They can’t, obviously. Sober consent is important.
…….
His excuses to get his mouth on her sink to a new level of ridiculous, she thinks fondly, when the invitation for the July 4th American Style Potluck lands in her inbox.
It’s a very Anthony email, all full sentences and semicolons, and he’s blind-copied it to the whole office as usual, she presumes. There’s something unusual at work, though, because it’s being held at his apartment, not the office downstairs space.
Wild. Truly wild. They’ve been out to the pub on a couple of rare occasions, but this is a new development.
They chat about it by the coffee machine, later that day. They’ve managed to get coffee together most days, lately, since his sister yelled at him to. It’s possible that this is quite a dysfunctional sort of romance, but Kate finds it an increasingly romantic one all the same.
“So are you coming on Saturday?” He asks, poking her with a teaspoon.
There’s no one around. She checks before answering. “Yes - and coming too, I guess.”
“What?”
“Coming? Coming? A pun on attendance and orgasms? Come on, Bridgerton. Don’t let me down like this.” She teases.
He grins. “Don’t worry. You’re in safe hands. I won’t let you down on Saturday - that’s what counts, right?”
She laughs, because she knows the script. She knows that sexual boasting is a firmly established part of their routine, now.
Only -
“You know I show up for your company and not just your face, right?” She actually dares to own to the truth outright, eyes fixed carefully on her coffee cup.
“Oh - obviously. My charm is irresistible.”
She waits him out. She just sits there, brows raised, waits for him to address her actual point. Somehow, after that scene in his office last week, she actually believes he can.
“Good to hear it said, though. Ahm - thanks.” He manages, scratching awkwardly at his ear. “Right back at you, you know?”
Yes. She knows. Somehow, in the last six months, she’s become a person who genuinely trusts that this is something.
In fact - she’s wondering whether she might go wild and make a move on Saturday. There must be a bed in his apartment, right? They could switch it up a little, go wild and try adding something else to their repertoire.
Although, honestly, she thinks they might need to learn how to discuss what they’re even doing here more than they need to learn other locations to put their faces.
…….
She decides to cook up a couple of recipes inherited from her birth mother, for this fabulously culturally confusing potluck. She thinks these very British Bridgertons would benefit from learning what texture rice is actually supposed to have.
Then she frets about how to transport it all on the tube, about whether it’ll get too damp with all that steam trapped inside the tupperware - and catches herself thinking that it’s the kind of exacting thing Anthony would worry about.
Really - is fretful fussiness something that can be sexually transmitted?
She manages to laugh it off, then, gets on with boxing up her food and taking herself to the tube station.
She duly arrives at Anthony’s apartment. She’s actually never been here before - she’s been to a couple of summer barbecues at his parents’ back before his dad was ill, and she’s been to Eloise’s apartment all of once.
But now, today, is the day she sees where Anthony Bridgerton lives when he’s not busy living at his desk.
He’s the one who opens the door for her, and she’s grateful for that. It means he’s right there to hear her first impressions of the place.
“This is surprisingly tasteful. I expected more stag heads and family heirlooms.” She tells him, eyes searching the entryway, peering ahead into the lounge.
There’s not a stag head in sight, in fact, and she could swear that thing on the shelf is a fake plant from Ikea.
“Ah - my stag head collection is all in the kitchen.” He deadpans, lips twitching.
And - God - she so nearly kisses him, there and then. She so nearly just gets on and does it.
Only that’s daft, of course, because she’s not at all interested in stag head humour. But somehow, lately, she’s so far gone for him that she’s interested in everything he says or does.
Well - that’s a symptom of romance, she supposes.
She manages to restrain the urge to kiss him, settles for looping her arm through his instead. He’s leading her down a hallway, in the general direction of what she recognises as his parents’ voices.
She can’t see anyone in the living room as they go past, though. And she’s not early, so she shouldn’t be one of the first to arrive. All in all, this strikes her as a rather small crowd for a potluck.
“Where is everyone?” She asks him simply.
“Eloise and Theo are on their way. But that’s all we’re expecting. Just us, them and my parents. I guess not many folks fancied making a trip out on a Saturday.”
She thinks that might not be true. She thinks it might be a deliberate ruse, every bit as much as this whole weak knees experiment is clearly a ruse.
Really - his ruses to date her without dating her are getting a little out of hand, at this stage.
She chooses, though, to pick up on something else he said rather than addressing that omnipresent elephant which has been living in the room, lately.
“You invited Theo.” She observes.
“Yes. That’s a thing I do now. He’s been to Sunday lunch a few times and he was at that Ascot thing. And - well - this is the first time I’ve explicitly told her that I hope he’ll join us. She made a bit of a fuss over it, actually. Told me I might be getting over my emotional constipation after all these years.”
She pats fondly at his arm. “Don’t worry. I like emotionally constipated men. I’m only grateful you seem into emotionally constipated women, too.”
“You take that back. You’re not that emotionally constipated.” He argues, because of course he does.
She just raises her brows at him. She’s here for what is clearly a meet-the-family triple-date dinner, and yet still neither of them has addressed their situation out loud.
If that doesn’t make them both emotionally constipated, she doesn’t know what would.
They’ve arrived at the kitchen, now. Kate finds that both Anthony’s parents seem overly glad to see her, which is quite flattering, she decides. She asks a few easy questions about Edmund’s recent time off, hears that he’s now learnt a quiet life with his wife and beagles and the two children still at home is quite a pleasant thing.
Violet then shows her where to add her tupperwares to the rest of the food. That’s when Kate realises this is destined to be a very strange potluck in other ways which go far beyond the guest list, too. Anthony’s parents have provided a selection of non-matching and very British dishes - strawberries, sausage rolls, potato salad with too much mayonnaise.
Anthony himself has provided a batch of mille-feuilles.
That’s right. Mille-feuilles. And homemade mille-feuilles at that. He’s actually spent his Saturday producing fussy French pastries.
She wonders, very suddenly, whether she’s supposed to be impressed by that.
“How long did they take you?” She asks him mildly.
“Only about four hours.”
Only four hours. Of course. That’s just the kind of man he is.
“That’s some impressive dedication to patisserie.” She admits, grudging.
He grins at her. “I knew you’d be impressed.”
“I still don’t think lamination is your greatest talent. There are others which impress me more.” She argues fondly.
He starts choking on thin air, briefly, at that point. Violet actually asks what’s wrong with him, and Kate wonders how on earth to defuse an awkward situation which consists of questions tangential to her sex life from a woman who is not actually her mother-in-law.
At that very moment, Eloise saves the day by showing up with a platter of vegan hotdogs and an edgy journalist boyfriend.
Truly, this is the strangest American-style potluck in the world.
They have a good time, though. Of course they do. Kate is fast realising it’s impossible not to have a good time with Anthony, one way or another.
And he’s on really good form tonight. It’s quite endearing, honestly, to see him so relaxed and easy and warm. He keeps joking around with his sister, and complimenting the food Kate brought, and making earnest conversation with Theo about the world of political journalism.
Kate briefly finds herself wondering whether she is on good enough form, whether she’s being sufficiently interesting and engaging and bright.
But then she remembers that Anthony’s quite attached to her anyway, and decides not to let it bother her.
They take a pause before dessert to play a game of Pictionary. Anthony insists that it must be Pictionary, because he and Kate have unfinished business with Pictionary, and Eloise argues a little but they do ultimately end up playing Pictionary all the same.
They play a bit better this time. Kate learns that Benedict - probably the Bridgerton she knows least well - is considered the best in the family at Pictionary.
Apparently Anthony is considered the worst, and Violet is pleasantly surprised that he and Kate are not losing by a country mile.
“Yes, thank you, Mother.” He tells her at that, all ostensibly grumpy.
“But you wanted to play it anyway so we could redeem ourselves? Sweet.” Kate teases him fondly.
“He does own other games.” Eloise observes now. “We’re quite a board game family. Just you wait until you see us playing Monopoly. Are you coming surfing with us this year? There’s always Monopoly on the Bridgerton family annual surfing holiday.”
“We haven’t really talked about it yet. Too soon.” Anthony jumps in, before Kate can say a thing.
Fascinating. They haven’t talked about it yet, hmm? And the family genuinely think it likely that she might be joining them on their annual family holiday?
She just needs to get on and start a conversation about what they’re actually doing here, doesn’t she?
Today. She’ll try that later today. There’s bound to be a good opportunity, since she’s on a meet-the-family triple-date at his home, and all.
Pictionary comes to an end, and dessert follows soon after it. Kate makes a point of being very impressed indeed by her mille-feuille. She thinks that’s probably the thing to do, in the too soon stage of a relationship - so soon that they never even call it a relationship to each other’s faces, in fact.
And then, when the strawberry supply dwindles and the mille-feuilles have started going soggy, Anthony invites her to slip away from the party.
“Kate - did you want that file on the Jones case while you’re here?” He asks her, as if it is something he has only just remembered.
“Oh. Of course. That file.”
“It’s just in my study if you want to come get it.”
Naturally he has a home study.
So today is the day she enjoys oral in Anthony’s home study, it turns out.
It all gets off to quite a typical start. They walk through the door, he shows her to a chair, she unzips her jeans and gets her panties out of the way.
She wonders about saying something now. But somehow, now he’s kneeling between her legs and grinning up at her with that familiar grin, she doesn’t quite dare to ruin the moment.
So she settles in and enjoys it. She tugs at his hair a little, tweaks at his ears, tries to stay a bit quieter than she usually would. She’s presuming he doesn’t actually want to advertise to his family what they’re doing in here.
Then she’s there, and it’s done, and she’s patting fondly at his head while she tries to pull together a few words.
“I really could return the favour, you know. I might want to.” She goes so far as to suggest. “Or - you must have a bed somewhere here, right? You do live here.”
She genuinely thinks he’s quite likely to agree to it, today. They’re obviously together. He clearly can’t keep his hands or mouth off her. She’s just been half-invited on a family holiday, for crying out loud.
She’s feeling confident - romantic confident, not just workplace confident - and it catches her by surprise.
But then, somehow, he’s shaking his head no as he gets to his feet, as he offers her a hand to stand in turn.
“No thanks. Mustn’t mess with the status quo.”
Mustn’t mess with the status quo.
Is that how he sees it? They’ve found something that works, or partly-works, and he doesn’t dare to try anything different?
“Anthony -”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. I enjoyed that. Come on - let’s get back to the party.”
She’s not disappointed. Really she’s not. She likes her men emotionally constipated, right?
Or at least - she likes her men called Anthony Bridgerton, and this is just how he is.
She wonders what an emotional laxative would be, and how on earth she could go about finding one.
…….
Mustn’t mess with the status quo.
It stays with her.
It echoes around her head, honestly, like a catchy song played on loop. She spends the rest of the weekend thinking about the status quo, about a man who is determined that his father should retire and enjoy his health while it lasts, but who is too scared of messing with the status quo to push him on it.
She never realised there was such a rigid status quo to their frenemies with benefit arrangement, too, in his mind at least.
The more she thinks about it, the more she realises that Anthony is a guy who lives life clinging by his fingernails to the status quo - or at least, he has been ever since his father nearly died.
She wonders, suddenly, whether it would have done him less harm if his father had actually died, rather than this way he’s been living in fear of change or heartbreak ever since.
She hopes this means there’s some chance of tidying up their relationship, at least. If he’s worried about messing with the status quo, that means he’s really invested, right? That means she’s genuinely important to him, and he’d rather be content with this than risk pushing for more and being devastated if it doesn’t work out.
So she just needs to show him that they can be a really functional couple who do normal dating things without it ruining anything.
Hmm. She thinks she might need to show herself that, too.
…….
She starts on Monday morning by asking Agatha whether she was invited to the potluck at the weekend.
Agatha seems confused. She thinks Kate is talking about the office summer barbecue next weekend - the first summer barbecue they’ve had since Edmund was ill - but she doesn’t think that’s supposed to be a potluck. She doesn’t think the guests are expected to bring anything.
“Why would we do a potluck? Isn’t that a very American sort of thing?” Agatha even asks.
That settles it. Definitely a ruse.
She therefore emails Anthony a silly online article about the ten best patisserie recipes to make at home. He follows up, but not with a sharp little joke about her reading crap online during working hours, and how he might report her to the boss. She really expected he might do something like that.
No - he walks up to her desk at two in the afternoon instead.
“Coffee break?” He suggests, reaching out to straighten her stapler on her desk.
“I only finished my lunch forty minutes ago.” She tells him, rather taken aback.
“OK. So - coffee in an hour or two?” He compromises.
“Sure. D’you think you can whip up a batch of macarons in two hours?” She asks, because she hopes patisserie teasing is now part of their repertoire.
He cocks his head, as if considering it.
She is struck by a wonderful idea.
“We could pop out somewhere. Might do us both good to get out of the office for a bit, right?” She suggests. “If you can find a place which sells mille-feuilles I’ll buy you one so you can spend twenty minutes telling me all the ways in which yours were better.”
“If we do coffee and pastry out I’m definitely paying.” He argues.
She rolls her eyes. “Spare me the chivalry and go find us a patisserie, Bridgerton.”
“Already done. Great minds think alike or something. I was already thinking today might be the day we branch out beyond the breakroom.” He admits, with a cautious grin.
She beams right back at him. “Did you just call me a great mind?”
“Don’t get used to it. I’ll see you at four?”
“Three-thirty.” She counters. She can’t have him thinking he’s won any kind of argument, now, just because they go on coffee dates beyond the office together.
“Three-thirty.”
He rearranges her stapler one more time and then goes on his way.
…….
The mille-feuilles are actually worse than Anthony’s, and Kate even manages to admit it.
He looks so damn smug about that, but he’s got quite a pretty sort of smug face, she decides.
Aside from the underwhelming mille-feuilles it’s just like drinking coffee in the break room, honestly. But that’s sort of the point, isn’t it? The entire purpose of this exercise must be to prove to themselves that they can achieve explicitly dating behaviour without ruining what makes them good together.
So -
“This has been really fun.” She tells him, poking him with a teaspoon.
“Even I can’t argue with that.”
……..
She texts him late on Wednesday night.
That’s a carefully planned and strategic move, on her part. She thinks learning how to communicate outside of the workplace and plastic-wrapped staplers must be important if they’re going to improve on the status quo. But as well as being careful and strategic, it also comes from the heart. She’s not seen him in a couple of days, and honestly she misses him, and she could use a bit of his company and humour.
She’s hoping, too, that not seeing him is not a sign that he’s shut himself in his office to work too hard.
But even though she’s being careful and strategic, best start small, she decides. Best start with a nod to the status quo.
Can you wrap my stapler in the morning? She asks him simply.
He replies right away. Sure. What’s wrong? Is there something specific we need to talk about?
No drama. Just haven’t seen you since Monday and fancied a chat.
Suddenly, all at once, her phone is buzzing in her hand. He’s actually calling her - he, Anthony Bridgerton, loyal subject of the status quo - is calling her a few minutes before midnight.
She picks up, of course. She’s not a total fool.
“Hello, you.” She says, tries not to sound too hopelessly warm about it.
“Go on then. Chat.” He instructs her - just a little brittle, as if wondering whether he’s done the right thing.
“Do I still get my stapler wrapped if we chat now?” She asks, thoughtful.
He laughs. “Maybe. I’ll keep you guessing, I think. Honestly, when I started doing the whole stapler thing, I didn’t expect it to get out of hand like this. I’m getting a bit worried about all the plastic waste, honestly. I’ve been wondering about switching to recycled gift wrap.”
“Hmm. Good shout. Definitely more sustainable. Or - you know - you could just send me a message when you want to talk. The old-fashioned way, with a phone, maybe?”
“Come on. You like the stapler thing.” He reminds her, all cocky and smug.
She wonders for a moment about telling him that, honestly, his total dedication to stationery-based running jokes has her weaker at the knees than any oral he’s ever given her.
But maybe she’s scared to mess with the status quo, too. Maybe she’d best just stick with the tiny step she planned to make tonight, and not go too off-piste.
Although, while they’re here -
“If I admit I like the stapler thing, can we get coffee again tomorrow?” She tries bargaining.
“We can get coffee anyway.”
It is, all things considered, one of the better conversations she’s had at eleven-forty-seven.
…….
The next morning, her stapler is wrapped in unbleached brown paper gift wrap. She presumes it’s recycled, too. Anthony is someone who goes the whole hog when he’s made his mind up on something.
She wonders how he had the time to achieve it since last night, honestly.
She wonders how he can achieve this but not kiss her on the lips.
…….
She arrives at the Bridgerton and Sons summer barbecue later than she would like.
She tried on three different summer dresses before settling on the one she first thought of anyway. Then as she was leaving her apartment block, she had to go all the way back upstairs to apply suncream when she realised the day was no longer overcast and it was looking set to be a scorching afternoon and evening. And then, of course, London public transport is somehow always worse in hot weather.
So now she’s one of the last to arrive at the Bridgerton family home. She’s a little sweaty and discombobulated, and she’s trying desperately not to show it.
It’s Colin who opens the door for her.
“Oh good. It’s you.” He says bluntly. “Anthony was on the brink of sending out a search party.”
She smiles fondly. “He could just have texted me. I’ll tell him to text me next time.”
After all, texting is a thing they do now, on rare occasions.
“He’s out back pretending to know about barbecues.” Colin tells her now. “In case you were wondering - you know, wondering where to find him, or wondering whether he knows anything about masculine meat grilling.”
She hopes that Colin never says masculine meat grilling ever again, and tells him so.
She makes her way through the kitchen, with a general intention of going out back in search of her frenemy-with-benefits-and-coffee-dates-and -
Her Anthony. She’s heading out back in search of her Anthony.
She’s waylaid by his parents, who are standing in the kitchen near a bowl of mayonnaise-heavy potato salad. The potato salad is possibly incidental, but now Kate has noticed it, she can’t shake the idea that the stuff follows them around, somehow.
It’s Violet who starts the conversation.
“So lovely to see you again, Kate.”
“It’s been good to see you so often lately.” Edmund adds for good measure.
Kate resists the urge to point out that she actually works for him, so it’s hardly a rarity to see her twice in one week.
She hears their point. They don’t know what to do about the status quo either.
Kate wonders whether, at this rate, she and Anthony will still be celebrating singlehood by the time next Valentine’s day rolls around.
She pushes that thought aside and strikes out in a more useful direction.
“I heard Anthony was out back at the barbecue, but Agatha seems to be taking care of that.” She points through the window, where Agatha is holding barbecue tongs and Anthony is nowhere to be seen.
“I saw him out there not long ago.” Violet offers, frowning. “Let’s go and look for him, shall we? I should take him some sun cream if he’s going to be out there much longer.”
The two of them set out. Kate decides that there is something fabulously Bridgerton about this little jaunt in search of her frenemy-with-
Her Anthony. There’s something very Bridgerton about Violet trying to help her track down her Anthony. They’re stopped by Eloise en route, of course, who wants to know where Kate bought her dress, but then wants to pretend she’s not so interested in such feminine things as fashion, and then wants to join the chorus of Bridgertons who think it necessary to tell Kate that Anthony was moping without her.
“He’s on the topiary bench, I think. I saw him going that way holding a can of Coke and looking sorry for himself.”
So Kate and Violet head in that direction, of course. Kate never realised the Bridgertons had a topiary bench but it does seem pretty on-brand.
It occurs to her suddenly that she could have offered to carry the suncream. She might not have had Violet here to make her feel self-conscious, if she’d thought of that.
Really - this whole romance with Anthony has entirely scrambled her brain. Dim-wittedness is definitely sexually transmitted. She’ll tell him that when she sees him, as soon as the right moment presents itself. That’s just the sort of fond insult he’ll appreciate.
It’s Benedict who interrupts their search, next. He wants to make some comment about Pictionary and - sure enough - wants to tell Kate that Anthony was wondering where she had got to.
Really, this is becoming at least a little ridiculous.
Sure enough, they eventually find Anthony on a bench by a topiary, and he stands up with a grin when he sees them approach.
“You took your time.” He tells Kate, which she knows is his way of saying he’s missed her.
“The tube grinds to a halt whenever it’s hotter than 25 degrees. This is a known fact.” She argues, because it’s not untrue.
“I still managed to get here on time.”
“It’s your home.”
“But I don’t really live here.”
Violet gives a pointed cough. Kate remembers she’s there, turns to watch her try to give her son healthcare advice.
“I came out here to suggest some suncream, darling.” Violet explains, holds the bottle out in Anthony’s general direction.
He does not choose to take it. “I’m fine.”
“Even you are not immune to sunburn, Anthony. Here - I insist. And mind you don’t forget your neck. You always forget your neck.” Violet continues to fuss over him fondly.
Kate can see where he gets it from now, honestly.
She can see, too, the funniest look on his face. It’s suddenly so plain to her that he’s feeling all squirmy and embarrassed about his mother patronising him over suncream in front of the girl he likes. She’s never seen him wear his heart on his sleeve in such simple terms before now.
It’s even funnier because she knows he’s exactly the sort to be precise about suncream, if only his mother wasn’t insisting on it in front of her.
Goodness. The status quo does have a lot to answer for.
She decides that she had better put everyone out of their misery and protect her Anthony’s skin, too.
“Come on. I’ll do your neck.” She announces.
She reaches out to take the suncream from Violet - as she should have done in the house, honestly - and squirts a handful of it into Anthony’s palm without giving him the chance to object.
Violet seems to think that’s mission accomplished and walks away. Kate wonders whether she really doesn’t want her suncream back. Are the Bridgertons so very wealthy that they just give away suncream to visitors? Suncream is always disproportionately expensive, in Kate’s experience.
She stops thinking of that, starts rubbing it into the back of Anthony’s neck, instead.
He has a good neck. She’s squashed it between her thighs quite often lately, of course, but she’s never really had an excuse to just touch it like this.
So it is that the two of them stand there silently applying suncream for a moment or two. His neck and shoulders feel tense, she thinks, as she works her fingers just under the collar of his shirt. Is that all because she was late? Is there something else going on?
Is he always this tense? Could she suggest a little neck massage moment more often?
Anthony seems to have finished with applying that suncream to his arms, now, but he hasn’t moved a muscle. He’s just sort of standing there, perhaps feeling a little spare and awkward, but certainly not complaining.
She wonders whether they might do a lot of suncream application if she goes on this mythical family surfing holiday, later in the summer.
And then -
“Dad’s announcing his retirement today and - and that I’m taking over. He’s telling everyone in thirty-seven minutes.” He mutters, checking his watch.
“Oh. Congratulations.” She tells him, with a squeeze at his shoulder. “That’s exciting - and a lot, too, right?”
“Yeah. A lot. I hope the firm accepts me. I hope Eloise accepts me.”
“She will. She’ll be thrilled for you. She might also yell at you to take a break or ask for help occasionally, but I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing.”
“She didn’t yell at all when Dad spoke with us about it. We had this weirdly functional and mature conversation about lessons learnt. I was worried for us both, honestly.” He tries to joke. “I think I’m going to make her my equal partner in a few years, when she’s not fresh out of graduating and has had time to find her feet. I feel like I know a lawyer or two who could sort out the paperwork for that.”
“I think that’s a really good plan.”
“Yeah. I was hoping you’d say that.”
There’s a pause - but not an uncomfortable one, of course. She’s pretty certain the two of them are always comfortable, these days. She’s just rubbing softly at his neck, and he’s breathing a little easier, and the world goes on turning around them.
She never realised life could be this peaceful, as an insecure over-achiever with beloved sister jealousy issues.
“Are you done? You know - the suncream?” He asks her now, more thoughtful than impatient.
“Almost.”
It’s not entirely a lie. She thinks he’s almost calmed the hell down, now he’s told her his big news and she’s rubbed his neck for a bit. And she’s definitely feeling pretty put-together, now.
Was she feeling sweaty and discombobulated when she arrived here? That feels ages ago, now.
He clears his throat, suddenly says something which surprises her. “You look gorgeous, by the way. Ever since you walked over here I’ve been trying to think of some clever and witty barbecue-and-summer-dress pun. You know - something about smoking hot?”
Smoking hot? Smoking hot?
Fuck the status quo.
She kisses him. She just throws herself at him, lips-first, heedless of her almost-finished suncream situation. He’s kissing her back, clutching at her waist and hips and running his hands all over her back. She’s tangling a hand in his hair, tugging at the roots.
She realises she’s probably getting suncream in his hair, and he’s probably a person who cares about a thing like that.
But if she stops to worry about it, there’s a risk this might all disappear.
They keep kissing, and she wonders what happens next. They’re partially obscured by a conveniently placed topiary, but hardly in private. Are they just going to make out a bit but then go to the barbecue like nothing happened?
Like they’ve been pretending nothing happened for months now?
He groans into the kiss - fully groans - and that’s when she dares to hope that perhaps the status quo has been conquered at last.
“Are you good?” She pulls back just far enough to ask him.
“So good. So fucking perfect. You?”
“Never better.” She tells him, and means it.
“Come on. Inside. We are going somewhere inside with fewer siblings the other side of this hedge.”
She laughs, nods her agreement, starts leading the way.
Except - she doesn’t have a clue where she’s going, does she? She’s only ever been here for a barbecue and fond bickering before.
Now they’re adding making out behind topiary to the mix she’s not sure which part of the house is the obvious place to take it.
He’s better equipped to figure that out, of course. He sneaks her in some side door without anyone commenting on their joined hands or breathy giggles. Then they scamper up a flight of stairs, arrive in a sort of small sitting room.
And then?
Then they lie on a couch together and make out for a really long time.
Honestly - a noteworthy long time. As in, abnormally long for just kissing - and yet just kissing seems like a poor description, really, when there’s so much else going on here, all wandering hands and warm moans and breathy giggles.
But there’s no cocks or cunts involved, not yet. That’s what Kate means, when she categorises it as just kissing. Yes, sure, Anthony seems obsessed with stroking the line from just underneath her breast, through her waistline and over her hip. But fundamentally, they’re simply making out.
She feels that she should be pressing onto something else. She can feel his cock pressing hard against her through their clothes, can feel her own arousal pooling in her panties.
But actually, after all these years, it feels so good just to kiss and touch and enjoy being together. This is the step they’ve always skipped until now, isn’t it?
This is the last piece of the relationship puzzle, falling into place at last.
After some time, though, he does start nudging the skirt of that summer dress aside, does reach for the elastic of her panties. And so that he can be in no doubt as to what she wants to suggest, today, she unbuckles his belt at the same time and starts pulling his chinos down as best she can.
Of course he’s wearing chinos. Naturally he is. He’s a walking stereotype of himself, honestly, and she wouldn’t have him any other way.
“Condom?” She asks. She had best check that part before she actually tackles those boxers, she thinks.
He faffs for just a moment, produces one from his pocket. She wonders whether he stashed it there in the hopes that something like this might happen, or whether he keeps one on him habitually, just in case, just to be prepared for any sexual emergency which might occur around him. Either seems likely, honestly, knowing him as she does.
She’s just reaching for his boxers at last when he pulls back far enough to look her right in the eye.
“Are you sure?” He asks plainly. “This wasn’t exactly the setting I had in mind. I was totally going to invite you back to my place, just the two of us this time, and sweep you off your feet.” He protests.
She laughs. “You swept me off my feet months ago, and you must know it - even if you never did get me weak at the knees. Come on - we’ve got this.”
“Yeah. We have.” He agrees, and sounds like he means it.
“It’s not like we’re going to notice the setting, right? I for one plan to be a bit distracted by you.”
“Likewise.”
“Great. So - I’m good to go. Entirely sober and entirely consenting.” She tells him, a serious but playful echo of where this all began.
It earns her a particularly enthusiastic kiss, that. And then he’s actually pulling his own boxers down, and rolling the condom into place, as if she only imagined that he was putting this off, all those months.
He has a pretty pleasing cock, she decides, as she watches him get the condom on. It’s moderately sized, soft skin and hard length in just the right way, and it lists just a little to the left. She kind of wondered whether there was some size anxiety or performance anxiety in all these delaying tactics he’s employed lately.
This afternoon, she realises it was probably only anxiety anxiety, and she thinks that’s fair enough.
“You need a bit more warm-up?” He asks, skimming his hand over her cunt.
“Oh - that wasn’t enough foreplay for you?” She counters.
“Best foreplay of my life, and don’t you question it.” He corrects her, all firm and playful, just as she likes him. “But what about you?”
“Anthony. I have been waiting five years for this. We have been warming up for eight months - and at least half an hour today. Relax and get in there.”
He does. He just does, and it’s perfect.
He knows what she likes, more or less. She can tell that all those months of oral have taught him a few things on that score. He’s pacing it just perfectly, and her hips are instinctively rocking to meet him in turn.
She feels more at sea. She’s not sure what he’s into. But she has the confidence, these days, that he’s very into her so it doesn’t much matter as long as she communicates with him about it, she decides.
So -
“Any preferences? Any feedback?” She asks, between kisses.
“Just kiss me.” He tells her - or begs, honestly.
She can do that. She kisses him harder for a moment to make a point, perhaps, runs a hand over his lower back all the while. They’re still both mostly dressed, she notes, but that’s fair enough. They have a future to figure out things like leisurely undressing.
And then -
“And - your hand in my hair. You know. That thing. The thing you do.” He asks now.
Well. She can certainly manage that.
They get on pretty well, all things considered. He builds the rhythm up, steadily faster and faster. She kisses him, and does that hair thing, and tries not to worry about whether she’s making this entertaining enough.
Before long, honestly, she’s too far gone to think of things like that. She’s trying desperately to cling to what he said he wanted from her - kisses, her hand in his hair - but she’s a bit distracted by the place where cunt and cock meet, by the pleasure building there, by Anthony somehow still kissing her quite neatly all the while.
She’s there. She’s falling apart, clenching around him, trying not to get too self-conscious about the needy moan she gives as it happens.
He swears a little, and then says her name a bit, and then groans.
She’s guessing that’s a good sign, at this point.
He’s not there quite yet. She wonders whether he’s been trying deliberately to hold out on her, or whether he has a longer fuse and felt a bit self-conscious about it. That seems like the kind of thing she might expect from him, honestly.
Somehow, it never even occurs to her to be insecure about coming so soon, this time around. They’re not in a glass-fronted office today, and she has no excuse, and she needs no excuse.
He just knows how to set her off, and that’s fine - actually a good thing, in fact.
“You good? Need anything from me?” She asks between kisses.
Oh. Well. She thinks that’s him coming. She doesn’t know his sex noises very well, of course, because they’ve been quite contrasting participants in their sex life so far. And she thinks she can feel him spilling inside the condom, but honestly, she always finds it hard to tell a thing like that from feel alone. At this point, she’s going off the mood - the way he seemed pretty wound up there, then groaned a bit, and then slowed right down.
And now? Now he’s pretty much still, and kissing her deeply and - well - she just has to hope that’s a good sign, right?
“I’m good. Perfect. Never better.” He tells her now, answers that question at last - with a sort of self-satisfied chuckle, too.
Great. That’s that one confirmed, then.
“Didn’t mean to distract you there. I - ah - I misjudged the timing.” She admits, and she’s not overly worried about it, but it is perhaps a little embarrassing.
“Really? No worries. I thought that was pretty smooth for our first time, right?” He asks, pulling away far enough to meet her eye.
She has to laugh at that.
“What?” He prompts her, pokes lightly at her ribs.
“That’s what I thought at the Christmas party, honestly. I was sitting there in your desk chair thinking this is pretty good for our first time. Glad you caught up, Bridgerton.”
He grins at her. “Yeah? I’m pretty glad I caught up, too.”
He goes to pull away, then. He starts sitting up a bit, but she’s sure from the look in his eyes that’s something to do with the status quo rather than a genuine desire to run out the door without looking back.
So -
“Stay a while?” She suggests. “I’m not in a rush to get back out there. I think you’ve finally sent me weak at the knees.”
He laughs, settles back in for a messy mostly-clothed cuddle. She presses a few kisses to his forehead, and hopes this will be the kind of relationship where forehead kisses are a feature. She could become a fan of a forehead kiss or two quite often, she thinks.
“We can’t stay here forever.” He reminds her now, slow, thoughtful. “We’d better get cleaned up and back out there before this announcement in - fuck.” He’s looking at his watch. “Three minutes ago.”
Kate has never sat up so fast in her life. She ends up sitting right into him, in fact, and headbutting him as she goes.
“Fuck. Sorry. I didn’t realise we’d been at it that long.” She says in a rush. “We can’t have you missing that. Shit. Sorry - that’s so important and I distracted you at the wrong moment and -”
“Breathe, Kate.” He suggests, actually still sitting half on top of her, with very little sign of urgency, as far as she can tell. “It’s not as important as this. Personally I think it was the perfect moment. I was wondering whether we’d ever figure it out if I’m about to become technically your boss.”
She’s listening, vaguely, as she tries to put herself back to rights. But she’s not really hearing him, perhaps, as she tries to pull her panties up, but she can’t because he’s still sitting on her legs, and -
“Kate. Stop.” He tells her, a little firmer, hand on her shoulder. “Another minute or two won’t hurt. Stop freaking out on me, and stop blaming yourself - we just lost track of time. But I refuse to go back out there until - until we’ve done this properly. Just… breathe a minute and let me tell you that I’m serious about us. I meant it, when I said this is more important right now than - than that thing. I - ah - I think we should date properly, if you’re up for that. I thought I might take you out for dinner on Friday if you’re free.”
It’s so perfectly him. He’s evidently still fretting about the status quo, at least a little bit, but he’s still planned out some careful words to define the relationship, by the sound of it.
So she kisses him again, firm, confident. She runs her fingers through his hair, too, because she knows what she’s doing, now.
And then she decides she should perhaps answer his question at last.
“Yes. Yes to all of it.” She tells him plainly. “Serious suits me perfectly. But - Friday? I have to wait for Friday for dinner? That seems a long time away. Counter suggestion - I come back to your place tonight and we get brunch tomorrow?”
“Yes. Hell yes. Perfect.”
They do manage to get on with rushing urgently towards where they’re supposed to be, then. He even gets up so she can pull her panties back up, which is progress.
By the time they’ve set their clothing back to rights, it’s at least five minutes since the announcement was supposed to happen. They go down the stairs together - quite swift, but hand-in-hand - and find that Edmund and Violet are still standing around the kitchen together, still haunting that bowl of over-mayonnaised potato salad, with no sign of any announcement in sight.
“Oh - there you are.” Edmund says mildly, as if he’s not at all concerned.
“Sorry I’m late. I - ah - I realise it’s not a great start, Dad. Ahm - yes. Sorry. Won’t happen again.” Anthony says, visibly mortified.
“It was my fault.” Kate offers for good measure.
“It really wasn’t.”
“It was mostly my fault.”
“It was not your fault, and I -”
“No matter.” Edmund interrupts them, evidently quite amused. “No harm done at all. We were only beginning to wonder if I might be announcing your wedding date, son, as well as your new job title.”
Kate starts laughing at that.
Anthony, on the other hand, looks horrified. “Too soon, Dad. Too soon. Leave it, please. Invite her to Cornwall if you must make a fuss, but that?”
“Too soon - but quite funny.” Kate points out, because she does love vexing Anthony just so.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you that much.” Edmund protests, hands held aloft as if to defend himself.
But as he gives up, somehow, Violet joins in. “For what it’s worth, I’ve always thought June is a good month for a wedding. There are probably plenty of venues still available for next June, in case you were wondering.”
“Mum -”
“I’ll stop. I’ll stop.”
There’s a pause. Probably a mildly awkward one, but Kate is honestly rather entertained by the whole thing - and Anthony is still holding fast to her hand, so evidently not too much damage has been done to his good mood.
Then Violet pipes up yet again. “I’m not wrong. June is a lovely month. And it’s not as if you two haven’t been an inevitability for years. I simply can’t understand why you’re taking so long over it. Why - when we were young, your father pressed on and bought me a ring within weeks.”
“I like your parents.” Kate offers now, in a mock-whisper. “Most of all, I like how obviously they approve of me.”
There’s laughter all round at that.
“I’m sure it’s supposed to be encouraging.” Anthony decides, even as he’s shaking his head in stern disapproval.
It’s quite an endearing mix - and very him, she decides. Amusement and disapproval, all tangled together, is really what he does best, in her experience.
“Go on, you two.” Violet says now, waving at the garden. “We must stop tormenting you. Go and enjoy the afternoon for a while.”
“Let’s announce that news in another twenty minutes or so, hmm? Wouldn’t want to rush you.” Edmund suggests.
Kate knows what’s going to happen before it does, though. She watches Anthony visibly square his shoulders, feels him squeeze her hand, sees him look his father right in the eye.
“I’m ready now, actually. Let’s do this.” He says, all firm and decisive. “I’ll still be able to enjoy the afternoon once we’ve told everyone, right? It’s not as if it changes everything. It’s only a pretty predictable passing of the baton.”
“Right you are, boss.” Edmund tips him an imaginary hat. “Let’s get to it.”
Kate finds herself part of the little procession which winds its way out onto the terrace. She’s standing right there, still holding Anthony’s hand, as Violet starts chiming a spoon against a glass to get everyone’s attention, as Edmund starts raising his voice over the general hubbub.
“You’ve got this.” She tells Anthony under her breath.
He flashes her an easy smile - a surprisingly easy smile under the circumstances, perhaps, only today, she’s not surprised.
“Of course I have.” He tells her, more true confidence than that hollow arrogance he used to carry.
“That’s the spirit.”
“It’s the truth. If I can get you weak at the knees, I’m pretty sure I can do anything.”