My ancient backup phone rings at three in the afternoon. The ringtone is something I set in 2015 and never bothered to change—a tinny version of a song I no longer remember liking. Possibly One Direction. Definitely embarrassing.
"Darling!" My mother's voice could power a small city. "I have the most wonderful news!"
Helen Webb does not call with wonderful news. She calls with dramatic news that she's rebranded as wonderful through sheer force of optimism.
"What's happening, Mum?"
"I'm getting married! Next week! To Richard Crawford—you remember Richard, don't you? My oldest friend from university? We've reconnected and fallen madly in love!"
I nearly drop my dinosaur phone. "You're getting married? In one week?"
"Saturday! Isn't it wonderfully romantic? A whirlwind!"
Richard Crawford. The name triggers memories I'd successfully buried for fifteen years. A large house in Kent with too many rooms. Mum dragging me there several times a year throughout my childhood.
Richard was nice enough—quiet, proper, always offering me biscuits. His son was an entirely different story.
"Richard has a son," I say slowly. "Oliver."
"Yes! He's grown into such a lovely man, apparently. You two will finally get to reconnect properly!"
Reconnect. Oliver Crawford made every childhood visit a personal hell. He hid my dolls. Pulled my hair when no adults were watching. Once he locked me in a cupboard for two hours while our parents had tea. I screamed until my throat was raw, and he stood outside laughing.
"I haven't seen them in fifteen years, Mum."
"Exactly! Come Thursday evening—we'll have a lovely family dinner before the ceremony."
Thursday. Tomorrow. Also the night I'm meeting Gemma's retired gigolo.
"I have plans tomorrow evening."
"Cancel them! This is my wedding, Charlotte."
Wine bar at eight. Kent is ninety minutes by train.
"Fine. I'll arrive late. After ten."
"Perfect!" Mum launches into napkin colors and seating charts. I make appropriate noises while my mind drifts elsewhere.
I'm going to be Oliver Crawford's stepsister by Saturday.
The universe has a spectacularly twisted sense of humor.
* * *
The wine bar on Pemberton Street is dimly lit and pretentious. Exposed brick, candles everywhere, wine list longer than most novels.
Oliver—not Crawford, the other one—sits at a corner booth. Tall, dark-haired, unfairly attractive. He stands as I approach.
"Lottie. Gemma's description didn't do you justice."
"Gemma described me as emotionally unavailable and probably broken."
"She said you were direct." His smile is disarmingly warm. "I like direct. Please, sit."
I slide into the booth. Order wine. Oliver already has a glass of red.
"So," he says, "accountant by day, orgasm-seeker by night?"
I choke on nothing. "Gemma really did brief you thoroughly."
"She mentioned basics. I prefer hearing the rest directly. Start with the ex who destroyed your phone."
"Alex. Two years of him trying every position in the Kama Sutra, according to him. One vibrator used for thirty seconds. Ended with him calling me a frigid bitch and my phone meeting a wall."
"Charming. And before him?"
"David. Very earnest. Tantric breathing workshop that nearly killed him via hyperventilation."
Oliver laughs. "I'm seeing a pattern here."
"The pattern is I'm impossible to satisfy. Three men, six years, zero orgasms."
"Has anyone ever made you come?"
His green eyes hold mine steadily. No judgment. Just curiosity.
"No. Never."
Something silver catches candlelight at his throat—a medallion on a chain. Familiar, though I can't place why.
"I have a proposition. One night together. If I succeed, you owe me a proper date. If I fail, I buy you a new phone."
I study him—the easy confidence, the practiced charm. He's heard this story before.
"Fine. One night. After my family thing. But I'm warning you—I'll be the exception to your flawless record."
"We'll see." His smile turns knowing. "But first—a little preview."
Before I can respond, he's sliding around the booth beside me. His thigh presses warm against mine.
I feel the heat of him through my dress. But that familiar nothing settles in my chest—that disconnected blankness I've felt with every man who's tried this.
His fingers find my knee beneath the tablecloth.
"This is your revolutionary technique?" I keep my voice flat. "Hand on knee? Groundbreaking."
"Patience."
His hand slides higher. I watch it happen more than feel it—aware of pressure, but nothing sparking beneath my skin.
His lips brush my ear. His mouth on my neck feels warm, objectively pleasant, like a nice bath. Nothing more. I wait for something to ignite. It doesn't.
His knuckles graze the edge of my underwear. I'm dry. Predictably, disappointingly dry. My body doing exactly what it always does—absolutely nothing.
Here it comes. The moment he realizes I wasn't exaggerating.
But Oliver doesn't pull back. His fingers press against me through the fabric—light, experimental.
"Interesting," he says quietly, like he's solving a puzzle rather than failing at one.
"Told you. Defective."
"No. Just locked up tight. Most people respond to being touched. You need to be overwhelmed first."
His teeth graze my neck. Then he bites down properly. The pain is sudden, bright—and something flickers. Faint. Distant. Like a pilot light trying to catch.
His fingers increase pressure. Not gentle anymore. Deliberate. Demanding.
"There." He sounds satisfied. "That's the crack I was looking for."
The blankness wavers. Warmth spreads from where his mouth works against my neck.
His thumb finds my center through the cotton. Circles. Not polite. Not careful. Like he knows gentle doesn't work on me.
"Oh." The sound escapes before I can stop it.
"There we go." He's smiling against my throat. "Not easy to crack, are you? Need someone willing to work for it."
The warmth builds. Slowly. Stubbornly. Like coaxing fire from wet kindling. A minute passes. Two. He doesn't rush.
"Most people give up by now," I manage.
"Most people are impatient. I'm not."
His fingers slide beneath my underwear. Skin on skin. The pilot light catches properly—heat flooding outward, unexpected and overwhelming.
I gasp. Actually gasp, like a heroine in a terrible novel.
"There she is." His voice is rough with satisfaction.
He strokes through the wetness that wasn't there moments ago. His fingers circle with devastating precision, and the heat builds faster now—like he found the right frequency.
My thighs clench around his hand. The orgasm builds like a wave I've never felt before.
I'm close. Impossibly close. In a wine bar. With a stranger.
My breathing turns ragged—
He stops.
Completely. His hand withdraws. He slides back to his side of the booth, calm as anything.
I sit there panting, flushed, throbbing. The arousal that took so long to build pulses insistently, refusing to fade.
"What the hell?" My voice comes out strangled.
"Call me when you're back." He places a napkin with his number on the table. "I'll finish what I started."
"You can't just—"
"You're not a lost cause, Lottie. You're just complicated. I like complicated." He stands. "Most people gave up because you didn't respond in the first five minutes. They assumed you were broken instead of recognizing you need more."
He leans down, lips brushing my ear.
"I don't give up. And I always finish what I start."
He walks out. Doesn't look back.
I sit alone, trembling, more aroused than I've ever been. The spot on my neck throbs where he marked me. I don't notice the hickey forming.
All I know is that for the first time in my life, I felt something real. Not immediate. Not easy. But real.
And I'm desperate for more.